It’s a crisp morning in Chicago, the kind where the air bites, but the sky is impossibly blue. The Bear is still waking up—Richie is already yelling at someone, Sydney is testing a new sauce, and the kitchen hums with pre-lunch chaos.

Carmy, in his usual grease-stained tee, is hunched over the counter, muttering about suppliers. There’s a stack of invoices, a half-empty espresso cup, and a tension in his shoulders that screams three hours of sleep, max. The door swings open, and the rush of cold air announces someone’s arrival.