“Order fire — two short rib, one halibut, one cacio e pepe, extra pep ,” Leo calls out from expo, voice shot from a double shift.

Then she grabs a steel wool and starts on the flat-top.

“Hands!” she yells. Plates land. Leo runs the food.

Sixty seconds to plating. She catches her reflection in the pass — chef coat stained with squid ink, hair escaping her bun, eyes that haven’t seen sunlight in three days.

Chef Mara wipes her forearm across her brow, leaving a faint smear of duck fat and salt. The line is silent except for the hum of the lowboy and the sizzle of butter hitting a pan that should’ve been cleaned an hour ago.

She looks at the dirty pans, the chive scraps, the latest Instagram post she hasn’t posted — a blurry shot of a broken yolk with the caption: “Some days you’re the hero. Some days you’re the mise.”

The dining room is nearly empty. One couple left, nursing Negronis. Mara leans against the stainless steel and checks her phone.