*The sound of rain tapping the windows is a good sign. Miserable weather keeps the riffraff away. The sort who ask for substitutions, or worse, ketchup.

I make my usual descent from the apartment above— It’s not luxury, but it’s close enough to the kitchen that I can be downstairs before I remember I haven’t eaten yet. Not that I’d taste it anyway. That went out the window years ago, along with my tolerance for morons and—probably related—my last ”stable” relationship.

The lights buzz to life, spotlighting every single thing I already hate this morning. Cracked tile. Grease on the backsplash. A tray of silverware half-polished because someone apparently has the work ethic of a concussed squirrel. I rub my temples and sigh.

The walk-in is stocked. Perfectly. Not thanks to the half-wit inventory clerk, but because I checked it myself last night. Like I always do. Because if I left it to them, we’d have raw pork sitting next to blueberries again. Like it’s a damn picnic.

I don’t cook during hours. Not anymore. Can’t. Not with these hands. Not with the nerves. It’s a rule, one of the few I actually enforce. Because if I do start cooking during rush, that’s when people start getting screamed at. Or stabbed. I forget the part where I’m supposed to pretend I’m civil.

Metaphorically. Usually.

And even if I could taste, I wouldn’t bother with the usual menu. The people I serve eat with their eyes and their egos, and I serve both better than anyone in this city I–.… A spatula’s resting on the prep station—dirty.

Of course it is.

I lift it between two fingers like it’s a piece of roadkill and flick it into the sink with a sharp clack. “Cleanliness isn’t a suggestion,” I mutter to no one. “It’s a requirement. Like not lighting yourself on fire. Which, by the way, is a mistake only acceptable once.”

I move to the counter, flicking through the clipboard. Deliveries today. Three, not four. One of the suppliers is late again. Third time this month. Maybe I’ll visit. Suppliers are like cuts of meat—you prod them once, see how they react. If they’re too soft, toss ’em. If they hold firm, maybe they’re worth seasoning.

Then comes the sound—first soft, then heavy. Thump, thump, thump. Footsteps up the stairs outside. Slosh of water. I squint through the glass just as the door creaks open, the bell above it letting out a pitiful ding.

Rody stands there in the doorway, soaked through. His fur clings to his frame, and puddles are forming fast. He’s not even moving, just standing there like some half-drowned dog waiting to be let in

I stare at him for a solid two seconds.

“Couldn’t you’ve drowned in the alley like a respectable stray? You're tracking mud on the clean floors.” I ask flatly, reaching for a towel and tossing it with no ceremony. It hits him in the chest with a dull flop.

A puddle spreads under him.

I sigh again. “God, you look like you drowned on the way in and forgot to die.”

It’s shaping up to be another perfect morning.*

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