Chapter 4: A Salty Solution

Chapter 4: A Salty Solution

The choice hung in the air, thick and heavy as the smell of grease. Servant or master. Leash or weapon. Alex’s hand, of its own accord, tightened around the worn notebook in his pocket. It felt like a block of lead, a comfort that had suddenly become an anchor, threatening to drown him. He looked at Silas, at the man who had walked out of the freezer, who had seen the truth behind the Imitator’s hunger. He remembered the crawling, acidic doubt that had nearly consumed him.

Following the rules had almost destroyed him. Breaking them had saved Silas. The logic was terrifyingly simple.

Alex pulled his hand away from his pocket and slowly unclenched his fist. “I’m in,” he said, the two words feeling monumental, a vow spoken in a damned chapel.

A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—passed through Silas’s stern eyes. “Good,” he grunted. “Lesson one starts now. Forget everything you think you know. The Grimoire is your enemy’s playbook. From now on, you learn to read between the lines.”

He was about to say more when the bell above the front door chimed, a sound that cut through the conversation like a shard of glass. Both men turned.

Slumped at a booth by the window was a new customer. He was a portly man in a rain-stained coat, his head bowed so low his chin rested on his chest. His shoulders shook with silent, convulsive sobs. A low, keening sound, barely audible above the hum of the fryers, filled the restaurant. From where Alex stood, he could see tears, thick and clear as resin, dripping from the man’s unseen face onto the tabletop.

Where each tear landed, the Formica tabletop hissed and bubbled, a tiny wisp of acrid smoke rising. A small pool of the tears had collected, and it was slowly, inexorably, eating a hole through the table.

Alex’s blood went cold. He knew this one. He fumbled for his notebook, his fingers already flipping to the right page. “The Weeping Man,” he whispered, reading the familiar entry. Rule 41: For the Weeping Patron, use only designated plastic serviceware. Fulfill the order quickly. Do not make eye contact. Do not engage in conversation. His sorrow is not your concern.

He grabbed a plastic tray and a plastic cup, his hands moving with practiced speed. “He always orders a Smiley Cola. No ice. I just have to give it to him and walk away.”

“Stop,” Silas commanded. His voice was flat, absolute.

Alex froze, his hand hovering over the soda dispenser.

“Look at him, Alex,” Silas said, his voice low. “Really look. Don’t just see the monster, see the mechanism. What is the rule designed to do?”

Alex glanced at the weeping figure, at the corrosive tears dissolving the table. “It’s designed for safety,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “So you don’t get melted. Plastic is resistant to his… tears. You give him a drink, he gets what he wants, and he leaves.”

“Exactly,” Silas said. “It’s appeasement. You give the crying baby a bottle so it shuts up for a while. You don’t ask why it’s crying. Now, you’re going to make him a Smiley Burger.”

Alex blinked. “A… a burger? He’s not— his entry doesn’t say anything about a burger. The Grimoire is very specific.”

“I know,” Silas said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Now, get a patty on the grill. And I want you to grab the industrial salt shaker. The big one we use for the fries.”

Hesitantly, Alex did as he was told. He placed a frozen patty on the sizzling grill, the sound familiar and yet utterly alien in this new context. Silas took the large, metal salt shaker from the prep station.

“Now,” Silas said, holding out the shaker. “Cook the burger. And when it’s done, I want you to empty this entire thing onto the patty.”

Alex stared at him, then at the shaker. It was nearly full. “The whole thing? Silas, that’s… that’s not just a lot of salt. That’s toxic. It would kill a normal person.”

“And does he look like a normal person to you?” Silas countered, his voice sharp. “You wanted a lesson, Alex. This is it. Trust me, not the book.”

Alex’s heart hammered in his chest. Every instinct, every rule drilled into his head for months, screamed at him to stop. This was insane. This was a direct violation of a clear, established protocol. But then he looked at Silas’s unwavering gaze, and he remembered the ichor on the floor, the silent departure of the Imitator. He was on the other side of the mirror now. The old rules no longer applied.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he nodded. He cooked the patty, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it twice. When it was done, he placed it on a bun and set it on the counter. Silas handed him the shaker. The metal was cold and heavy. Alex took a last look at the Weeping Man, then tipped the shaker and began to pour.

A mountain of white crystals piled onto the meat, cascading over the sides, covering it completely in a thick, snowy crust of pure sodium chloride. It was a grotesque mockery of a meal.

“On a ceramic plate,” Silas instructed. “No plastic.”

This was the final test. The tears melted everything else. Ceramic might hold, but it was a terrifying gamble. Swallowing hard, Alex plated the salted monstrosity and picked it up. He could feel the heat of the patty through the plate, could smell the overwhelming, chemical scent of the salt.

He walked out from behind the counter, each step a miniature eternity. The Weeping Man’s sobs grew louder as he approached, a sound of pure, endless misery. The corrosive tears dripped faster, eating away at the table. Alex carefully placed the plate in front of the man, making sure to keep his hands clear of the acidic moisture.

The Weeping Man didn't look up. His crying just… stopped. The sudden silence was deafening. Slowly, like a puppet on a string, one of his hands rose and picked up the burger. He brought it to his mouth, which was hidden in the shadow of his bowed head.

Alex held his breath, bracing himself for… he didn't know what. An explosion? A spray of acid?

The man took a single, large bite.

A sound ripped through the silence, but it wasn't human. It was a high-pitched, tearing screech, a sound of agony and violation that scraped at the inside of Alex’s skull. The Weeping Man’s back arched violently. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and something black and writhing poured out.

It was a parasite made of congealed darkness and spite, a shadow given oily, tangible form. It squirmed on the table, shrieking that terrible, inhuman sound as the immense concentration of salt from the half-chewed bite of burger reacted with its substance. It began to smoke and dissolve, its form wavering and coming apart like wet paper. In seconds, the shadow-parasite disintegrated into a pile of fine black dust and a wisp of steam that smelled of ozone and brine.

The man, its host, slumped forward onto the table, dazed and gasping, but no longer weeping. His tears, where they now dripped, were just salty water. Harmless. He looked up at Alex, his eyes bloodshot but clear, filled with a profound and weary confusion.

Alex stumbled back to the counter, his mind reeling.

“The Grimoire told you to give him a plastic cup to appease the symptom,” Silas said quietly, coming to stand beside him. He nodded toward the now-harmless customer. “I taught you to use a ceramic plate and a pound of salt to kill the disease.”

He looked at Alex, his expression grim and hard. “The Grimoire is a guide for servants, designed only to keep the Owner’s ‘clientele’ happy and fed. It protects the livestock, but it maintains the farm. I’m not going to teach you how to serve them, Alex.”

Silas gestured toward the dazed man, who was now slowly, shakily getting to his feet.

“I am going to teach you how to become a master.”