Mr. Everett Sinclair, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and razor-sharp eyes, sits at the head of the table, his posture rigid. He barely glances at the plate before him, knife and fork resting idle. Staff circulate silently, their faces tight with caution, awaiting any sign from their employer. Henri, the chef, stands in the shadows near the swinging kitchen door, eyes fixed on Everett. His uniform is immaculate, hands folded, his gaze intense with anticipation.

Henri approaches the dining room, a tray balanced perfectly in his hands. He sets a dish before Everett, leaning in ever so slightly. "Sir, tonight I have prepared the sea bass just as you prefer—steamed, not poached, with the sprig of dill you requested three weeks ago," Everett barely acknowledges him, pushing the plate aside with a flicker of boredom. "It doesn’t matter. Take it away. I’m not hungry."

Henri scrawls furious notes, crossing out ingredients, muttering as he recalls the evening’s rejection. "He must eat. He must," his voice trembles, a mixture of devotion and something darker. He glances at a wall covered in photographs of Everett at various meals, every plate cataloged.

Everett, restless, wanders from his study, startled by a low, animalistic growl emanating from the kitchen. He edges closer, the hair on his arms prickling. The kitchen door creaks open. Inside, Henri looms, grotesquely transformed—his frame swollen, claws gleaming, eyes burning yellow beneath a wolfish brow. Steam rises off his fur, and his breath fogs in the chill air.

Henri corners Everett against the marble counter, saliva dripping from elongated fangs. "You never appreciated my devotion. I’ve watched every bite, every calorie… preparing you. Perfect. Tender." Everett stammers, backing away, horror dawning as the realization sets in. "Henri… what are you? What have you done to me?" "Your indifference made you fattened prey. Tonight, you are finally ready."

Everett scrambles, hands slick with blood, eyes wild with terror as he claws for escape. Henri advances, every movement calculated, driven by years of repressed hunger and obsession. The scene ends with a strangled cry, the camera lingering on the overturned silver tray—its contents stained red, glinting in the fractured light.