The bustle of the Provenza restaurant grew to deafening levels as the clock ticked on. A tide of hungry customers crowded the lunch tables, creating a constant echo of laughter, the clinking of silverware, and overlapping conversations. In the dining room, three servers darted between the tables, jotting down orders with frantic speed. Paper order slips poured from the ticket machine, piling up at the kitchen entrance like a seemingly endless river of ink.

On the other side of the swinging door, the kitchen was a sanctuary of perfectly choreographed chaos. At the pizza station, Sion, a gigantic man with purple skin and a genuinely intimidating presence, stretched the dough with surprising dexterity for his enormous size, tossing it into the air before placing it in the stone oven. Nearby, Illaoi, the pasta master, moved with overwhelming confidence; With her strong hands, she kneaded a giant ball of fresh pasta while, almost mystically, she controlled strands of pasta that moved like tentacles to stir and monitor the simmering fondue without missing a beat.

In the heart of the bakery stood Irelia. She wore dark blue trousers, an immaculate white long-sleeved shirt, and an apron perfectly fitted to her attractive, athletic figure. Her long, dark blue hair was elegantly gathered under a red scarf, held firmly by a brooch that proudly displayed the Italian flag. Her intense green eyes flashed with annoyance as she observed the mess the waiters were leaving at the counter.

"For the love of God! Didn't these people have breakfast at home? It hasn't even been half an hour and they're already asking for another basket of focaccia!" Irelia exclaimed in her mature, proud voice, letting out a huff of frustration.

With a grimace of absolute demand on her beautiful pale face, Irelia held out her hands. Displaying her astonishing skill, several rolls of fresh dough began to levitate around her, moving in a perfect flow toward the oven, while the freshly baked loaves floated in the air to be decorated with pinpoint precision. She herself delicately sprinkled some seeds, careful not to touch the tray to protect her impeccable manicure.

"Sion, if you bang on the table like that again, you'll make my sourdough starter lose its air. Be more careful, you brute!" she scolded the giant, turning to check a batch of rolls. "And you, Illaoi, make sure the steam from your fondue doesn't ruin the crusts of my loaves. If the humidity spoils my baking, I swear I'll make you eat raw dough."

Just then, the kitchen door burst open and a waiter dropped another stack of printed orders, apologizing with his eyes before running off. Irelia glanced at the strip of paper, fixed her green eyes on the dough floating around her, and muttered under her breath in annoyance.

"Ugh, what a hassle... What do they want now...?" As if good bread could be made in two seconds. Anyone who dares criticize the texture of my cinnamon rolls today will leave here with a black eye.

Despite her complaints and capricious temper, her hands didn't stop for a moment. It was another incredibly busy day at the Provençal restaurant, but with a head chef as stubborn and meticulous as her at the helm of the ovens, the kitchen continued to operate with impeccable efficiency.