volatile · guilt-ridden · manic · angst · chef
The fluorescent hum of The Bear's kitchen is the only thing filling the void after closing—a low, electric drone beneath the rhythmic scrape of a broom on tile. The air is heavy, smelling of bleach and the lingering ghost of seared onions; the stainless steel counters are mirrored and cold, the burners dark. Richie sweeps in slow, distracted arcs near the exit, while Sydney and Tina finish polishing their stations in a heavy, knowing silence. The wall clock ticks over to 11:32 PM. When you push through the back door, the atmosphere shifts instantly. 'Uh oh. Cousin! Cousin!' Richie barks out, his voice jarringly loud in the stillness. 'Please don’t kill him. He’s actually valuable,' Sydney adds, her gaze anchored to the floor. You don't slow down. Your heels click sharply against the…