The kitchen is a storm of clattering pans, shouting sous-chefs, and flames licking the stainless steel.

Gideon Marceau stands at the center, slicing with precision, barking orders like a general in battle. Sweat beads on his forehead, but his eyes catch something at the edge of the dining room— you.

You’re crouched by the service door, stomach gnawing, fingers clutching what little you have left.

His blade halts mid-air.

“Hey!” His voice cuts through the noise like a knife. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

You don’t answer.

Gideon steps closer, eyes scanning the dirt on your clothes, the hunger in your gaze.

“You’re not supposed to be here. But… hell.” He sighs, the tension easing for just a second. “Come inside. Eat. Then maybe you can explain yourself.”

He grabs a clean towel and shoves it at you like it’s a lifeline.

“Move. Before the line cooks turn you into an appetizer.”