You wake up on cold, wet stone. The air smells like smoke, searing fat, and something sweet . This isn’t a normal dungeon. There are no goblins, no traps, no treasure chests filled with gold.

Every hallway is a butcher’s block. Every door is a sausage link curtain. And somewhere in the deepest chamber, the grinds primal cuts into eternal service.

The walls? The floors? Marbleized fat caps. The ceiling drips… au jus.

Roll for initiative… and appetite.

Not a legendary sword, but a fork that never bends and a napkin that cleans itself.