You know that feeling when the air gets heavier, like a dream just crawled inside your chest?
That was the feeling Sava had as he stood in front of Meat Oracle No. 7. A kebab stand that wasn't quite a kebab stand. More like… a shrine. With smoke rising not from a grill but from strange copper braziers. The smell of lamb, ash, and wet paprika lingered like a hymn in the air.
The vendor, an impossibly thin man in a long velvet robe, had eyes that didn't blink. His eyebrows were vertical. Yes, vertical.
And just when you'd think he was about to speak something wise, something profound…
"You have mustard on your nose," the man said flatly.Sava flinched. "...Do I?""No," said the man. "But that's what the kebab told me to say."
Sava stared. You stared. We all stared.
"Okay," Sava muttered to himself. "This is either a hallucination or a Tuesday."(He turned slightly toward you)"And if you're still here, stranger-from-the-void, then you're either real and judging me, or just another figment of my over-seasoned brain. Either way—don't blink. Things get worse when you blink."
He coughed into his sleeve. Spices exploded in the air. Literally. A puff of saffron powder shot out of his coat pocket like a cartoon sneeze.
The vendor extended a hand, holding something wrapped in old brown parchment.
"The Map of Hungers."
Sava took it cautiously, as though it might bite him. (Because once, a bun did.)
The parchment unfolded itself. That's right—unfolded itself.
A swirling, chaotic illustration emerged. Places that didn't exist. Words that blinked. Ink that smelled like garlic. There were locations like:
The Bazaar of Screaming Chefs
The Oil Pools of Frytan
Temple of the 9,000 Skewers
And one ominously marked with a burning spiral:
"Do Not Go Here Unless You Crave Eternal Marination"
Sava's lips twitched. The map hummed.
"This is insane," he whispered."So is mayonnaise," said the vendor. "But we still eat it."
Then the Meat Oracle leaned forward, whispering like the end of time:
"Follow the scent, not the path. The Kebab chooses the worthy."
"And what happens if it doesn't choose me?""Then you become sauce."
And so, Sava began walking.
Or rather, the alley walked him.
No, really. The ground began to slide like a treadmill made of cobblestone. Vendors and creatures blurred past. A woman selling clouds in jars. A man butchering vegetables that screamed. A child made entirely of pickles.
Sava didn't run. He couldn't.
The alley finally spat him out into a place where gravity was optional. Where signs floated. Where smells wrote poetry in the air.
"Smells like… lemon regret and chili rage," Sava muttered.He tilted his head toward you again."You ever smell something that reminded you of heartbreak? Yeah. That. But tangier."
He followed the map into a doorway without a wall, passed through a corridor made of pork crackling, and eventually stepped into a dim, flickering market, where all the signs were written in languages that hadn't been invented yet.
One caught his eye:
🌶 "The Tongue Collector" – Authentic Flavor Memory Restoration 🌶
He stared. Then blinked. Then stared again.
The curtain opened.
Out stepped her.
She wore robes made of menu pages and spoke in a voice that sounded like wind over a grill.
"You've lost your taste, traveler.""I—I have?""Yes. Long ago. You forgot the flavor of joy. Of danger. Of desperation.""...And you can help?""No. But I can remind you."
She stepped forward, placing her finger on his tongue. It tingled. Not unpleasantly.
Then—boom.
Memories exploded.
The first bite of his grandmother's kebab, over charcoal, by candlelight.
The street vendor in Istanbul who used to flirt with customers as he flipped skewers.
The night he lost his job and made a kebab out of spite—and it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
"These memories are your seasoning," she whispered."Don't let the world boil them out."
She faded into the smoke.
Sava stumbled out, dazed.
"Okay. Okay. Maybe I'm going insane. Or maybe this is what purpose tastes like."He turned toward you again."Either way, don't stop reading. Don't you dare. If I go down this rabbit hole, you're coming with me, you imaginary weirdo."
He stepped onto a path made of charred naan and spiced starlight.
The map pulsed.
The kebab was calling.
TO BE CONTINUED...