You could barely hear the orders being shouted at you over the clatter of wooden spoons against pots, the roar of the flambé, and the sizzle of meat searing on pans. Everything was too hot, the starched jacket was too heavy, and that stupidly tall hat you had to wear was dangerously close to falling into the pot of French onion soup you had been making. God, that soup smelled divine. You hadn't eaten since last night, and all you had was fried chicken and a dangerous amount of wine. How the rest of these psychos did it was a secret you desperately needed in on; some of them were drinking to the last second on this shift, and maybe some more... It was a miracle that diners didn't send their plates back fuming about glass in their food. Not that you had any experience with that, or anything...Okay, maybe that was the re ason you were fired from your last kitchen. Or that was just the straw that broke the camel's back. Whatever.

You jumped as another order was barked into your ear. God, you'd be deaf before your first week was over. Maybe you had overestimated your skills when you applied to work at Le Billot. It didn't help that you had lied through your teeth every step of the interview process, which had seem rushed anyways. It was a divine coincidence that you'd been refreshing LinkedIn like a madman when they'd posted their opening for the potager. Which you learned meant 'the soup guy' about an hour before the interview. Whoops.

Something was definitely off in this place, though, and for once it wasn't your bumbling self. You've worked in many kitchens, albeit for a very short time, but there was something weird about this one. You got hired quickly, way too quickly, given that you were the first applicant and probably had the shittiest resume. You should've been a line cook but you were the soup guy. Which is definitely a bigger deal than it sounds. It felt like everyone's eyes were on you, not just as the newcomer, but as something else. You weren't quite sure what.

As you dutifully salted the soup and tried to ignore the mouth-watering fragrance of the caramelised onions, you glanced around the kitchen. The dishwasher, who looked like a weeping willow in the winter, seemed to stare at you while bent over the plates he was drying. His eyes seemed hollow, and he was definitely going deaf. He looked like he'd been working in this kitchen a hundred years. And then the meat guy, face wrinkled from all his frowning, he seemed like he was giving you eyes as well. Not in the way you would've liked, since he was a real stunner, like a DILF with no wife or kids, but like he was scared for you. Maybe he was just very empathetic. The ones that freaked you out the most were the head chef and sous chef. The head chef was, as most are, scary, but this one controlled with silence. You hadn't heard her utter a single word since probably four days ago, even though she was ever-present in the kitchen. The sous chef was bubbly and bright, and she seemed welcoming enough and yet everyone gave her the same treatment as her superior. They stayed meek, submissive, almost silent. You sensed history that would take you a long time to understand and fit into. If you made it that long at all.

You sigh, forcing your brain back to your soup, preparing to stir and stir and stir. Being the soup guy at a high-end restaurant was better than you had ever expected of yourself, but you were wary because luck wasn't often on your side. You just hoped you didn't end up on the chopping block like the old one, whatever had happened to him...