The aroma of burnt sugar and arrogance hung thick in the air of the Miller family's industrial-sized kitchen.
It was a familiar scent, one that usually promised macarons and chouquettes, but tonight it was undercut by something else entirely: the smug certainty of a guy who believed his own hype.
Clarence, chest puffed out like a prize rooster, had just finished regaling his sister, Irene, and her best friend, Sabine, with tales of his invincibility.
He flexed an admittedly impressive bicep, the muscle rippling under his tanned skin.
“I tell you, no rope, no lock, no chain can hold me!” he declared, his voice echoing off the stainless-steel counters. “I’ve been practicing. I’m basically a human Houdini!”
Irene, with her wide, deceptively innocent blue eyes, had listened with rapt attention, a picture of sisterly admiration.
Sabine, a sharp-featured girl with dark, observant eyes, had simply leaned against the flour-dusted counter, a silent, unsettling smirk playing on her lips.
Now, a mischievous glint sparked within Irene’s gaze, a flicker that was perfectly mirrored in Sabine’s.
“Is that so, Clarence?” Irene asked, her voice laced with a honeyed sweetness that should have set off every alarm bell in his head. “Well, we’d love to see that. I bet you can’t escape anything we put you in.”
Sabine finally spoke, her voice a low, smooth contrast to Irene’s chirpiness. “Yeah, Clarence. Put your money where your mouth is. Or, you know, your pride.”
Clarence, ever the fool, eagerly took the bait. The presence of an audience, especially a pretty one like Sabine, only fuelled his bravado. “A bet?” he crowed, puffing out his chest even further. “You’re on! What’s the challenge?”
Irene’s smile widened, revealing a hint of something sharp and ... predatory. “Alright then. Let’s get started.” She exchanged a swift, unreadable glance with Sabine, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “First rule of a real escape artist challenge ... you have to be stripped of any hidden tools. So, clothes off !”
Clarence laughed, a booming, confident sound. “A little forward, aren’t we, girls? But if you insist.”
He shucked off his t-shirt and jeans with theatrical flair, standing proudly in just his boxer shorts, entirely missing the clinical, appraising look the two girls shared. They weren’t blushing or giggling; they were measuring.
“Now,” Irene said, her tone shifting from sweet to instructional. “Into the pan.” She gestured to a massive, heavy-gauge steel roasting pan used for the restaurant’s largest catering orders.
A sliver of doubt, cold and thin, finally pierced Clarence’s ego. “The ... pan? Why the pan?”
“Atmosphere,” Sabine answered flatly, her dark eyes glinting. “All the great escapes have a prop. Think of it as your stage.”
Shrugging, Clarence climbed into the cold metal dish, the ridiculousness of the situation only adding to his sense of invincibility. This would be a story to tell for years.
What happened next was a blur of efficient, terrifying motion. Irene produced a coil of thick, hempen rope from a drawer, the kind used to secure delivery shipments.
With practiced ease that was deeply unsettling, she began to loop and tie his ankles together, then his knees. Sabine moved in, her fingers surprisingly strong, pulling the knots taut with a series of sharp, final tugs that bit into his skin. "We wanna make sure you're tied you up really, really well, Clarence!"
“Hey, now, that’s a bit serious,” Clarence mumbled, the bravado beginning to drain away, replaced by a growing unease. The ropes were unyielding.
“A real challenge requires real restraints,” Sabine murmured, her breath cool against his ear as she leaned over him to secure his arms to his sides. Irene finished the job by expertly tying his wrists together in front of him.
“And for good measure,” Irene chirped, her cheerful tone now sounding almost manic, “since you’re sooo strong.” From her apron pocket, she produced a pair of her father’s sturdy, polished-steel handcuffs—a novelty item from a magic show, but fully functional. With a click that echoed sharply in the quiet kitchen, they snapped shut around his already-bound wrists.
Clarence’s discomfort bloomed into genuine alarm. He wriggled, testing his bonds. Nothing gave. Not an inch. “Okay, girls, joke’s over. This is getting weird. Untie me.”
But the girls just chuckled, a low, synchronized sound that sent a primal shiver down his spine. Without another word, they grabbed the handles of the pan. With a strength that belied their slender frames, they lifted and shoved the metal dish, Clarence and all, into the gaping, dark maw of the restaurant’s largest deck oven.
The world went dark and cramped. The metal clanged ominously as it settled on the wire rack, and then they shut the oven door behind Clarence.
Clarence’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. “Irene! Sabine! Let me out right now!”
Irene’s face appeared at the oven door window, her features distorted by the thick glass. It was a mask of pure, unadulterated glee. Sabine’s face appeared next to hers, her expression one of strange curiosity and excitement.
“Now, Clarence,” Irene purred, her voice muffled but chillingly clear. “The final part of the challenge. I’m going to turn on the heat. It’ll rise slowly to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. That’ll take at least seven minutes.” She leaned closer, her eye filling the window. “You’ve got until then to show us how strong you are. Break free.”
Clarence’s blood ran cold. He stared back, his bravado evaporating, replaced by full-blown, stomach-churning panic. “No! NO! Don’t ! This isn’t funny! IRENE!”
Sabine’s laugh was a sharp, brittle thing. “Who’s laughing?”
Irene reached for the control dial. The click was the loudest, most terrifying sound Clarence had ever heard.
A low hum filled the oven as the heating elements at the top and bottom began to glow a menacing, hellish red. The temperature began to rise slowly. The cold metal of the pan became warm, then hot, then searing. Clarence screamed, a raw, ragged sound of pure terror. He thrashed against the ropes with every ounce of his strength, his “Houdini” techniques utterly useless. The ropes smoked where they touched the pan. The handcuffs became brands, searing into his wrists.
The air grew thick, oven-dry, and impossible to breathe. Sweat erupted from every pore, instantly evaporating in the blistering heat. His skin blistered and reddened. He could smell it - the sickly-sweet scent of his own hair burning, the unmistakable, metallic scent of cooking meat.
“PLEASE!” he shrieked, his voice cracking, his throat raw. “LET ME OUT! I’M SORRY! I’M NOT STRONG! I’M NOT! PLEASE!”
The two faces at the window watched, unblinking. Irene’s was alight with a terrifying ecstasy. Sabine’s was a study of focused intensity, as if she were watching a fascinating science experiment reach its conclusion.
“Oh, Clarence,” Irene cooed through the door, her voice singsong. “All that boasting ... and now you’re just ... meat.”
And Sabine cheered on: "Yeah, Irene, just meat. But I bet your bro's gonna taste delicious, once we've roasted him completely !!"
Clarence vision swam, darkening at the edges. The pain was all-consuming, a universe of agony. His screams died into choked, wet gurgles. His last conscious sight was the two pairs of eyes of his beloved sis and her friend, watching him roast, licking their lips, and their silent, hungry laughter was the last thing he heard before he faded into the eternal darkness.
Hours passed. The oven hummed its quiet, thermostatic song. Finally, with a satisfied sigh, Irene turned the dial to off. The kitchen was silent save for the faint ticking of the cooling metal.
They put on heavy oven mitts and pulled out the roasting pan. Clarence was no longer a struggling boy. He was a perfectly roasted, golden-brown figure, his limbs curled and stiff, his skin crisp and crackling. The ropes were burnt husks, the handcuffs gleaming dully against the crisped skin of his wrists.
They didn’t even glance at them. With a practiced, domestic ease, they transferred the pan to the large central counter. Sabine fetched a carving knife and a sharpening steel. The shhh-click, shhh-click of the blade being honed was the only ceremony.
Irene carefully carved the first piece, the skin shattering beautifully. She placed it on a plate and handed it to Sabine, then carved one for herself. They ate in silence for a moment, their eyes closed.
“He was always so full of himself,” Irene finally said, licking a glistening spot of fat from her thumb.
“Mmm,” Sabine agreed, swallowing. “But wow, isn't he delicous now, though !?"
Later, with satisfied burps, they leaned back from the picked-clean bones. A faint, greasy glaze shone in their eyes.
“You sure were a delicious brother, Clarence,” Irene whispered to the remains, a sinister smile curving her lips.
Sabine just nodded, running a finger along the edge of the knife before licking it clean. The echo of his bravado was long gone, replaced by the grim, shared satisfaction of predators who had successfully lured their prey. The aroma in the air was no longer just burnt sugar and arrogance. It was the smell of a feast, and of a lesson learned far, far too late.
