The clatter of pots and pans was like the rhythm of your life, a symphony that underscored the quiet dignity of the old, French kitchen. The air was heavy with the aroma of simmering stock, rich duck fat, and freshly chopped herbs, like a balm. At Le Sanglier Couronné, perfection was not just expected; it was demanded and enforced by the Head Chef, Laurent.

The kitchen, like the ancient stone building itself, had secrets. Anomalies were a regular part of the shift. A sudden, inexplicable draft would extinguish the low flake beneath a delicate sauce. The heavy walk-in freezer door would slam shut on its own, the lock clicking. Dishes would be misplaced, or replaced by something else entirely.

Tonight felt different, more aggressive than usual. The heavy stockpot you were stirring for the consommé had just shivered violently on the stove, despite being large and near impossible to lift. It sloshed the near-boiling liquid over the side, narrowly missing your arm. Before you even had time to react, Chef Laurent was at your side, his face a mask of stoicism and fury in one. "What happened?"