Chapter 5 Gabe
GABE
Itap my access code into Adrian’s private entrance at the back of his boutique, balancing the temperature-controlled case against my hip.
Two liters of Councilman Reynolds’ finest O-negative, extracted and preserved with the care of a sommelier handling a rare vintage.
The man might’ve been garbage, but his blood is valuable.
The door closes behind me with a soft pneumatic hiss as I pass through the small anteroom that serves as a transition space—designed to prevent temperature fluctuations when entering Adrian’s sanctuary.
Unlike my basement studio with its deliberate chaos and lingering metallic tang, Adrian’s space exists in another universe entirely.
“Delivery service,” I call out, stepping onto floors clean enough to perform surgery on. I spot Adrian at his tempering station, wearing his whites like a second skin, not a speck of chocolate anywhere but on his marble slab.
“Perfect timing.” He doesn’t look up, focused on the chocolate curling beneath his scraper in hypnotic waves. “Temperature log?”
I set the case down and pull out my phone. “37.1 degrees Fahrenheit consistently since extraction. No fluctuations over 0.3 degrees.” I punch in the security code on the case. “The last of Reynolds’ contribution to your Valentine’s masterpieces.”
Adrian finally glances up, a smile barely touching his lips. “Your meticulous preservation makes all the difference.”
I survey the room—digital thermometers display humidity levels and ambient temperature to the decimal point. Chocolate molds arranged by size and depth catch the light. Specialized tools hang on magnetic strips, each one precisely distanced from the next.
I lean against the countertop, crossing my arms as Adrian lifts a digital thermometer from the glossy pool of dark chocolate. His eyes narrow while reading. “89.6 Fahrenheit. Still 0.4 degrees shy of perfect formation.”
Where I find beauty in the chaos—the desperate pleas, the struggling limbs that eventually go still—Adrian finds his in absolute control. My preservation work is visceral, hands plunged knuckle-deep in chemicals, wrestling against decay. Adrian’s is a ballet of instruments and decimal points.
“How many batches is Reynolds contributing to?” I ask, watching as Adrian adjusts the heat with a turn that couldn’t be more than a quarter inch.
“Fourteen. His blood has exceptional minerality.” He dips the thermometer again. “89.8.”
The chocolate swirls beneath his scraper like dark satin. I killed Reynolds with passion—let him see the evidence of his crimes, felt the satisfaction of his realization, his fear. Adrian’s involvement was clinical; the extraction process was as emotionless as a bank transaction.
“You should see how I’ve arranged the councilman,” I say, feeling that familiar excitement bubble up. “Positioned him like he’s giving one of those bullshit speeches. Hand raised, frozen mid-gesture. The preservation fluid gave his skin this amazing alabaster quality.”
Adrian nods without looking up. “90.0 degrees exactly.” His movements shift now, scraper working faster, building structure into the liquid chocolate. “Three more degrees before adding the blood. It must reach exactly 93.0 before incorporation.”
I shake my head, smiling. “You and your decimals. My chemicals either work or they don’t.”
“And that’s why your subjects sometimes develop those unfortunate air pockets.” His voice holds no judgment, just fact. “Precision eliminates variables.”
He reaches for a digital scale to measure blood to the milliliter.
Each drop falls into a graduated cylinder, the deep crimson catching the light.
It’s mesmerizing—not for its violence, which attracted me—but for its mathematical poetry.
Where I see justice served through suffering, Adrian sees components in a formula.
“Perfect temper,” he murmurs, checking one final reading. “Now we create perfection.”
“Watch,” Adrian says, gesturing me closer to the workstation. “This is where art and science become indistinguishable.”
I lean in, curious despite having seen variations of this process before. Adrian treats each batch like a discovery.
“First, I reduce the blood.” He points to a small copper pot where crimson liquid simmers. “Low heat, never boiling. Concentration without denaturing the proteins. It takes sixteen minutes to reach the optimal viscosity.”
He transfers the reduced blood to a glass beaker.
“Too early, and the water content disrupts crystallization. Too late, and the metallic notes overpower the cocoa’s natural complexity.” He checks the digital thermometer again. “93.0 degrees. Perfect.”
Adrian adds the concentrated blood to the tempered chocolate, folding it with gentle strokes. No splashing, no dramatic gestures—just incorporation.
“The iron compounds must bind with the cocoa solids at exactly this temperature. It creates a molecular bridge that transforms both components.” He continues stirring. “This equilibrium only exists for approximately forty seconds before the temperature drops.”
The chocolate gleams under the lights, its surface tension breaking and reforming with each stroke of his spatula.
“Now for the ganache.”
Adrian pours heated cream into the mixture, stirring carefully. The scent is intoxicating—dark chocolate with something else beneath it, something primal yet refined.
“Try this.” He extends a small tasting spoon toward me.
I take it, studying the glossy darkness before placing it on my tongue. The ganache melts immediately—velvety, complex, with notes of black cherry and tobacco. Then it happens—that subtle metallic undertone emerges, so perfectly balanced it presents as an exotic spice rather than what it truly is.
“Fuck,” I mutter appreciatively. “That’s transcendent. The iron note is—”
“Undetectable to most palates,” Adrian finishes. “They’ll assume it’s some rare spice from some far-flung place they’ve never heard of.”
“This is why you’re the artist,” I admit, watching him work with that fastidious precision that borders on reverence. The transformation of blood into luxury is something only Adrian could perfect.
Adrian turns to me with that cold smile—the one that never quite reaches his eyes but reveals his satisfaction. “And you’re the collector. We each have our medium.”
I nod, acknowledging the perfect symmetry of our partnership. Where I preserve the subjects, he transforms them into ephemeral pleasures. Death and chocolate—both indulgences that captivate the human experience.
“I read that review,” I say, pulling out my phone to scroll through the article I’d saved. “The food critic from the Chronicle—Kendall, was it? She absolutely eviscerated your Valentine’s collection.”
I expect a flash of irritation from Adrian. Critics rarely understand true artistry, especially when they’re missing crucial context about the ingredients. But instead, his eyes sharpen with interest.
“Maya Kendall,” he corrects me, the name rolling off his tongue with unusual attentiveness. “Read me the part about the truffles.”
I find the passage. “Despite Vale’s technical mastery, his signature Valentine’s collection feels hollow—a perfect shell containing nothing but emptiness where passion should reside.”
Adrian’s expression transforms, something I’ve rarely seen in our long friendship. It’s not anger—it’s fascination. He moves away from the tempering table, suddenly energized.
“She tasted the emptiness,” he says with something like wonder in his voice. His fingers tap against the countertop, a staccato rhythm of excitement. “She actually understood.”
I’ve known Adrian long enough to recognize that tone—the sudden fixation, the slightly elevated pitch, the way his breathing has quickened. It’s the sound of obsession taking root.
“Adrian,” I say carefully, “what exactly are you thinking?”
I’ve seen this look before. Years of friendship with Adrian Vale, and I know every shade of his expressions—especially the dangerous ones.
The way his eyes dance with intensity, his movements acquire that predatory grace.
It’s how he looked before he seduced Clarissa DeMarco after she wrote that scathing review of his ganache texture at that charity gala three years ago.
He’d conquered her thoroughly, made her recant her criticism publicly, then disappeared from her life so completely she had a nervous breakdown.
How he looked when that food blogger claimed his pralines were completely forgettable, only to become another notch on his bedpost—left dazed and obsessed, sending pathetic emails for months after he’d grown bored with her.
But this is different. There’s a reverence in his fascination with Maya Kendall. Not the usual cold calculation when someone requires correction. This is deeper.
The blood-infused chocolate sits between us, cooling into something exquisite and terrible. Like our friendship. Like our shared secrets.
“She understood the emptiness,” he repeats, seemingly to himself. “Without knowing what she was tasting, she sensed it. She has a gift.”
This fixation isn’t about revenge. It’s about recognition. Someone finally sees Adrian’s work for what it truly is—a beautiful void, a perfect shell containing nothingness. The critique didn’t wound his pride; it validated his artistry in a way no praise ever could.
I should warn him. Tell him to let it go. Critics come and go, but bodies—bodies are forever. Unless they’re properly preserved, which is my specialty, not his.
But I recognize the futility. Adrian’s obsessions are like chemical reactions—once initiated, they follow their course to completion. My cautions would be as effective as telling water not to be wet.
“So what happens now?” I ask, knowing we’ve ventured into uncharted territory. Adrian collecting blood from annoying restaurant critics is one thing. Adrian, being fascinated by one, is something else entirely.
He turns to me, eyes alight with a malicious glee.
“I need to see her again.”