I Revived My Maid, Now She Hungers for My Blood
Chapter 300: The Smooth Face

“AAAAAAAH————!!!”

A more piercing, more despairing scream—laced with unspeakable terror—erupted from the rim of the glass! The sound felt like it could shatter every window in the shop!

But in the next instant—everything cut off. Silence.

Because the timid girl had already tilted her head back and, in a single gulp, swallowed the viscous, shifting, screaming thing in that glass.

She even gave her lips a small smack.

Nothing. No reaction. No pain. No mutation. No veins creeping across her face. Nothing at all.

She set the glass down. The base met the tabletop with a crisp “clink.” In the sudden, suffocating silence, it rang out with startling clarity.

I whipped my head toward the waiter, still standing rigid beside their table. His expression—that mask of perfect, untroubled calm—twitched. A minuscule spasm of the muscles. And I could have sworn I read something in the depths of his eyes. Bewilderment? Disbelief?

Even more confused, I turned my gaze back to the two girls in those regulation school uniforms. Who in the hell were they?

……

“Hey, look! Our cake’s here!”

Clara’s voice yanked me out of my fixation on the two girls. I turned my head.

The waiter—the one whose movements had been unnaturally fast before, and who now radiated that stiff, rigid stillness again—was gently placing a white porcelain plate on our table.

On the plate was Clara’s order: “The Dream Honey Cake.” In the menu picture, it truly did look like a dream. Three layers of soft pink chiffon cake, thickly layered with whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberry. The surface was coated in a mirror-smooth pale pink glaze, dotted with silver sugar pearls and edible flower petals.

But the “cake” that sat in front of me in reality… the so-called cake layers had a texture more like air-dried sponges, riddled with countless tiny black pits. The “whipped cream” wasn’t smooth and white, but showed a translucent, jelly-like quality—while faintly, slowly… crawling. The surface glaze looked less like a glossy coating and more like a half-congealed film of slime, catching the chandelier’s light with a greasy sheen.

What made my scalp prickle most were the “decorations.” Those silver “sugar pearls,” on closer inspection, resembled the compound eyes of some sort of insect. And the “edible petals,” their edges curled in, their color dull and dark like dried scraps of human skin…

The cake in Clara’s eyes was clearly exactly as she’d imagined—perfect, enticing. She let out a little “Wow,” her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “This looks so good!”

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She eagerly picked up the silver cutlery on the table. The tip of her knife gently sank into the cake’s surface. A small stream of viscous, milky-white fluid slowly seeped out from the cut. It carried a smell… an indescribable blend of cloying sweetness and a faint, gamy tang. Like spoiled milk mixed with some putrid sugary thing.

And the waiter—still standing beside our table—was staring fixedly at Clara. His face bore a rigid, grotesque smile, the corners of his mouth stretched practically to his ears. What was he waiting for? Waiting for her to take a bite? Waiting for her to become another permanent fixture of this street?

I looked at that eerie smile on his face. I looked at Clara, who had already sliced off a small piece and was lifting it with her fork, about to put it in her mouth…

In that instant, something slammed violently into my brain. A ringing filled my ears.

No. No way. I couldn’t let her eat it.

I couldn’t let her become the next one. Turned into one of those forever-wandering diners. Even if the cost was exposing everything about myself. Even if she thought I was insane. Even if she hated me for it. Pushed me away.

“STOP!!!”

I heard a hoarse roar tear itself from my throat. My body moved faster than thought. I practically launched myself from my seat, pouring every ounce of strength into slapping her fork-hand away!

Smack!

The silver fork flew from her grip, arcing through the air to clatter against the adjacent wall with a sharp, ringing sound. The cake flew off too, splattering onto the white tile floor.

The “smooth” cream and the jelly-like substance, once broken apart, looked like crushed insect eggs.

The white, viscous cream—it really did resemble a clutch of tiny white maggots coming to life. They rapidly squirmed out from the broken cake layers, skittering at shocking speed for the gaps between the floor tiles before vanishing into them. Leaving behind only a pool of rapidly drying, darkly stained residue.

Clara was utterly stunned by my sudden, violent outburst. Frozen in place. She stayed locked in that fork-lifting posture, her face instantly going pale, her eyes first showing pure shock, then flooding with hurt and fury.

“W-What are you doing?!” Her voice trembled, from the shock, and from the humiliation of being publicly shamed.

I didn’t explain. I knew any explanation would just sound like utter madness to her.

I seized her wrist—still frozen in mid-air. She winced in pain, stifling a grunt, struggling to pull free. “Let go of me! Are you insane?!” She was screaming now, tears edging her voice.

At the surrounding tables, the other diners turned their heads toward the sudden commotion. I paid them no heed.

I stared straight into her eyes. I was practically shouting, trying to warn her, to drill into her what I was seeing. “You can’t eat it! Those things are not food!”

“Don’t you see it?! That street! Those vendors! That food! It’s all fake! All of it! Monsters!”

“The cake is made of bugs! The milkshake was screaming!”

“If you eat it, you’ll turn into one of them! You’ll forget everything! You’ll be stuck here forever!”

“Clara! Look at me! Just trust me this once! Just this once!”

My voice, in that supposed-to-be-warm and quiet dessert parlor, sounded so jarring. So piercing. So horribly out of place. Like a saw ripping right through the false peace blanketing this place.

Clara was stunned silent by my outburst. She looked at my face—twisted by agitation and fear. At my bloodshot eyes. Her lips trembled, like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

And all around us… dead silence.

The low hum of conversation. The soft clink of cutlery. Even the faint music playing in the background. In that single moment—all of it vanished.

It was a complete, suffocating silence.

I sensed something. Slowly, I turned my stiff neck, looking around.

Every diner, every single one, had stopped moving. They turned their heads, uniformly, in our direction.

And their faces… were blank. Not expressionless. Truly blank. Those earlier hollow features, at least they had some shape, some form. Now… all of it was gone.

Replaced by nothing but smooth, featureless planes.