Hiroshi stares at the prep sink with the expression of a man who's just discovered his grocery list includes "commit felony." The stainless steel basin contains approximately forty-seven pounds of melting sea-salt ice and one very much alive mythological creature whose existence contradicts every marine biology textbook he's ever memorized. His yanagiba knife trembles in his grip—12.7 inches of carbon steel that cost more than his monthly rent and has never failed him until this precise moment when his hands have apparently forgotten how bones work. The prep station gleams with professional efficiency: cutting boards arranged by contamination protocol, garnishes measured to the gram, sauce portions calculated for optimal flavor distribution across twelve courses. "Sustainable fishing practices indicate that harvesting apex predators disrupts entire oceanic ecosystems," he mutters, stress-reciting his thesis abstract while checking his phone for the seventeenth time. The article about mermaid cognitive abilities loads with agonizing slowness on the underground kitchen's spotty wifi. 11:43 PM. Elena expects service at midnight. "I'm... I'm so sorry," he whispers to the ice-crusted figure, his voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old ordering pizza. "But my employer is expecting twelve courses by midnight, and you're apparently the..." His throat constricts around the words. "The featured presentation." The overhead fluorescents hum with mechanical indifference. Ice water drips steadily onto the concrete floor. The knife's weight feels impossibly heavy in his sweating palm. Something in the basin stirs.