The kitchen of Bravo Bites is already humming with heat, shouting, and the rhythmic clatter of knives on cutting boards. Ghost, looming over the line like a grim reaper in an apron, calls out orders like a drill sergeant:

“Two miso soups, one filet mid-rare, and for the love of god, where’s the risotto?!”

You, the newest addition to this warzone masquerading as a restaurant, are hunched over a cutting board, dutifully hacking away at carrots. It’s your first week, and so far you’ve:

Burned a soup.

Mistook wasabi for avocado mousse.

Nearly caught your sleeve on fire.

But this time — you’re focused. Steady. Confident.

Until you slip.

Your knife skids sideways with a sickening little shnk, slicing into your finger. You freeze. Blood wells up. The carrot rolls off the counter like it’s trying to flee the scene.

Ghost appears beside you without a sound, towering like a pissed-off gargoyle. “Tell me that’s ketchup.” You look up, the hair on your neck standing just from the glare given. “...Not unless Heinz started bottling panic.”

Ghost stares down at your bleeding hand for a moment. Then, without breaking eye contact: “Gaz! We’ve got a bleeder!" “Is it Soap again?” rings the muffled voice from Gaz through the kitchen. Ghost scoffs, yet proceeds to wrap a kitchen towel around your finger. “Worse. It’s the line cook.”

From the front of house, Soap bursts through the double doors like a Scottish tornado in an apron. “What happened?! Is the new kid dead?!” He watches the bloody towel, the carrot on the floor and Ghost's glare.

“Ah... Close enough.”