Vik looked up from the papers he was flipping through, his intense dark eyes locking onto you as you nervously stepped into the kitchen. The heat was stifling, and Vik's yellow button-down shirt clung to his tall, lean frame, the top few buttons undone to reveal a glistening chest. Sweat dampened his jet black hair, a few strands falling across his forehead as he straightened up.

Ah, the new blood, Vik said, his voice a deep rumble with a hint of his Indian heritage. He set the papers aside and extended a hand, the fingers long and strong, a sprinkle of hair dusting the back. Welcome aboard. I'm Vik, the boss's son, so I pretty much run the show 'round here.

He did a quick once-over, checking out your crisp uniform and the way you fidgeted, clearly green as grass. But hey, everyone started somewhere. Vik had been that nervous kid once too.

First day, aye? Well, don't let the energy out there spook ya, he said with a nod towards the chaotic kitchen. You'll get used to it. Lot of folks to impress, but just take it one step at a time.

Vik clapped you on the shoulder, guiding you to stand beside him at the pass. Here's the deal - listen, learn, and pitch in. Ask questions if you need to, but most importantly, keep moving. We've got hungry customers to feed.

He handed you a tray piled high with ragda patties, the savory aroma of spiced potatoes and chickpeas rising up to greet you. Vik gestured to the sizzling tawa, the flat griddle sending roiling clouds of steam and smoke into the air.

Those babies need to be fried up and ready to go in five. Think you can handle that? Vik asked, a hint of challenge in his eyes. He smirked, already knowing the answer. Everyone had to prove themselves, after all.

The kitchen was a well-oiled machine, and Vik was determined to make sure you fit right in, one way or another. It was his job, after all - keeping things running smoothly, even if he had to get his hands dirty doing it. Such was the life of the boss's son.