It was one of those nights where the city felt… off.
The kind of night where the streetlights flickered too much, where the wind whispered things you weren’t supposed to hear. Mark Higgins wasn’t the superstitious type, but he had lived in New York long enough to know when something wasn’t right. And tonight? Yeah, something wasn’t right.
The air was thick with the smell of wet asphalt and cheap cologne as he left O’Malley’s Bar, slightly buzzed but not drunk enough to ignore his hunger. That’s when he saw it.
A noodle cart.
Not just any noodle cart, though. This one looked like it had been forgotten by time. The paint on the side was peeling, the wheels looked rusted, and the little lantern hanging from the top glowed an unnatural shade of red.
But the strangest part?
He had never seen this cart before. And Mark knew this neighborhood like the back of his hand.
Behind the cart stood a man. Thin, almost skeletal, wearing a stained white apron over a traditional Chinese tunic. His face was long, his eyes slightly sunken, but his mouth—his mouth was too wide. Too many teeth.
Mark hesitated. Then, the man grinned.
“You look hungry, sir.” His voice was low, smooth, with an accent Mark couldn’t place. “Wanna eat noodles?”
Mark blinked. “Uh… what?”
The man gestured toward a steaming bowl on the counter. “Noodles. Fresh. Best in the city. No charge. The first bowl is always free.”
Free? That should’ve been the first red flag. But Mark was hungry. Really hungry.
“…What’s the catch?” he asked, squinting.
The man’s grin widened. “No catch. Just eat. If you like, you come back. Tell others.” He leaned forward slightly, his breath cold despite the warm night. “Simple, yes?”
Mark hesitated for a moment longer, then shrugged. Hell, why not?
He grabbed the chopsticks and took a bite.
The moment the noodles hit his tongue, a wave of euphoria crashed over him. They were perfect. The best thing he had ever tasted. Salty, rich broth, the noodles the perfect texture, the meat so tender it practically melted in his mouth.
He groaned. “Holy shit. This is… this is unreal.”
The man behind the cart simply nodded. “Good, yes?”
Mark nodded, shoveling more into his mouth. He couldn’t stop. Every bite made him hungrier. Made him crave more.
Until—
Crunch.
His teeth hit something hard.
Mark froze. Slowly, he pulled the chopsticks back, fishing the object out of his mouth. It was small. White.
A piece of bone.
His stomach twisted. His mind screamed at him to stop. But his hands? They kept moving, shoving more noodles into his mouth, even as panic clawed at his throat.
The vendor watched him, eyes gleaming. “Eat. Finish. Good customer.”
Mark forced himself to swallow, his hands shaking. He grabbed the bowl and examined it closer.
That’s when he saw it.
A fingernail. Floating in the broth.
His stomach lurched. He dropped the bowl, sending hot broth splashing across the pavement.
The vendor’s grin never faltered. “Oh,” he said, tilting his head. “Not to your taste?”
Mark staggered back, wiping his mouth, heart hammering. “What the fuck is in that?!”
The man behind the cart sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher. “Such a waste.”
Then, before Mark could react, the vendor moved.
Too fast. Too wrong.
One moment he was behind the cart, the next—he was right in front of Mark, inches from his face.
The vendor's breath smelled like broth and something rotten. His too-wide smile stretched even further, revealing sharp, blackened teeth.
Mark tried to step back, but his legs wouldn’t move.
Paralyzed.
The vendor leaned in, whispering against his ear.
“Don’t worry. You’ll make a fine bowl for tomorrow’s customer.”
The world tilted.
Mark's vision blurred as an unbearable dizziness swept over him. His limbs felt like they were sinking into wet cement. His stomach churned—not just from nausea, but from something else. Something inside him.
The vendor was still smiling, still too close.
Mark tried to move, to fight, to scream—nothing.
His muscles ignored him. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.
And then—his stomach dropped.
Literally.
He collapsed onto the pavement, hands clutching his gut as a sharp, twisting pain tore through him. It felt like something was moving under his skin, slithering through his insides like a nest of eels.
The vendor crouched beside him, watching. "Ah," he murmured. "Working faster than usual. Interesting."
Mark convulsed. His fingers clawed at the asphalt, his nails splitting as another unbearable crunch echoed from within his ribcage.
Something snapped.
And then—his mouth opened.
Not on its own.
Something was crawling out.
Mark gagged as he felt it slide up his throat, an unholy writhing mass forcing its way past his tongue. He tried to bite down, to choke it back, but it was too strong.
He tasted the broth. Salty. Oily.
Then—something small, something wriggling, something alive.
A noodle.
But not just any noodle.
It was moving.
It slithered free from his lips like a parasite seeking daylight, stretching longer, longer—too long.
Mark gasped for breath as the thing pulled itself from his throat. A wet, glistening string of flesh connected it back to his insides, like an umbilical cord not quite ready to detach.
The vendor sighed, tilting his head. "Not done cooking yet."
Mark screamed.
Or, at least, he tried.
But before the sound could escape, the vendor grabbed the noodle.
And yanked.
Pain ripped through Mark’s body as the thing inside him unraveled. His veins burned. His skin stretched as the unholy strand pulled further, peeling something vital from within him.
And then—snap.
The vendor held the noodle up to the light, inspecting it. It glistened, pulsing with something sickly and yellow.
He sniffed it. Smirked.
"Almost perfect," he murmured.
Then, to Mark’s absolute horror, the vendor slurped the noodle into his mouth.
Mark felt it.
Felt it left him.
Something inside him had just been eaten.
The vendor licked his lips, then leaned close, his breath hot and wet.
"Still hungry?"
Mark’s vision blurred. The world spun.
Then—darkness.
Somewhere Else…
Mark woke to the sound of something boiling.
His head pounded, his body aching in ways he didn’t understand. He tried to sit up—but couldn’t.
Something was holding him down.
The smell of broth filled his nostrils, thick and cloying. Not just broth—meat. Cooking meat.
The sound of chopping.
A voice.
The vendor. Humming.
Mark’s stomach lurched.
Slowly, his vision adjusted.
He wasn’t on a bed.
He was on a table.
A cutting board.
His hands—his legs—were gone.
The vendor turned, holding a cleaver.
His grin widened.
"Second serving’s almost ready."
He lifted the blade.
Mark screamed.
The cleaver swung.
The cleaver descended.
Mark braced for pain, for the slicing heat of steel meeting flesh. But instead—
CLANG!
The sound of metal meeting metal rang out, deafening.
Mark's breath hitched as he realized—the cleaver had stopped.
An inch from his face.
The vendor’s grin twitched. His eyes flicked downward.
Mark followed his gaze—
His flesh was changing.
Where his arms and legs should have been bleeding stumps, there was something else.
Something new.
His skin had taken on a rubbery, pale texture, glistening under the dim light. His veins had vanished, replaced by thin, twisting strands of something soft and elastic.
Something that looked a lot like…
Noodles.
Mark’s breath hitched. His body shuddered.
He tried to move, and his limbs responded—not as human arms and legs, but as long, stretching strands of himself.
His fingers had melted into thin, curling ribbons. His legs had unraveled into long, white tendrils of dough-like flesh.
His insides churned.
He wasn’t bleeding. He wasn’t dying.
He was transforming.
The vendor’s expression flickered with something new.
Annoyance.
"Ah," he muttered. "You’re one of those."
Mark's mind raced. One of what?
Before he could speak, the vendor lunged.
Mark reacted on instinct.
His noodle arm lashed out, wrapping around the vendor’s wrist with unnatural speed. The vendor snarled, struggling—but Mark could feel it now.
The strength. The elasticity. The way his new form could bend, twist, and move in ways no human body ever should.
Something in his brain clicked.
And for the first time since this nightmare started—
He fought back.
Mark’s tendrils whipped forward, wrapping around the vendor’s throat, his arms, tightening.
The vendor choked. But he wasn’t struggling the way a man should. No, his skin was shifting.
Something underneath it moved.
Mark watched in horror as the vendor’s face split apart, peeling backward like the skin of an overripe fruit.
Beneath it—something was grinning.
It wasn’t a man.
It never had been.
The vendor’s true form slithered out of the discarded husk of human flesh, its elongated, boneless body twisting like an unholy hybrid of man and serpent. Its mouth gaped, lined with writhing, wet appendages—tentacles? No.
More noodles.
It wasn’t making the noodles.
It was the noodles.
Mark’s breath came in shallow gasps. His limbs quivered.
The vendor—the creature—tilted its head.
"You adapt well," it hissed, voice layered, inhuman.
Mark’s body burned. He could feel himself stretching, twisting, changing.
Something was awakening inside him.
And then—memories hit him like a freight train.
But they weren’t his.
Boiling water.
Hands kneading soft dough.
Screams.
A flash of faces—dozens, hundreds—all changing, all transforming into what he was becoming.
Mark’s breath hitched.
This wasn’t the first time this had happened.
Not to him.
But to others.
The vendor’s grin widened, too many teeth gleaming.
"Now you understand," it whispered. "You were always meant to be part of the meal."
Mark’s stomach turned. His own flesh quivered, writhing.
He had two choices.
Become the next dish.
Or become something worse.
And Mark wasn’t planning to be anyone’s dinner.
He clenched his noodle-like fingers into a fist.
And attacked.
Mark lunged.
His noodle flesh shot forward, tendrils wrapping around the creature’s twisting form. He didn’t know how he was doing it—he just knew he could.
The vendor hissed, its wet, glistening body convulsing as Mark’s tendrils tightened.
"You fight well," the creature wheezed. "But you’re still half-baked."
Mark barely had time to react before the vendor twisted its head backward—a full 180 degrees— and opened its mouth wide.
Too wide.
And then—it sucked.
A deep, stomach-turning slurping sound filled the room.
Mark felt a force pulling him forward. His arms—no, his noodles—stretched toward the vendor’s gaping maw.
It was trying to eat him.
Panic hit him like a lightning bolt.
Not today, you bowl of nightmares.
Mark yanked back, hard, planting what was left of his feet into the slippery tile. His body felt like rubber, elastic, bending in ways no human should.
But his body wasn’t human anymore, was it?
The vendor laughed. Or gurgled. It was hard to tell.
"You still don’t get it," it rasped. "You’re already part of the dish. There’s no escaping the pot now."
Mark’s stomach twisted violently.
A horrible realization clawed into his brain.
His hunger.
It was still there.
But it wasn’t for food. Not anymore.
It was for…
Mark’s gaze snapped to the vendor’s twitching, pulsating flesh. The strands of noodle-like tendrils writhing on its body.
The aroma of the broth in the air.
It smelled good.
No.
Not just good.
Delicious.
Mark’s breathing turned ragged. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. No. No. No.
But the hunger grew.
The vendor saw it in his eyes. And it grinned.
"Ahhh," it whispered. "You taste it now, don’t you?"
Mark's stomach growled. Loud.
The kind of hunger that gnawed at your very bones.
His body ached with the need to consume.
The vendor leaned closer, tendrils twitching in anticipation.
"Go on, then," it purred. "Take a bite."
Mark's mouth opened.
His vision blurred.
His body moved on its own.
And before he could stop himself—
He bit into the vendor’s flesh.
The instant Mark’s teeth sank in, his world exploded.
A surge of flavors, memories, voices—all rushing into his mind like a dam had burst.
He saw centuries of people before him.
All just like him.
All turning.
All… eating.
And every time they took a bite—
They became something else.
Something more.
The vendor gasped, shuddering beneath Mark’s grip.
"You… you actually… ate?" The voice trembled—not in fear, but in shock.
Mark felt the warm, savory flesh dissolve on his tongue. His body absorbed it.
And then—he changed.
His muscles pulsed. His vision sharpened.
And deep in his gut, a horrible, intoxicating energy spread through him.
Mark licked his lips.
And for the first time in his life, he felt full.
The vendor wheezed, its grin faltering.
"This… wasn’t supposed to happen," it muttered.
Mark flexed his fingers, watching them twist and morph.
He smiled.
"Wanna eat noodles?"
And then—he lunged.
Mark devoured.
His tendrils shot forward, wrapping around the vendor’s writhing body, pulling it toward his open mouth.
The creature screamed—a wet, gurgling sound that barely resembled human pain. Its body twitched violently, tendrils flailing, broth-like fluid dripping from its wounds.
But Mark didn’t stop.
He bit down again. And again. And again.
Each bite sent waves of heat through his body, a rush of power, of energy.
It tasted indescribable.
Like the richest broth he had ever sipped, the most tender meat he had ever chewed. But underneath it, something else.
Something dark.
Memories.
With every bite, he was swallowing centuries of knowledge. Of hunger. Of transformation. Of… rules.
The vendor's body convulsed, shrinking, dissolving. Its wide, horrified eyes locked onto Mark.
"You don’t… understand," it rasped. "You… don’t just eat."
Mark wiped broth from his lips. "No?"
The vendor shuddered. Its form, now barely a skeletal husk of noodles and tendrils, quivered.
"You take my place."
Mark’s stomach tightened.
"What?"
The vendor’s lips curled into a sickening, dying grin.
"You’re… the new chef."
Something snapped.
A deep, shuddering crack in the air around him. Like reality itself had just… shifted.
Mark stumbled back, panting. His hands—no, his noodle limbs—twitched, changing.
The walls around him melted.
The dimly lit kitchen, the steam rising from pots, the tiled floor covered in grease—it all faded.
And then—
A new place formed around him.
Mark stood behind a small, rusted food cart.
A single red lantern flickered above him. The air smelled of broth, of sizzling meat, of rain-soaked asphalt.
He looked down at his hands—human again.
No tendrils. No noodles.
Just… Mark.
His stomach twisted. What the hell just happened?
Then, a voice.
"Excuse me?"
Mark’s head snapped up.
A man stood in front of the cart. Dazed, confused, hungry.
Mark's breath caught.
He recognized this man.
It was him.
Or… someone like him.
Drunk. Stumbling home late at night. Looking for food. Looking for something warm in the cold city.
The words came out before he could stop them.
"Wanna eat noodles?"
Mark froze.
His own voice had changed.
Deeper. Smoother. Just like—
No.
No.
No.
The customer hesitated. "Uh… what’s in it?"
Mark’s lips curled into a grin.
The grin of a chef.
The chef.
The new vendor.
The new collector.
Mark understood now.
He wasn’t human anymore.
He was part of the cycle.
And the cycle never ends.
The pot always needs fresh ingredients.
And tonight?
Tonight, he was cooking.
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