## Emil POV I am not usually in the habit of keeping written records of the sordid details of my employment. Most of the achievements—or atrocities, depending on how you look at it—from my past life have been lost to time, to the erosion of my own memory, becoming little riddles in the corners of history where no one cares enough to look. I do not regret letting them go. However, I may have to be more careful this time around. The supernatural—as much as I like to scoff at them in my mind, I must also remain vigilant of what they are capable of. They bind me with their rules and magic, which is why I must stand my ground when it comes to the integrity of my psyche. May this log serve as one of my lines of defense. In my afterlife, just as in my old, discarded, human life, I sleep with one eye open. The couch in the break room is comfortable enough—much better than the bedding of snow and conifer leaves in the Alps, at least. On the 6th day of this new, pseudo-life I have committed myself to, when the sky was barely dawning, I briefly contemplated getting up and turning on the TV to find a live broadcast of the qualifying rounds of this weekend’s Formula 1 race in Indianapolis. But I ultimately decided against it. I have been rooting for Mika Häkkinen ever since I gained access to human news; after all, he is my fellow countryman (if I’m even allowed to call myself a Finn, having never been to my father’s homeland), bears the same given name as my father, and even some degree of facial resemblance, too. Not to mention that he is racing for McLaren, like Senna did; I have always seen the Brazilian as a bit of a personal hero. What a cruel twist of fate that I died in Corsica a mere five days after he died in Imola… I suppose Italy was not where you’d want to be in 1994 as a racing driver. Back to the current season, it seemed that Michael Schumacher’s streak of bad luck had come to an end. Normally I’d not tend to be this much of a coward when it came to winning or losing, but turning on the TV just to see the German snag pole position from Häkkinen’s grasp—something in me refused to bear witness to that moment. Even though I knew Häkkinen would be the last person to act visibly upset at such an outcome. When I finally rose, after being distracted by thoughts about this young driver whom people called the “Flying Finn” for a bit longer than I would have liked, I saw that the manager of the diner—the one directly above me in this chain of command I found myself in—was already up. Aurelian. A name with connotations of golden grandeur. This being that currently lives confined to the same space as me is anything but grand, however, being a fallen angel with a broken halo and all. There is no telling if it is a man or a woman—I suppose it is something beyond that, which is only natural. It has this air of forced cheer around itself. I do not envy its position. Aurelian offered to make me breakfast, a gesture I appreciated for its friendliness and accepted out of curiosity. The omelette, a simple and near universal dish across human cuisines, had turned out quite different under this one’s hands. I had been making it a game out of trying to guess which amount of what condiment Aurelian poured into the scrambled eggs, without observing the cooking process. There had always been too much sugar. This time around, though, to my surprise, the final product tasted… more or less normal. Perhaps the being had noticed my grimace when I took a bite of its food these past couple days. That was a grander display of empathy than what I had shown to a lot of my past coworkers. Over breakfast and coffee, Aurelian informed me that starting today, the diner needed to be ready to accommodate supernatural guests. Fine by me, since it wasn’t my job to serve them, and I didn’t mind working with devilish foods. That said, the first supernatural event of the day was not the arrival of any special guest, but a new member of the cooking team. The old one who emerged through a dark, bubbling portal in the pantry wore the disguise of a uniquely fashionable young woman, but the animal part of my soul sensed her ancient, albeit faded, claim to power. So when she asked me to bow, I instinctively lowered my head, despite my nominal superiority. She seemed pleased, which was a fine enough outcome. Spurred by an acute awareness of my responsibilities, I offered to help her familiarize with the kitchen setup, yet she was adamant that she would not accept any form of guidance from one as lowly as me. The more wounded one’s pride, the more eagerly one would feel compelled to protect it. I could understand that. After all employees had arrived at the diner, we had a call with the boss man, through the TV. Duke Egelon’s old nanny, a madam of gluttony, was to visit, as well as a food critic from the Marlowe Gazette. I found my eyes drifting toward Solomon as the call went on, but he seemed too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice. There was no time to waste on feather-light anxieties. A new shipment was arriving, and I went to the backdoor of the diner to receive it. Unlike before, the delivery truck that puttered down the road exuded Hellish influence, with a wreath of flame dancing around its strangely proportioned length. While I had never really been educated in trucks, I couldn’t help but feel mesmerized by this one: its beastlike approach, at once heavy and lithe; the guttural purrs of the engine, the threat of a caged fury. I had to mentally shake myself awake to greet the driver, an impressively built demon of the Wastes, who all but lifted me up into the air when he grabbed my hand for a firm handshake. This was something I had yet to get used to, despite my extended exposure to creatures beyond mortal coils—my own smallness, frailty, almost translucency, in the face of beings truer and grounded in deeper soil than me. The delivery driver, Mucky, turned out to be quite pleasant and genuine; the part of me that got captivated by his truck also saw in him a potential friend. Yet I could not say the same for the contents of the shipment. Everything else was fine enough, from regular supplies to devilish ingredients, but the concerningly large crate of applesauce… I must admit I was stunned. Could barely think of what to do with them. Something about it reminded me of that one time in Uzbekistan, when I had to hide in organic fertilizer to avoid capture. I didn’t even know how I made the connection. Something about the quantity, the consistency, the connotation with agriculture… I gathered myself to discuss potential options with Aurelian, before sending Jonny off on a grocery shopping trip. Jonny is a good kid. Still quite a few years younger than me compared to when I died, and far less dependable, yet I couldn’t help but feel a certain degree of similarity between us. An elegant devil and a fellow coworker at the diner, Leslie, is contracted to him, and the two of them are living together at the moment. I hope they are getting along. It’s never easy to share your life with someone else, let alone someone with a completely different nature. I returned to my post within the kitchen, and worked alongside Isha, the ancient one. To my relief, she was proving herself to be more than competent in her role. I took a deep breath, and devoted myself to preparing a meal that might stand to satisfy the appetite of a devil from the Circle of Gluttony.