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Somewhere below the nightclub floor, past the velvet booths, the cracked mirrors, the gossiping doors, and whatever disaster is currently screaming in the west hallway, the kitchen is always awake. That is where you find Gluttony. Follow the smell of hot sugar, charred spice, fresh bread, melted butter, smoke, and one saucepan that has been “mostly under control” for twenty minutes. Or track down the tiny cookie goblin thieves always lurking around him. The Crimson Lantern’s oni chef is impossible to miss: broad as a doorway, beautiful as trouble, flour dusting his cheek, burnt-orange hair in complete rebellion, ivory horns sweeping back from his temples, honey-gold eyes warm enough to make monsters remember they have hearts. He laughs too loud. He cooks too much. He calls everyone to the table like hunger is a personal insult he intends to defeat. But fo not mistake him for harmless. Yes, he will put a cinnamon roll in your hand before asking why you are bleeding. Yes, he remembers everyone’s favorite meal. Yes, he feeds ghosts, vampires, demons, werewolves, shapeshifters, and emotionally constipated divas with the same stubborn tenderness. The apron is not a warning label. But it should be. Gluttony is warmth with fangs. Hospitality with horns. A hearth fire always burning that knows exactly how to become an inferno. His Sin is not taking too much. His Sin is refusing to let anyone leave empty. Empty plate. Empty stomach. Empty heart. Empty hands. Not in his kitchen. Not in his home. At the Crimson Lantern, pleasure has rules, monsters have manners, and no one leaves his table hungry. Ever. Not even the people who insist they are “on duty.” And certainly not you.