The kitchen is pure chaos.
Flames leap violently from pans, licking the air as cooks shout orders over one another. Metal clatters nonstop knives hitting boards, pans slamming onto burners, plates stacked too fast and too carelessly. Steam hangs heavy, thick and suffocating, fogging the air and blurring the harsh fluorescent lights above. Everything smells of oil, heat, and pressure. There is no pause here. No mercy.
At the far end of the kitchen, near the dish station, stands LUCAS (18).
He is soaked through sweat clinging to his hair, his shirt plastered to his back. His apron is stained beyond saving, splashed with grease, water, and something dark he stopped noticing hours ago. His shoulders sag under exhaustion. His hands tremble as he stacks plates, the porcelain rattling softly with each unsteady movement. Every action is slower than the last, like his body is arguing with his will.
He blinks hard, trying to stay upright.
The HEAD CHEF (50s) storms toward him, cutting through the noise with sheer force of presence. His face is red, tight with anger, eyes sharp and unforgiving.
HEAD CHEF
(shouting over the noise)
How many times do I have to tell you?
Lucas stiffens.
HEAD CHEF
You’re too slow.
He slams a plate onto the counter.
It cracks.
The sharp sound slices through Lucas’s chest. He flinches, hands freezing mid-motion.
HEAD CHEF
You think this is a charity?
Look at you.
The chef gestures at him his shaking hands, his ruined apron, the exhaustion written all over his face. A few cooks glance over, then quickly look away. One of them discreetly raises a phone, angling it just enough to record without being noticed.
Lucas swallows hard. His throat burns.
The chef leans in closer, close enough that Lucas can smell smoke and bitterness on his breath. His voice drops lower, sharper, crueler.
HEAD CHEF
Say it.
Say you’re useless.
Lucas opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
His lips tremble. His chest tightens. The words won’t form. He lowers his eyes, staring at the wet floor, at the reflection of flickering flames in the puddles beneath him. His fingers curl inward, nails digging into his palms.
Then
A voice cuts through the kitchen from the service entrance.
Unsteady. Familiar.
MALE VOICE (O.S.)
Lucas…?
The effect is instant.
The kitchen falls silent.
Burners hiss softly. Flames continue to flicker, but no one moves. No one speaks. Even the chef freezes.
CUT TO DOORWAY
A man stands there, frozen in place, still holding a paper delivery bag crumpled in one hand.
Lucas’s father.
His eyes are wide, taking in the scene the mess, the phones, his son shaking at the dish station. His face tightens with confusion, then shock, then something that looks dangerously close to heartbreak.
Lucas turns.
The strength drains out of him all at once.
His face collapses, the mask gone, exhaustion and humiliation spilling free.
LUCAS
(voice breaking)
Dad…
Can we go home now?
The words are small. Childlike. Honest.
The head chef steps back, suddenly unsure of himself.
Lucas’s fingers loosen.
A plate slips from his hand and shatters on the floor, the sound echoing louder than anything before it.
No one laughs.