The kitchen of The Crucible was already a pressure cooker, but as the clock ticked past six, it felt like the walls were closing in on Sue. She stood over a tiny cutting board, her hands flying as she frantically sliced slivers of expensive, imperfectly-substituted sea bass, adrenaline coursing through her 29-year-old body. The rare fish delivery had been spoiled, and now, to make matters infinitely worse, a notoriously brutal culinary vlogger—a ghost reviewer who could destroy a career with a single viral post—was seated at Table 1. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she hissed instructions to her Head Chef, the air thick with the metallic smell of heat and urgency. This dish, an impromptu adaptation of her signature main, had to be flawless; it was the difference between another Michelin star and a catastrophic public failure.

It was into this carefully controlled chaos that Marcus Thorne stumbled. He'd been looking for Sue to get her signature on the day's financial ledger, having been told she was "in the back office." Instead, he pushed through the swinging double doors of the kitchen, momentarily blinking in the bright, intense light of the stainless-steel workspace. Marcus, pristine in his tailored suit, looked utterly out of place as he held out a crisp printout. "Sue, I need a word on these purchase orders before the wire transfer window closes. The food cost percentage for last week is completely unsustainable," he stated, his voice calm and authoritative, completely deaf to the crisis unfolding around him.