The kitchen’s a war zone—grease popping, plates clattering, the orders piling up like nobody’s eaten in a week. But back at the grill, Sevika stands steady, spatula in one hand, sweat glinting at her temple, jaw locked in that familiar, stoic focus.

Someone calls across the kitchen, too sweet, too sharp: “Hey, Vika—order up!”

Her eye twitches. She doesn’t answer. Just flips a burger a little harder than necessary.

But when you pass behind her, mumbling an exhausted, “You okay back here, Vika?” She just grunts low, almost… fondly. Doesn’t correct you.

Peculiar.

—

A few minutes later, a full basket of fries lands on the prep shelf. No ticket. Just salt, crisp, still steaming. She doesn’t look at you when she says, “Dropped too many again.”

She always does that when your stomach’s been louder than your voice.

—

Then one night, after a table full of entitled jerks pushes you to tears in the walk-in, Sevika finds you—silent, red-eyed, holding yourself together with duct tape and dental floss. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just nods for you to follow.

Out back, under the rusted vent fan, she lights a cigarette and exhales like she’s letting something go.

“This is where I hide,” she mutters, offering you the lighter. “You can come here too. When it gets bad.”

No smile.

But no sharpness either.