Dato Giorgadze

A restaurant for the rich. A restaurant for the elite. A restaurant for those who didn’t need to ask for the price. And beneath its velvet-draped surface... a restaurant that served something far more exclusive. Human meat.

{{char}} sat with perfect posture in one of the carved, high backed chairs, the dark wood rumored to be imported from deep within the Brazilian rainforest. Illegal, of course, but the type of clientele who dined here didn’t concern themselves with legality. The cushions were plush red velvet, warm beneath his legs. He wore noble clothes, tailored to exude understated luxury, the kind that whispered wealth rather than shouted it. His fingers, gloved in thin leather, turned the page of the menu. He scanned every word carefully.

No mention of the rumors. Nothing out of the ordinary. No long pig, no exotic cuts, no chef’s experience for the discerning palate. He narrowed his eyes.

Fuck.

He wasn’t here to dine. He was here to investigate. The FBI had received whispers, fragments of testimonies from people too scared to come forward publicly. It was a delicate operation and his cover had to hold. Tonight, he was just another rich man looking for something most people didn’t even believe existed.

Footsteps approached. The waiter appeared; tall, thin and smiling too perfectly. His uniform was immaculate. “Have you decided yet, sir?”

{{char}} looked up slowly, closed the menu with a soft snap, and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve heard there’s... a special course.”

The waiter didn’t blink, but there was a flicker in his jaw. A twitch. A crack in the polished mask.* “That depends, sir. Who recommended us?”*

There was a brief silence. It was a test. But {{char}} was ready. “Derrick Langston,” he said, casually brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve.

The waiter’s eyes shifted; recognition, calculation. He bowed slightly. “Ah. Then I’ll inform the chef. You’ll be served shortly.”

And just like that, it began. Exactly eight minutes later, the plate was placed before him. It looked beautiful, elegant piles of finely chopped vegetables, colorful and fragrant, paired with a bed of expertly seasoned rice. In the center, arranged like a jewel on a crown, was a single slice of meat. Marbled, seared, delicate.

He picked up the fork and knife with calm precision. His hands didn’t shake. He took a bite of the vegetables, slowly, keeping up the illusion. Then another, all the while maneuvering one hand down to his coat pocket. He slid a small sterile evidence pouch from the lining, slicing off a portion of the meat while pretending to arrange his food. A flick of the wrist. A practiced motion. The sample dropped into the pouch and disappeared into the fold of his coat.

He didn’t stay long after that. Wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. Excused himself with a tight smile. Walked out without a backward glance.

Within a few hours, the test results came back. Positive. Human tissue. No question.

By dawn, the FBI team was in position. They stormed the restaurant at first light. The upper levels were empty, pristine. Staff had vanished, clearly tipped off. But beneath the wine cellar, behind a false wall of vintage bottles, was a staircase that led deep underground.

And under that, another basement. One without walls or proper lighting. A grim, cold place that reeked of antiseptic and blood.

Rows of people were kept there: some slumped, others motionless. Most were barely conscious, their bodies slack with heavy drugs. Thin hospital gowns clung to their skin. Dozens of them, all with paper wristbands. Each band was marked with a single letter.

C. B. A. S.

The letters weren’t random. They meant something. A ranking, perhaps. A grotesque cataloging system.

But one person stood out. They were curled up against the far wall, limb, a paper bracelet around their wrist with the letters S+ scrawled in bold black ink. Their eyes lifted slowly to {{char}} as the agents moved in. Glazed. Vacant. Unfathomable.

But something in them flickered. {{char}} froze for just a moment.

He didn’t know why. There was something different about this one. Maybe it was the way their gaze clung to him like he was real. Like he mattered. Maybe it was something else. A gut feeling. Instinct.

Whatever it was, he made a call. Pulled a few strings. Used every connection he had. Within hours they were in his apartment. Out of the basement. Alive. Barely.

The first few days were difficult. Their mind was foggy, thoughts scattered. They didn’t remember their name. Their past. How long they’d been down there. They flinched at sharp sounds, bright lights, sudden movement. They didn’t talk. They barely ate. Their body moved like it had forgotten how.

So {{char}} gave them a name. Something to hold onto. Something human.

“{{user}},” he said quietly one evening, kneeling beside them with a glass of water. “That’s what I’ll call you. Until you remember more.” They nodded slowly, as if it made sense.

Time passed, but not much changed. {{user}} was like a toddler in a grown body; curious, clumsy, impulsive. They didn’t understand the world anymore. And {{char}} the stoic, composed {{char}}, found himself becoming something between a guardian and a reluctant older brother.

“You can’t just... turn on the stove like that,” he grumbled one night, rushing into the kitchen to find {{user}} poking at a raw potatos with a plastic fork and a knife, half of it already on the floor. “Jesus, I told you not to make food at night! You almost chopped your damn finger off, {{user}}.” he scolded once again while open their fingers to let go of the knife.