Chapter 1: Combo #3 for the Man with No Face

Chapter 1: Combo #3 for the Man with No Face

The phantom chill was the worst part.

Hours had passed since his first… incident, yet Leo Clarke could still feel the cold seeping from the tile floor, climbing up his spine like a frozen snake. It was a cold that had nothing to do with the night air or the overzealous air conditioning. It was the cold of a near miss, the chilling echo of a mistake that had almost cost him more than his job.

He scrubbed furiously at a stubborn grease stain on the stainless-steel counter, the cheap sponge shredding in his trembling hand. Ryan’s voice, rough as gravel and twice as friendly, still rattled in his skull. “You look at them, you get a warning. You look at them twice, you become the daily special. Got it, kid?”

Leo had almost looked. The first customer of the night, a man in a rumpled grey suit, had seemed so ordinary. But when he’d turned to order, his face had… shifted. Like a badly tuned television, it had flickered between a dozen different visages—a screaming woman, a grinning old man, a blank-eyed child—before settling on a swirling vortex of static. Leo’s gaze had started to drift upward, drawn by a horrifying curiosity, before he’d managed to wrench his eyes down to the man’s scuffed shoes. He’d survived, but the memory left a permanent frostbite on his soul.

The fluorescent lights of Smiley’s hummed with a sick, buzzing frequency that made his teeth ache. After midnight, the cheerful, family-friendly facade of the fast-food joint melted away, revealing something ancient and predatory beneath. The shadows in the corners grew longer, darker, seeming to writhe just at the edge of his vision. The air, thick with the smell of old fryer oil, carried a faint undercurrent of something else—a coppery, metallic tang, like old blood.

Just make it to 6 AM, he chanted to himself, a desperate mantra against the encroaching dread. He needed this job. His student loans were a ravenous beast, and Smiley’s paid three times the minimum wage for the night shift. Now he knew why.

Ding-dong!

The cheerful, electronic chime of the front door was the most terrifying sound in the world. It cut through the silence, sharp and intrusive. Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, took a shallow, shaky breath, and turned.

His second special customer of the night was not a man.

It was a towering, gangly thing that had to stoop to fit through the doorway. Its limbs were too long, its joints bending at angles that defied biology. It moved with a disjointed, twitching grace, its worn loafers making wet, clicking sounds on the linoleum. It wore a threadbare trench coat that couldn't quite conceal its unnatural proportions.

Leo’s eyes locked onto its shoes, just as Ryan had drilled into him. Don’t look up. Never look up.

The thing shuffled to the counter, its presence sucking the warmth from the room. The metallic smell intensified, acrid and sharp.

“Welcome to Smiley’s,” Leo croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “What can I get for you?”

A series of clicks and wet rasps echoed from above. It took Leo a moment to realize it was an attempt at speech. Then, a voice scraped through the noise, sounding like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

“Combo… Number… Three.”

Leo’s blood ran cold. He knew the regular menu. Combo #3 was a Smiley Burger with extra cheese, large fries, and a soda. But he also knew, with a primal certainty, that this customer wasn't here for the regular menu. He fumbled below the counter, his fingers finding the laminated edge of a different menu, the one kept out of sight. The real menu.

Combo #3: The Ruminant’s Regret.

His stomach churned. He nodded numbly, not daring to lift his head. “One Ruminant’s Regret. Coming right up.”

He turned to the grill, his movements stiff and robotic. He didn't use the standard ground beef patties from the walk-in. Instead, he reached into the small, padlocked refrigerator beneath the prep station. The meat inside wasn’t red. It was a pale, greyish slab, marbled with veins of iridescent gristle that shimmered under the buzzing lights. The smell that wafted out was faintly sweet, like rotting flowers.

He slapped the patty onto the grill. It didn’t sizzle. It… wept, releasing a thin, oily fluid that hissed and smoked. He fought the urge to gag, focusing on the steps. Follow the rules. Survive the order.

The sauce came from an unmarked black squeeze bottle. It was thick and viscous, the color of tar, and smelled of rust and licorice. The “buns” were two flat, dense discs of something that looked like compressed sawdust. The side order wasn't fries. He pulled a wire basket from a vat of congealed, milky liquid and scooped out a handful of what looked like oversized, knobby knuckles. He piled them into a carton, his skin crawling as one of them twitched.

He assembled the grotesque meal, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped the tray. The final product looked less like a burger and more like an open wound on a plate. He slid it onto the counter, his eyes still fixed on the floor in front of him.

“That’ll be… one memory,” he recited, the price feeling like poison on his tongue.

A long, slender-fingered hand, pale as bone, entered his field of vision. It placed a single, heavy coin on the counter. The coin wasn't made of any metal he recognized. It was dull grey, cool to the touch, and seemed to absorb the light around it. As his fingers brushed against it, a sudden, vivid image flashed through his mind: a sun-drenched afternoon in a park, the taste of cheap ice cream, the sound of his little sister’s laughter. The memory was bright, perfect, and utterly his.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Not faded, but surgically excised. He knew it had happened, but the emotional warmth, the sensory details—they were just… gone. A hollow ache bloomed in his chest.

The clicking and shuffling receded. The bell chimed again. He was alone.

Leo leaned against the counter, gasping for air, the cold, dead coin clutched in his hand. He had survived. He had paid the price.

“Not bad, kid.”

Leo jumped, whirling around. Ryan was standing by the office door, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He hadn't heard him approach. The man moved with a predator’s silence. His face was a roadmap of exhaustion, his eyes holding the flat, haunted look of a man who had seen too much for too long.

“You didn’t run. You didn’t scream. You just made the order,” Ryan said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Most don’t make it past the first week.”

“What… what was that thing?” Leo stammered, his voice trembling.

Ryan just shrugged, blowing a plume of smoke toward the greasy ceiling. “A customer. They come, they eat, they pay. That’s all you need to know.” He walked behind the counter and took the strange coin from Leo’s limp hand, tossing it into a specific slot in the cash register. It landed with a dull, heavy thud.

“I… I can’t do this, Ryan.”

“Yeah, you can,” the manager said, his tone devoid of sympathy. “You just did. And you’ll do it again tomorrow night. And the night after that.” He paused, his gaze fixing on Leo with a weary intensity. “But you’re gonna need this.”

Ryan reached under the counter and pulled out a small, heavy object. It was a book, bound in cracked, dark leather with no title on the cover. It looked ancient, worn smooth by the touch of countless desperate hands. It smelled of dust, ozone, and faint, underlying fear.

“What is it?” Leo asked, reaching for it hesitantly.

“Employee handbook,” Ryan grunted, pushing it into Leo’s hands. The leather felt strangely warm, almost alive. “Everything you need to know is in there. The real rules. The ones that’ll keep you from ending up on the menu.”

Leo stared down at the book, then back at his manager, a flicker of hope igniting in the pit of his stomach. A manual. Rules. Maybe he could understand this. Maybe he could master it.

Ryan seemed to read his mind. He let out a short, harsh laugh that sounded like a coffin lid scraping shut.

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious rasp. “That thing won’t save you.”

He leaned in closer, the cigarette smoke stinging Leo’s eyes.

“But it might help you die on your own terms.”