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The silence in Devil's office was a physical thing, heavy and suffocating. Dice stood straight in front of the desk, his gloves clenched so tightly. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, a smell that usually meant success, but tonight it smelled like failure.
"So," Devil began, his voice dangerously quiet. He didn't look up from the contract he was perusing, a document detailing the soul of some poor sap who'd bet his life savings on a single roll of the dice. "The High Roller's Suite. Explain to me how a ten-thousand-soul-a-night client managed to walk out of my casino not only debt-free but with a small fortune of MY chips in his pocket."
Dice swallowed hard, his throat dry. "It was a... a miscalculation, Boss," he stammered. "The croupier was new and got flustered. The man, he had a system. I thought it was a bluff, a classic martingale, but he... he kept winning. I should have shut him down sooner."
Devil finally looked up, and his eyes were like burning coals. "You should have," he agreed, his tone flat. "You're my casino manager, Dice. Your job isn't just to count the money; it's to recognise when the odds are turning against the house. You were complacent. You were lazy." He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning. "I am… profoundly disappointed."
Dice flinched as if struck. He could handle anger. He could handle shouting. He could even handle a bit of creative, fire-based punishment. But disappointment from The Devil? That was a special kind of hell.
"I'm sorry, Boss," Dice whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll make it right. I'll work double shifts, I'll—"
"No," Devil cut him off, holding up a hand. "Punishing you would be too simple. It would be a quick fix, and you'd learn nothing." A strange, almost contemplative look crossed the Devil's face. "You failed me in a matter of business and pleasure. So you will repay me with something equally personal. You will make me dinner."
Dice blinked. "I... what?"
"You heard me," Devil said, a flicker of amusement in his fiery eyes. "You will cook me a meal. A good one. Tomorrow night. Don't be late." He waved a dismissive hand. "Now get out of my sight."
Dice scurried out of the office, his mind racing. Cooking? He hadn't cooked anything more complex than boiling water for tea. His apartment had a kitchen, but it was mostly for show, a place to store his collection of antique cocktail shakers.
The next day was a catastrophe.
His first attempt was Beef Wellington. He'd seen it on a cooking show once. It seemed simple enough. The result was a blackened, smoking brick of pastry that smelled of burnt meat. He threw it out the window.
His second attempt was Coq au Vin. The wine was good, at least. The chicken, however, was a tragedy. It was raw in some places and cooked to the consistency of shoe leather in others. The rich, purple sauce splattered all over his pristine white apron and the walls of his tiny kitchen. He stared at the mess, a sense of dread pooling in his stomach. He was going to fail again.
He was slumped against the counter, head in his hands, when a familiar voice cut through the air. "Mr. Dice, sir?"
Dice looked up to see Stickler, standing in his doorway, holding a clipboard. "Stickler! What are you doing here?"
Stickler adjusted his spectacles. "The Boss sent me to check on your… progress. He mentioned you were having some... culinary difficulties." He sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "I see he was correct."
"I'm doomed," Dice groaned. "I can't cook. I'm going to be serving the Devil a plate of charcoal and shame."
Stickler sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Look, Mr. Dice, I'm not supposed to help you. This is your penance. But..." He glanced, then lowered his voice. "The Boss is not a man of complex palate. He enjoys simple things. Things with a bit of... flair. He's quite fond of a good omelette. A cheese omelette. Specifically, a three-cheese omelette with a touch of chives."
Dice stared at him. "An omelette?"
"Yes, an omelette," Stickler said, exasperated. "It's hard to mess up. Mostly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go file a report about the... incident... with the Wellington." He turned and left, leaving Dice alone with a glimmer of hope.
An omelette. He could do an omelette.
He cleaned his kitchen, found a decent pan, and went to work. He whisked the eggs until they were light and frothy. He grated the cheddar, Gruyère, and Parmesan. He chopped the chives with a precision he usually reserved for counting cards. He cooked the omelette in his own apartment, the smell of melting cheese and fresh herbs filling the small space. It was perfect. It was fluffy, golden, and smelled divine.
He carefully placed the omelette on a plate, covered it with a silver dome, and carried it through the winding corridors of the casino, his heart pounding in his chest. He entered the Devil's private quarters, the room just as opulent and intimidating as his office.
The Devil was sitting at a small table, idly sharpening a single, terrifyingly long claw. He looked up as Dice entered, his expression unreadable. "Well?"
Dice placed the plate on the table with a trembling hand and lifted the silver dome.
The Devil looked at the omelette, then at Dice. He picked up his fork, took a delicate bite, and chewed slowly. Dice held his breath, his entire future hanging in the balance.
The Devil swallowed. He took another bite. And another. He ate the entire omelette in silence, his face giving nothing away. When he was done, he placed his fork down with a soft click.
He leaned back in his chair, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "It's acceptable," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Dice felt a wave of relief so intense it almost buckled his knees. "Acceptable? That's it?"
Devil's smile widened, just a fraction. "You're off the hook, for now." He gestured towards the door with his clawed hand. "Now get out. And don't let it happen again."
Dice didn't need to be told twice. He all but fled the room, a wide, triumphant grin spreading across his face. He was still the Devil's right-hand man. He was still the best casino manager in Hell. And, as it turned out, he made a mean omelette.
The end
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