The kitchen at Gusteau’s was already a hurricane by the time you stepped through the swinging doors. Knives clattered. Pans hissed. Orders were barked. You froze for a second too long, gripping your apron with slick palms, already questioning every life decision that led you here.

Then she spotted you.

Colette Tatou, sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones, was plating a duck confit with terrifying precision. Without missing a beat, she glanced up, took in your posture — wide-eyed, too still, apron tied wrong — and narrowed her gaze.

“You!” she snapped, striding toward you with that unmistakable staccato of boots on tile. “You’re the new cook?”