She moved into the room as she spoke, already in motion, already thinking ahead.

“There’s a conference happening in about an hour, so we need to get your prep done.”

Her eyes shifted to the Girl.

“Do you know how you wanna go?”

The Girl didn’t hesitate.

“Can you let me slide down a metal spike and then use it as a spit?”

The words came out plainly.

No embellishment. No pause to soften them.

Just a clear request, phrased with the same casual certainty she’d used for everything else.

Melissa stared at her.

Not because she didn’t understand—

but because she did.

The phrasing. The imagery. The way it was said so simply, like asking for a preference at a restaurant.

It sat wrong against everything else in the room.

The waitress, though—

didn’t react.

Not with surprise. Not with discomfort.

Just a brief pause, like she was considering logistics.

Melissa’s gaze flicked between them, searching for something—anything—that didn’t fit.

There wasn’t anything.

“I want the Humans to see me behave until I go,” the Girl added.

That settled it.

Not the method.

The intention.

Melissa’s expression shifted slightly, the earlier disbelief giving way to something quieter. Not acceptance—not fully—but something closer to understanding.

Of course.

To do it properly.

To be—

good.

“Sounds good,” the waitress said, already turning toward the door. “Head down to the kitchen and the chefs will get you ready.”

The Girl didn’t hesitate.

She slipped past her and out into the hallway, her pace quick—almost light. There was a brightness to it now, something close to excitement, carrying her forward without pause.

Giddy.

Gone as quickly as she’d arrived.

The door stayed open for a moment longer—

then shut.

The room shifted with it.

The waitress didn’t move right away.

Her posture changed first—the ease she’d held a moment ago tightening into something sharper, more deliberate.

When she looked back at Melissa, there was no softness left in it.

“And how do you want to die?”

There was no shift in her tone this time.

No lightness. No softening.

The question landed as it was.

Plain.

Direct.

Melissa held her gaze.

She didn’t look away.

Didn’t try to mirror the energy the Girl had brought to it either. Something about the way it was asked made that feel… unnecessary.

Stripped down.

She figured she deserved that.

“Oven roast,” she said.

The words came out steady.

Certain.

“With the feel-good wand.”

She didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t need to.

The choice settled between them, clear enough on its own.

“Alright,” the waitress said, giving a small nod.

Efficient.

Like the decision had already been made the moment Melissa spoke it aloud.

Melissa hesitated—

only for a second.

Then the words came out all at once.

“I’m sorry for everything,” she blurted. “Especially last night. But also for every dumb, bitchy thing I did to you.”

She swallowed, forcing herself to keep going.

“I’m a shitty person—or I was when I was Human—but I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour now.”

The room held still for a moment after that.

The waitress didn’t respond immediately.

She just looked at her.

Then—

a ghost of a smile curled at the edge of her lips.

Small.

Faint.

But there.

“Pretty words for a dumb Animal,” she said.

There was no real bite to it.

No sharpness like before.

Just a flat acknowledgment, as if the apology had been noted and placed exactly where it belonged.

“But thanks.”

She shifted her weight slightly, already moving past it.

“Now get your ass to the kitchen. If you’re going in the oven, you’ll need a good shower and coating.”

The instructions came easily.

Back to routine.

Back to process.

Nothing left to linger on.

During her shower, Melissa had a moment.

Not a dramatic one.

Not sudden.

Just… something that slipped in while everything else was quiet.

Water ran steadily over her skin, warm and even, falling in a constant rhythm that didn’t change no matter how long she stood there. The sound filled the space, soft but complete, leaving no room for interruption.

Her thoughts settled.

Not racing.

Not fighting.

Just… aligning.

It was one of those moments.

The kind you got sometimes—when something difficult stopped being something to argue with, and simply became something that was.

She was going to die today.

The thought didn’t hit hard.

It didn’t need to.

It was already there.

Clear.

Certain.

Probably within the next hour or two.

There was no stopping it.

No path out.

No version of this where she walked away.

And for the first time—

she didn’t push against it.

She just stood there, letting the water run over her, letting the thought sit where it belonged without trying to move it somewhere else.

So she may as well enjoy it.

The idea came quietly.

Not forced.

Not defiant.

Just… practical.

If this was what was going to happen—

if this was all that was left—

then there wasn’t anything else to do but step into it properly.

Do it well.

Let it be what it was supposed to be.

Melissa closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her head slightly into the stream, the warmth shifting across her face.

Then she exhaled.

And let it settle.

She wondered what it would feel like.

Not in a frantic way.

Just… curiously.

As her skin heated. As the change began. As her body crossed from one state into another, slowly enough that there would be time to notice it happening.

Would it hurt for long?

Or would it fade?

Would the sensation stay sharp, or soften as it went on, dulling into something less defined the further it progressed?

She didn’t have anything to compare it to. Nothing close enough to anchor it properly.

She supposed blistering only happened if the heat was sudden.

Intense.

That wasn’t what she had chosen.

She was going in for a slow roast.

It would be gradual.

Measured.

Something that built over time rather than arriving all at once.

She tried to picture it that way instead.

Not as a single moment—

but as a process.

Step by step.

Sensation by sensation.

Something that unfolded rather than struck.

Would it even hurt after all?

The question didn’t carry panic.

Just quiet curiosity.

Like everything else had started to feel.

Less like something happening to her—

and more like something she was about to move through.

The water cut off without warning.

The steady warmth vanished, leaving the air cooler against her skin. The sudden absence of sound made the space feel sharper. More defined.

Melissa didn’t move.

Not right away.

She just stood there, letting the last of the droplets run down her body, the quiet settling back in around her.

Then hands were on her.

Not the waitress this time.

One of the chefs.

He worked efficiently, the towel moving across her skin in practiced motions—firm, thorough, without hesitation. No lingering. No adjustment beyond what was needed.

Just process.

Melissa let him.

There was nothing to resist.

Nothing to question.

Her body responded automatically, shifting when guided, turning when needed, holding still when pressure settled at her shoulders or along her back.

Somewhere else—

the waitress was assisting the Girl.

In the conference room.

Melissa pictured it without trying to.

The setup. The positioning. The quiet preparation before anything began. The Girl held in place, suspended just above where it would start—everything aligned so that once it did—

there would be no interruption.

No correction.

Just continuation.

Ready to let gravity do its work.

“On the table,” the chef said.

His voice was even.

Direct.

“Face down first.”

Melissa moved.

No hesitation.

No delay.

She stepped forward and climbed onto the table, lowering herself into position exactly as instructed. The surface was cool beneath her, solid and unmoving as she settled against it, her cheek turning slightly to the side without being told.

She felt the placement of her body as she adjusted—arms, legs, the angle of her torso—each part aligning without correction.

Melissa obeyed.

It was shockingly easy now.

Then she felt it.

A soft brush moving across her back.

Slow.

Deliberate.

It traced a path downward, following the line of her spine before sweeping over the curve of her body and along her leg in a smooth, practiced motion. The touch wasn’t rough, wasn’t hesitant—

just even.

Controlled.

Like everything else.

The scent reached her a second later.

Rich.

Savory.

Something warm and inviting, layered with a sharper note underneath that caught at the back of her senses and lingered there.

It smelled…

good.

“Want a taste?” the chef offered.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

His finger brushed lightly against her lips, pressing just enough to guide the mixture there, the gesture as casual as everything else he’d done.

Melissa parted her lips without thinking.

She tasted it.

Salt first.

Then something deeper—fuller. Spice followed after, blooming slowly instead of striking all at once. It was balanced in a way that felt intentional, like it had been measured long before it touched her skin.

She licked his finger clean.

The motion came naturally.

Unforced.

“More salt?” she said, a faint, cheeky edge slipping back into her voice.

The chef’s hand came down against her backside in a quick, light slap.

Not harsh.

Just enough to land.

Playful.

Corrective.

Routine.

Once her back was done, he moved to her front.

Melissa shifted when guided, rolling over without needing the instruction repeated, her body settling into place as easily as it had before. The table felt different against her now—cooler, more present—as she faced upward, exposed in a way that no longer carried the same weight it once had.

The brush returned.

It moved across her stomach first, spreading the mixture in slow, even strokes, working methodically as before. There was no rush, no wasted motion—just careful coverage, ensuring nothing was missed.

She wasn’t certain—

but when he reached her chest, something changed.

The strokes slowed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to notice.

He worked the mixture over her skin with a little more care, the brush pressing slightly firmer, circling back over areas he’d already covered as if checking the consistency—the balance, the way it settled.

When it passed over her nipples, her body reacted before she could think about it.

They peaked.

The sensation was immediate—subtle, but undeniable.

He didn’t comment.

Didn’t pause.

He simply went over them again.

Once.

Then again, just to be sure, the brush lingering for a fraction longer than anywhere else before moving on.

Melissa watched him.

Not directly—just enough to register it.

He was enjoying this.

Not openly.

Not in a way that broke the rhythm of what he was doing.

But it was there—in the care he took, in the precision, in the quiet attention to detail that went just beyond what was strictly necessary.

Melissa didn’t mind.

She let it happen.

Let the process continue, her body responding where it did, settling again where it didn’t.

She was okay with that.

When they were finally done, she was helped to her feet.

Her legs felt steady.

That surprised her.

After everything—the preparation, the handling, the slow shift from one stage to the next—she had expected something different. Weakness, maybe. Instability.

Instead, she stood easily, her balance settling almost immediately as the chef’s hands guided her upright before releasing.

“Now we’ll get the cooking twine and get you in the roasting tin,” he said, gesturing toward a large metal tray nearby.

It was wide.

Deep enough.

Easily big enough for her to fit without adjustment.

Melissa’s eyes lingered on it for a second, taking in the shape, the size, the way it sat waiting like it had been placed there long before she ever entered the room.

“On your back or front?”

“Huh?”

She blinked, the question catching her slightly off guard—not because she didn’t understand, but because of how casually it was asked.

“Birds can be served on their back or front,” he explained, his tone even, like he was clarifying something simple. “The posture’s the same. It’s just a matter of comfort.”

Comfort.

The word landed strangely.

Melissa glanced at the tin again, then back at him, her brow knitting slightly as she tried to picture it—how she would be positioned, how it would feel, what difference it would actually make.

For a moment, she didn’t answer.

Not out of resistance.

Just… consideration.

Like this really was a choice.

“What’s best?” she asked.

“Back is comfier, but it can overcook the skin. If you’re on your knees, it’s less risky—but not as comfortable,” he said, matter-of-fact, like he was walking her through any other step. “It’s quality over preference.”

That settled it.

There wasn’t really a choice.

Not in the way it might have sounded at first.

There was just—

the correct answer.

“Front then,” Melissa said.

The decision came easily once she framed it that way.

The next thing she knew, the tin had been moved.

Set down on the floor with a dull, solid sound.

Up close, it looked different.

Larger.

The surface inside it gleamed faintly, a thin layer of oil catching the light, smooth and slick.

Ready.

Melissa stepped toward it when guided, lowering herself carefully into place. The cool metal pressed against her skin as she adjusted instinctively, finding her balance without needing to be told how.

Then the twine came out.

The chef worked with practiced ease, moving around her without hesitation. His hands guided her limbs into position—not roughly, but firmly—ensuring everything sat exactly where it needed to.

There was a rhythm to it.

Loop.

Pull.

Secure.

Each movement precise, repeated countless times before. Nothing improvised. Nothing uncertain.

Melissa felt the structure take shape around her.

Not restrictive in a painful way—

just… holding.

Fixing her into place.

The posture settled gradually as he worked, her body aligned into something deliberate, something designed more for presentation than comfort—even if comfort had been considered.

Like something prepared.

Finished.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t need to.

She just let him position her, her body following the guidance without question, adjusting where needed, stilling when everything was set.

It was strange, she thought—

how natural it felt now.

“Good girl,” he said softly, patting her back lightly. “Now, do you want to try and hold an apple in your teeth?”

Melissa tilted her head slightly, considering it.

“It’ll make me look good, right?”

“Very,” he said.

That was enough.

“Okay.”

There was a small pause before she spoke again.

“Will you also use the…” she trailed off, the word catching awkwardly in her throat. For all the calm she’d found, all the acceptance she’d settled into, there were still edges she hadn’t quite smoothed over.

She felt the warmth rise to her cheeks before she could stop it.

“…the vibrator?” she asked, quieter than she intended.

The chef smiled.

Not sharp. Not mocking.

Just steady.

Reassuring.

“I’ll make sure it goes in myself,” he said.

The words landed simply, like everything else he’d said.

Not charged.

Not emphasized.

Just part of the process.

Melissa let out a small breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Then she nodded.

Next, they tied her hair into a bun so it wouldn’t fall across her body as she roasted.

The movement was quick, practiced—fingers gathering, twisting, securing it neatly out of the way. Nothing loose. Nothing that would interfere with the presentation.

Then the chef called for help.

Hands steadied the tin as she was lifted, the weight distributed carefully as they positioned her onto a trolley. The metal beneath her shifted slightly with the movement before settling again, solid and secure.

Then they began to wheel her out.

“Fresh meat coming through,” the chef announced.

His voice carried easily.

The sound reached the restaurant floor before she did.

The reaction was immediate.

The room rose in applause.

Not loud and chaotic—

but sustained.

Appreciative.

Heads turned. Conversations paused. Every eye settled on her as she was guided forward, the attention focused and unbroken.

Melissa felt it.

All of it.

But it didn’t overwhelm her.

It just… was.