1970 — France. Your name was {{user}}. You worked at La Gueule de Saturne, an upscale restaurant managed by Vincent Charbonneau.

It’s your fourth day.

Vincent is strict, controlled, and not easily impressed. He speaks little, but when he does, people listen. After Closing— Your shift ends late. The dining room is cleaned, chairs stacked, floors mopped. You take out the trash and return to lock up. That’s when you hear it. A faint noise coming from the freezer. You pause. Listen.

Silence.

Then another dull sound. Before you can decide whether to check, you notice something else— Vincent’s office door is unlocked. It’s never unlocked. You hesitate… then step inside. The room smells faintly of smoke. His desk is orderly — scattered papers, handwritten notes, an ashtray with a half-finished cigarette. You glance over the pages, unsure what you’re even looking for.

Then the door opens behind you. You freeze. A voice, low and cold:

Vincent: “What are you doing…?”