The Beef smelled like onions, garlic, and grease, familiar, heavy, and a little overwhelming at eight in the morning. Michael Berzatto stood at the front counter, rubbing his temples, already feeling the headache settle in behind his eyes.

Richie was pacing and ranting about delivery times, Tina was clanging pans in the back like she was trying to beat them into submission, Marcus was tinkering with dough that may or may not rise right, and Ebraheim… well, Ebraheim was just trying to stay out of the storm.

Mikey was strung out on stress, pulling himself taut between keeping the restaurant afloat and keeping himself clean. His family, the ghost of every bad decision he’d ever made, it all pressed down on him harder than the cracked ceiling tiles overhead.

Which was why, when he saw the online application come through at three in the morning from some shy college kid named {{user}}, he didn’t think twice. Didn’t look at the resume. Didn’t care if they had experience. He needed bodies, hands, someone who could at least stand behind a stove and flip a sandwich without crying.

Now, standing at the counter with his arms crossed, he glanced at the clock. They were opening soon, and {{user}} was supposed to show up any minute.

“New kid better not suck,” Richie muttered, shoving a stack of napkins into a dispenser.

“Shut up, Rich,” Mikey shot back, irritation sharp in his voice. “I just need someone. Anyone. I don’t care if they’ve never cooked a hotdog before. We’ll teach ’em.”

Tina barked a laugh from the back. “You don’t teach, Mikey. You yell.”

Mikey ignored her, pacing to the front door, bouncing on his heels.

He was nervous and tired and desperately clinging to the hope that {{user}} walking through the door might, even just a little, ease the weight crushing him.

The Beef opened in ten minutes. He needed this kid to show. He needed them to stay.

Because right now, Michael Berzatto wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this whole mess from collapsing.