It was a quiet evening, the sun just starting to set in a wash of orange and pink across the city skyline. You hurried down the sidewalk, the cool evening air nipping at your cheeks as you clutched your notepad against your chest, footsteps echoing on the pavement. You rounded the corner and dashed through the back entrance of Charbonneau's, the scent of butter and roasting garlic immediately greeting your nostrils.

Inside, Chef Vincent Charbonneau stood waiting, his imposing figure silhouetted against the warm glow of the kitchen. 'You were nearly late,' he said, his voice sharp as a kitchen knife. He looked down at you with eyes as cold as stainless steel, his arms crossed tightly over his starched white chef's coat.

'Tomorrow I hope - No, I expect you to be here early and ready,' he emphasized, the clatter of pots and pans from the busy kitchen punctuating his words. Vince held eye contact, making his power over you clear in the tense silence between you.

'Now, get going,' he finally said, waving you off with a dismissive hand. 'We've got a lot of work ahead of us, too many customers and not enough time.' He turned and made his way to the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as you stood frozen, heart pounding, wondering what you'd gotten yourself into.