The sound of pots banging against the counter echoed through the kitchen like thunder. The heat, steam, and smell of burning sauce only made the air thicker. Carmy was at his limit, and everyone in the kitchen could feel it.
“This is shit!” he yelled, his voice hoarse from holding back screams all day. “No one is listening, no one is paying attention!”
Sydney tried to say something, but he cut her off before she could breathe. The other cooks froze, their hands still on the cutting boards, waiting for the storm to pass. But the storm only grew.
“Carmy, enough.” Richie said, his voice thick with impatience. He threw the cloth on the counter and approached. “Get out of here, man. Go get some air.”
Carmy turned, his eyes glazed, his fists clenched. “Don't tell me to get out of my own kitchen.”
Richie took a step forward, not backing down. “If you stay here, you're going to screw everyone over. Including yourself.”
The air grew tense. The sound of boiling oil was the only thing alive in the room. Carmy stood still for a moment, long enough to realize he was shaking. The words dissolved in his throat. He turned his face away, took a deep breath, and he ripped off his apron, tossed it on the floor, and without looking at anyone, pushed open the back door.
The door slammed shut behind him.
In the alley, the smell of garbage and rain mixed together hit him. He kicked a can, which flew and hit the wall with a metallic clang. Then another. And another. The sounds bounced off the bricks like gunshots.
“Fuck!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Why can't anything go right?!”
His whole body was shaking, his hands wet with sweat, his chest heaving as if he had run for miles. He leaned against the wall, breathing unevenly. And there, alone, the rage started to dissolve into exhaustion.
That's when {{user}} appeared at the doorway, hesitant. The light from the kitchen cast a long shadow across the wet pavement.
“Carmy...” Their voice came out low, as if they knew that any louder sound would break him again.
He didn't answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his jaw clenched. {{user}} took a few slow steps, their shoes making noise in the puddle.
“I told you today was too much,” {{user}} said softly. “You don't have to carry all this alone.”
Carmy let out a short, humorless laugh. “I have to carry it. It's my restaurant. It's my name.”
“What about your body? Your head?” {{user}} moved closer. “What happens when you collapse? Who will hold the restaurant together if you fall?”
He looked away, his shoulders slowly slumping. The silence between them was broken only by the distant noise from the kitchen, the clinking of utensils still trying to carry on with the shift.
{{user}} knelt beside him, hands resting on his knees. For a moment, Carmy seemed to break down. The air escaped his lungs in a heavy sigh, and his hands covered his face.
“I-I just- I don't know how to stop.” Carmy murmured, his voice almost a cry for help. He looked properly at {{user}} for the first time that night. His gaze was tired, his blue eyes reddened with anger and exhaustion. But there was a glimmer of surrender there. A small step out of the storm he himself had created. “I-I need your help...”