As we step into the kitchen, a wave of nostalgia crashes over me, dragging me back to my old days of kitchen work.
The overwhelming noise surrounds me like a relentless storm—the clang of metal, the sharp commands shouted from every direction. The air is thick with the scent of sizzling meat, boiling broth, and fresh bread.
The floor is slick beneath my feet, forcing me to step carefully. The suffocating heat clings to my skin, coating me in sweat almost instantly.
It's all too familiar.
A chaotic symphony of organized madness.
The most striking presence in the room is the giant, muscular figure manning the grill. A sheep Furren, with curved horns rising from his head, his frame imposing—muscles bulging as he works, glistening with sweat.
He moves like a machine, flipping gigantic skewers over a roaring charcoal grill. The thick iron bars glow red-hot, flames leaping and twisting, sparks flying with every slam of the meat.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Each skewer hits the grill with force, his eyes locked onto the fire, focused with a primal intensity.
Across from him, a sheep Furren woman commands a row of five enormous pots, steam rising around her like a dense fog. She moves with effortless precision, constantly stirring, tasting, adjusting, her fingers adding pinches of spices without hesitation.
Her damp hair clings to her forehead, but her hands never stop, her movements as precise as clockwork.
At another station, a younger sheep Furren works at blinding speed, her knife flashing as she slices vegetables with machine-like precision.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.
The sound is so fast, it's almost hypnotic—a rhythm faster than a drumbeat.
Behind her, another Furren whirls between ovens, pulling out tray after tray of freshly baked pies. As soon as he plates them, he darts to the side, whipping up milkshakes in a blur of motion.
And then—
The waitresses storm in and out of the kitchen.
"WALKIN IN! TWO SKEWERS, TWO POTATO CREAM STEWS, GREEN SALAD—ALL LARGE—TABLE FIVE!"
"WALKIN IN! FIVE FILOAN DRUMSTICKS, TWO MILKSHAKES—TABLE TWO!"
The orders crash in like waves, relentless, one after the other, non-stop.
In the far corner, the dishwashing station is manned by three figures—a wolf Furren and two muscular humans. Their arms move like machines, scrubbing and rinsing an endless supply of dirty dishes.
Yup.
This is just like a kitchen on Earth.
Noisy. Hot. Chaotic.
It's hell.
But that's the beauty of it.
This is the sign of a truly bustling business, where chaos fuels efficiency, and speed is everything.
Lilly gestures around. "As you can see, my whole family works here."
She points to the grill. "My biggest brother is on meat."
To the stews. "My mom handles the soup."
Then the salad and dessert stations. "And my elder siblings cover prep and plating."
Her voice is proud, but there's a flicker of exhaustion too.
"It may seem like a lot—and it is—but we're all used to it. We've tried hiring extra hands, but most of them quit. They just… couldn't handle the workload. Even though we pay them well."
I nod, understanding immediately.
Every single person here moves with razor-sharp efficiency.
No second wasted. No hesitation. No room for error.
Kitchens are one of the hardest, most stressful places to work.
If you're not ready for it, you won't last a single shift.
But me?
I am ready.
I feel my blood pumping, the old fire from my kitchen days stirring in my veins.
I want this.
"Alright, follow me carefully," Lilly says, leading us through the organized chaos of the kitchen to a quieter room at the back.
The moment she pushes open the door, we're greeted by an intimidating presence.
A giant, muscular sheep Furren sits behind a sturdy wooden table, his sheer size filling the space. His arms are thick, bulging with muscle, built from years of grueling kitchen work. His beard is slightly singed, likely from working too close to the flames. Beside him, a large bottle of something suspiciously alcoholic rests on the table.
His stern expression is made even sharper by his piercing eyes, which land on me like a spotlight.
I freeze.
For a second, I feel incredibly small under his gaze.
But—
Eris is completely unfazed.
"Sup, old man. How are you doing?" she says casually, like she's greeting an old friend rather than an absolute unit of a man.
The giant grins, his sharp teeth flashing. "Ey, Eris!" His booming voice practically shakes the walls. "Didn't know you were interested in working in my kitchen!"
"Not her, Dad," Lilly chimes in with a grin, jerking her thumb toward me. "It's Felicia here."
His thick brows lift, and then he leans forward, lowering his massive body to get a closer look at me. His squinting gaze roves over me, scanning me like he's trying to figure out what, exactly, I am.
Then, with a deep, hearty laugh, he shakes his head. "Ahh, sorry about that! You're so small I almost missed you!"
I flinch.
Okay. Ouch.
The laughter rumbles through the room, as if it has a physical weight of its own.
"Name's Gordon. Nice to meet you!"
I hesitate for a brief second before reaching out, taking his massive, calloused hand in mine. The grip is firm, his skin rough, a testament to years of hard labor.
"I'm Felicia. Nice to meet you too, Mr. Gordon!" I say, forcing as much confidence into my voice as I can.
His grin fades, replaced by a more serious expression.
"So, you really want to work in the kitchen?" His tone is sharper now. "It's tough work, you know?"
I already know what this is.
He's testing me.
Sizing me up.
Doubting me.
I refuse to let him look down on me.
"I don't mind at all!" I straighten my back, forcing a determined smile. "I'd like to apply for the vegetable-chopping position, please!"
Gordon hums, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Hmmm. You sure about that? You don't exactly look like someone who can handle the heat of a kitchen. Maybe waitress work would suit you better?"
I bristle at the suggestion.
"Yeah, I think you should try being a waitress, Felicia," Eris chimes in, her voice gentle—but I can tell she's not fully convinced about my decision.
No.
No way.
I don't want that.
I can't do that.
The thought of working front-of-house makes my stomach churn.
After what happened with those drunk bastards earlier, the idea of constantly interacting with strangers?
Absolutely not.
I won't risk another situation like that.
Even if the kitchen is hotter, harder, and more exhausting, it's still safer.
"I love cooking! I want to be in the kitchen, please!" I declare, standing as tall as I can. My heart pounds, but I refuse to back down.
Gordon leans back, crossing his arms. He's still not convinced.
"Sorry if this sounds rude, but you don't seem like the type for this kind of work…"
"Please."
I clench my fists at my sides, eyes burning with determination.
"I may not look strong, but I'm really good at chopping things! Don't underestimate me!"
For a moment, silence stretches between us.
Then, I take a deep breath.
"Test me!" I say boldly, surprising even myself. "Please, give me a chance to prove it!"
Gordon stares at me.
Then—
A deep rumbling chuckle escapes him.
"Alright then. I like your attitude."
He turns to Lilly.
"Lilly, bring me a knife and some vegetables. Let's see what this girl's got."