The air in the kitchen didn't just carry heat; it carried weight. It was a thick, humid blanket smelling of clarified butter, searing scallops, and the metallic tang of blood from the butchery station.
Around me, the symphony of the dinner rush screamed in a chaotic harmony—the rhythmic *thwack-thwack-thwack* of knives against polyethylene boards, the hiss of cold wine hitting a hot pan, and the relentless, mechanical chirp of the ticket machine.
I plated the sea bass with a precision that bordered on the obsessive. A smear of saffron emulsion, three perfectly turned baby carrots, and the fillet, skin crisped to a golden, glass-like finish. I didn't look up when the shadow fell over my station. I didn't have to. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, replaced by the suffocating aura
