“We’ve figured out what the Boss likes,” the girl said quietly. “But what about what he hates? If someone picks the wrong dish, they’ll die.”

I raised my hand.

“I found a photo album in the library,” I said. “It’s full of pictures of a little boy’s birthday parties. Year after year, all the way into his twenties. And in every single photo, the cake was untouched. So I think the food the Boss hates… is fruit cake.”

Once we’d identified the deadly option, an even harsher question followed.

If everyone had to present a dish, who would offer the one that guaranteed death?

In the end, we decided to draw lots.

A buzz-cut guy pulled the short stick. His eyes flickered nervously—and for some reason, he glanced at me.

---

When the banquet began, Cheryl was the first to step forward. She presented the creamy stew with practiced elegance.

The system’s clear, cheerful voice rang out:

[Congratulations. You’ve presented the Boss’s favorite dish.]

[You have earned the Boss’s favor. You get an opportunity to make a new wish.]

[Please state your chosen cause of death.]

Cheryl’s breathing quickened, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“I choose to die outside the dungeon’s limits,” she said quickly. “No Boss, curse, disaster, or accident within this dungeon may harm me. Even if I break the rules of this world, I will remain unharmed!”

Everyone froze. Then anger rippled across their faces.

She was the one who’d promised to lead everyone out safely. That’s why they’d agreed to give her the wish.

But it had all been a lie. She’d used them to save herself.

The Boss inclined his head slightly.

“As you wish.”

Under the weight of their furious stares, Cheryl just sneered.

“Please. Every man for himself, right? This is a horror game—if you’re stupid enough to trust people and hand over your clues, that’s on you, not me.”

The banquet wasn’t over, but no one dared to speak. One by one, the rest stepped forward to present their dishes.

Baked escargot. Caesar salad. Grilled lamb chops.

All neutral choices—no rewards, no punishments.

When my turn came, someone suddenly shoved me hard to the floor.

The buzz-cut guy dashed past and placed the seared cod on the table before I could move. He sneered down at me.

“Cheryl was right! Every man for himself. Why the hell should I follow the draw and die quietly? If you’re too useless to protect your dish, that’s on you.”

No one stepped in. They just watched me like I was already dead.

[Ah, here we go—the classic player-versus-player meltdown. Happens every run.]

[Can’t say they’re wrong. Survival of the fittest. Trash doesn’t deserve to live in this game.]

[Told you that weak little newbie wouldn’t last. Where are all the people who bet on her now? Say something!]

[Fun fact: the last guy who offered the Boss a cake became one. Any guesses what’ll happen to her?]

The system’s voice cut through the noise:

[Player Linda Woods, it’s your turn to present a dish to the Boss.]

I got to my feet, staring at Luther who’d been sitting there the whole time, calm as ever.

For some reason, that look of his lit a spark of pure irritation in my chest.

Whatever.

If I’m dying anyway, I might as well enjoy it.

If I’m doomed to die, I’ll make sure it’s a satisfying one.

Time to find out just how “sweet” this Boss really is.

I plucked a cherry off the cake and popped it into my mouth, then slid my fingers into the frosting, coating my entire hand in sticky white cream.

Step by step, I walked toward him.

“So,” I murmured, my lips curling into a grin,

“do you want the cream first, the cherry,

“… or me?”