Minutes later, Rekkan and I followed two doctors toward the Cupboards. As our tinny footsteps echoed down the hallway, cold sweat trickled down my back. Though a month had passed, the details of my last visit remained fresh—the masked faces, the brutal efficiency of the hand clamped over my arm, the impending doom closing over my gut.

I wrapped my arms around my waist and hunched my shoulders. In my peripheral, Rekkan eyed me, hands twitching as if prepared to fight off some invisible force.

Voice low, he said, "You good, Zaf?"

I jerked my head in a nod. But when we stopped in front of a familiar cell door, my muscles locked up, and my throat dried.

The doctors ahead of me paused at the door and turned back toward me.

The shorter doctor wrung her hands and licked her lips. "Whoever you think you know, that is not who you are about to meet. His brain is... addled. Deranged. He could even be dangerous." Her brows raised and head tilted, a small but grave gesture. "This is your last chance to change your mind."

When I hesitated, rough fingertips brushed my forearm, and my eyes flicked to Rekkan.

"You know I don't like this," he murmured.

The brief skin contact and quiet words reignited my confidence. "I've got a feeling about this, Rekkan. Maybe I can help him... or maybe he can help us."

Discomfort briefly contorted his features, but he drew in a breath and relaxed. "Do what you must."

I strode through the doorway.

And found an empty cell.

I had just twisted to ask the doctors where Stogg was when my eyes caught on a heaped blanket in the corner. A shivering blanket.

I swallowed to wet my throat. "Stogg?"

The blanket froze. One corner wiggled and slithered back, and a dark eye peered up at me. The eye burned with a bright, glassy sheen—too bright, like staring straight at the sun. The next tug of the blanket revealed his other eye and mouth. Dark lines creased the sagging skin below his eyes, and his lips wriggled with inaudible words. Forming the same shapes again and again, like a scratched film caught in an endless loop.

Unease swam in my gut, but I sucked in a breath and slid a foot forward. "Stogg, I heard you won't leave your cell. Can you tell me why?"

The blanket twitched, and his hand emerged, one bony finger crooked my way. He licked cracked lips and croaked a proclamation.

"Safer here. Freedom is a fiction."

Rekkan uttered a low growl and edged in front of me. I planted a hand on his chest and shook my head. He huffed a breath through his nose and folded his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and brow furrowed.

I met the gaunt eyes fixed on me once more. "The Implanted are gone, Stogg. What are you afraid of?"

Stogg's teeth clamped his lower lip hard enough to whiten his skin, and his head snapped left and right. When the lip popped free, his mouth stretched around inaudible words.

I braved another step forward. "What did you say?"

"The Chef," he rasped. A glistening red line split his lip, and his tongue flicked over it to lap up the blood. "Fear the Chef."

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. "Stogg, we destroyed the Chef. It's gone."

"Which Chef?"

A chill washed over me as though I had plunged into ice water. I raised eyebrows at the doctors, but they displayed expressions as dumbfounded as my own.

"The... the one in the Kitchen," I said. "The one you told me about."

His hand retreated into the blanket, and his head thumped the ground. "You destroyed one of the Chefs." His teeth chattered, a spasmodic chomping. "Not the Head Chef."

My heart thumped an uneven beat, and my nails dug into my palms. "What are you talking about? As far south as we've seen, every single Implanted has self-destructed."

His head rocked in a nod. "The Kitchen Chef controlled all of the Implanted because the rest of the Chefs were too busy."

The shorter doctor blew out a disbelieving breath and shook her head. "His brain is addled, Zafaru. He's not going to say anything logical."

Part of me agreed. Stogg's spasming eyelids and chattering teeth certainly did not indicate a balanced mind. Still, I found myself unable to dismiss his ominous warning.

"What do you mean, Stogg? Too busy with what?"

"Assisting the Head Chef."

"Assisting the Head Chef with what?"

He drew the blanket up to his patchy hairline, muffling his voice. "He's not finished."

There was the 'he' from before—the mysterious 'he' responsible for all of this. The two doctors and Rekkan all scoffed, but I spoke loudly enough to drown them out. "Is the Head Chef a Northerner?"

"Not exactly."

"Then who is he?"

Stogg yanked the blanket higher and pinned it beneath his head, disappearing once more. His puffing breath rustled the fabric.

"Freedom is a fiction. Safer here."

My skin prickled, raising the hair on my arms. His repetition rang eerily familiar from the Freshly-Baked. But the Freshly-Baked were gone—weren't they?

"Safer from what, Stogg? What is the Head Chef doing?"

The blanket rippled. Shuddered. Stilled. Stogg's voice creaked and crackled, yet it echoed through the empty chamber.

"He's cooking up a new recipe."