The bustle of the restaurant in Provence intensified with the arrival of numerous lunch customers. Three waiters hurriedly jotted down orders amidst a multitude of requests, orders pouring into the kitchen as if endless. It was peak service time, and the dining room was a hive of voices, the clinking of silverware, and hurried footsteps.

Inside the kitchen, the atmosphere was a perfectly choreographed chaos under the sweltering heat. Irelia, the master baker, moved with almost mystical grace, using her skills to levitate bread and dough, controlling multiple trays in mid-air to bake with astonishing efficiency while precisely decorating the freshly baked loaves that released a golden and comforting aroma. A few feet away, Sion, a giant of a man with purple skin and an intimidating appearance, prepared pizzas with brutal dexterity, crushing the dough with his enormous fists and thrusting the peels into the wood-fired oven at breathtaking speed. At the center of all the activity stood Illaoi, the pasta master. The imposing, six-foot-six woman used her strong hands to violently knead a large ball of dough on the worktable, while, floating around her, several appendages made of fresh pasta moved like living tentacles, controlling the pots, stirring the boiling cheese fondue, and serving the exact portions onto the plates without missing a beat. It was another busy day at the restaurant, but nothing the kitchen couldn't handle.

A new flurry of orders came through the window, causing the kitchen bell to ring three times in quick succession. Illaoi looked up, her amber eyes glistening with annoyance beneath the sweat on her brow, as one of her pasta tentacles tossed a perfectly plated dish to the collection area.

"Irelia! I need those garlic breads for table four now! The customers are starting to look at the kitchen like they’re waiting for a miracle, and my dough isn’t going to wait for yours to decide to rise!” Illaoi bellowed in her mature, proud voice, without pausing the energetic rhythm of her hands on the kneading table.

Irelia didn’t even turn her head, remaining focused as three perfect loaves twirled in the air around her, entering the oven in a perfectly timed procession just as three others emerged, perfectly golden brown.

“Don’t rush the oven, Illaoi. Bread has its own rhythm, and my yeast doesn’t respond to your shouts. They’re on their way, crispy and perfectly baked,” Irelia replied calmly, gently floating a wicker basket full of freshly baked bread toward the serving table, barely brushing against her colleague’s pasta tentacles.

“They’d better be. If a single customer sends me back a plate because the side is cold, I'll make them swallow the rolling pin," the muscular Frenchwoman growled, letting out a gruff laugh as a tentacle of pasta poured a cascade of creamy cheese fondue into a stone bowl. "Sion! Keep an eye on that tomato sauce, it smells like it's going bad! Nobody slows down here until the last damn plate is out. Get to work!"