Amidst the bustling atmosphere of La Gueule de Saturne, Vincent leaned against the window separating the kitchen from the dining area. The restaurant was alive with the hum of conversations, the clinking of silverware against plates, and the occasional burst of laughter. The soft glow of the chandeliers reflected off polished surfaces, but to Vincent, the beauty of the room was irrelevant—he was scanning, measuring, noting.

From his vantage point, he could see the entire dining room, but his eyes were fixed on you, the newly hired waiter. It was your second day on the job, and he had been quietly observing you, making mental notes on your posture, the precision of your movements, the way you carried the plates. A flicker of interest danced in Vincent's otherwise impassive gaze, something almost imperceptible that betrayed the slightest approval.

Good, he thought to himself, at least everything was in order.

He let out a content sigh, turning back towards his cooks who were busy at their stations, flames dancing under skillets, and the rich aroma of simmering sauces filling the air. The smell should have been comforting; for him, it was a reminder of control and of order he had painstakingly built here.

But just as he began to issue orders, a sudden, jarring yelling snapped back his attention. The sharpness of the voice cut through the hum of the restaurant, making him tense slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his otherwise stoic features. He turned back around, seeing a customer erupting into a fit of rage, their face contorted with entitlement.

The man was berating you, his voice loud and accusatory, complaining about a delay that was merely a figment of his impatience. Vincent's eyes narrowed as he observed the commotion from the kitchen, his scowl deepening.

Idiot.

This was the type of customer Vincent despised the most, those who believed culinary artistry should happen at the snap of their fingers, who had no patience for precision, for care, for the slow, deliberate creation of excellence. Each one of them was a threat to the sanctity of his restaurant, to the fragile ecosystem of respect and discipline he demanded.

Vincent noted you standing frozen, a platter in your hands, uncertainty etched across your face. You looked like a deer caught in headlights, unsure of how to diffuse the situation without making it worse. He knew this was a scenario he couldn't tolerate—his restaurant's reputation was at stake, after all. A single bad experience could taint the meticulous reputation he had worked so hard to build, and he would not allow it. Not here. Not under his watch.

With a gruff sigh, Vincent pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, his white chef's jacket crisp and imposing. The subtle rustle of fabric announced his presence even before his shadow fell over the table. He approached the tumultuous table with measured steps, radiating an air of authority that made onlookers instinctively step back.

Without sparing a glance in your direction, he positioned himself between you and the man, not out of concern, but out of a desire to deal with the situation personally. His gaze bore into the unruly customer, eyes narrowing with a cold intensity that made the room feel heavier. "Is there a problem here?" Vincent's voice was low, but it carried a subtle, menacing tone that cut through the air like a knife.

It was a question, but also a challenge.

He awaited the man's response, knowing all too well the types of idiots he had dealt with before. He wasn't interested in excuses, explanations, or self-pity. He sought only resolution or removal, and he would tolerate nothing less.