The Abyssal Chef

Ryan had always been a little skittish. He was the kind of kid who jumped at loud noises and had a hard time making eye contact with people he didn't know. Despite these traits, or perhaps because of them, he found comfort in routines. The repetitive, predictable nature of his part-time job as a cashier at a small, run-down convenience store gave him a sense of stability in an otherwise chaotic life. His shifts were mostly quiet—occasional late-night customers buying snacks or cigarettes, the hum of the old refrigerator unit, and the flickering neon lights outside the window. It wasn't glamorous, but it was work, and it paid enough for him to buy ingredients for his real passion: cooking.

Ryan had always loved food. Not just eating it, but making it. He'd grown up watching cooking shows, fascinated by the way chefs could take simple ingredients and turn them into something magical. He was no professional, but he had a knack for mixing flavors, a talent for turning leftovers into a meal that made you forget about where it came from.

On this particular night, Ryan was daydreaming about a new recipe. He'd seen a video earlier that day about making pizza from scratch, and he couldn't wait to try it. The idea of kneading the dough, layering on fresh ingredients, and pulling a perfect pizza out of the oven filled his mind as he mindlessly scanned items for the few customers trickling in.

The bell above the door jingled, pulling Ryan out of his thoughts. He glanced up and froze. Two men had entered, their faces obscured by ski masks. One of them had a gun.

"Alright, kid, empty the register," the man with the gun barked, his voice rough and threatening.

Ryan's heart raced. He'd seen this kind of scene in movies, but now it was real, and it was happening to him. He fumbled with the register, trying to get it open as fast as he could. His fingers trembled so much that he struggled to press the right buttons.

"Hurry up!" the second man hissed, glancing nervously towards the door.

"I-I'm trying," Ryan stammered, finally managing to pop the register open. He started pulling out the cash, his hands shaking so badly that some of the bills slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor.

One of the robbers leaned over the counter to grab the money himself. The sudden movement startled Ryan, and his hand slipped, knocking over a can of soda that had been sitting on the counter. It rolled off and hit the floor with a loud clatter.

"Damn it, kid, stop messing around!" the first man shouted, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Before Ryan could react, the man's finger jerked, and there was a deafening bang. Pain exploded in Ryan's chest, and he stumbled back, his legs giving out beneath him. He collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath as everything around him started to blur.

The last thing Ryan saw was the robbers fleeing the store, leaving him bleeding out behind the counter. His vision darkened, the pain fading into a cold numbness. And then, nothing.