Location: Chicago, Illinois_
Date:February 8, 2028_
Time:7:30 PM_
It's been almost three months since I killed Lucien. Gwen decided to stay in Brooklyn, wanting to keep a low profile and avoid attracting any unwanted attention. She'd offered for me to stay with her, but I couldn't. I didn't want to add any more weight to her already heavy burden. She had enough to worry about without me dragging her deeper into the mess I had caused. Besides, she was the only friend I had left. If I stuck around, I would just make things worse for her-no matter how much I hated the idea of being alone.
The months since that night have been quiet, or at least as quiet as life gets when you've just killed a man and buried the truth. The world keeps turning, people keep living, and I keep pretending to do the same.
I slip out of bed, stretching as I stand and rub my eyes. My apartment is small, cramped in the way most city apartments are. The walls seem thinner than paper, and I can hear everything from the neighbors' loud music to the muffled sounds of sirens in the distance. It's not much, but it's mine. The rent's low, which is the only reason I can afford to stay here after leaving my job at the office. The city's full of distractions, but it's also full of ghosts. And those ghosts follow me everywhere.
I head to the bathroom to freshen up before work. The cold shower is more of a shock than a choice; the water heater in this old building never works properly. But I'm used to it by now. Sometimes, I wonder if it's just another way the city refuses to let me forget the hard edges of life. After the quick shower, I stand in front of the mirror, taking a deep breath. Violet hair, styled into two space buns-an odd little trademark of mine, though I'm not sure if it makes me stand out more than I'd like.
The uniform's next. A long-sleeved button-up shirt, black vest, matching trousers, and dark grey sneakers. I've never been fond of it-feels too much like a costume-but the pay at Ãlégance is decent, and the tips can be generous. Complaining won't get me anywhere, not with a manager who expects perfection every time you clock in. I could use the money, anyway. I always do.
After gathering my house keys, wallet, and phone, I lock the door behind me and head out.
The sun's starting to set, casting a muted golden glow over the city. It's a stark contrast to the cold shadows of my apartment. The walk to work is only ten minutes, but it's long enough for me to slip into my thoughts, to wrestle with the haunting question that's been creeping around in the back of my mind every day: What am I doing with my life?
The city feels colder than usual tonight, but maybe that's just me. I pull my coat tighter around myself as I make my way through the alleyways, past the rows of half-empty dumpsters and the faint smell of street food.
By the time I slip through the back door of Ãlégance, the place is buzzing with its usual energy. The kitchen is a whirlwind of organized chaos-chefs hustling around, knives clattering against countertops, the sizzling sound of food cooking in the deep fryers. It's a world where nothing can afford to slow down.
"Cassie! You're late," a voice calls out from behind the open kitchen door. It's Mitchie Roland, the head chef and owner of the restaurant. Her voice is as sharp as her knives, but she's the reason this place has the reputation it does. Mitchie's a powerhouse-she might look like she's all grace and elegance on the surface, but under that polished exterior is someone who can chew you up and spit you out before you even know what hit you.
"I'm not late. I'm right on time," I say, pulling a mock-stern face. She raises an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. "You better make sure you're here early tomorrow, Cass. You know how I hate excuses."
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "You're worse than Gordon Ramsay."
She laughs lightly, her red bandana contrasting sharply against her crisp white chef's uniform. "He's nothing compared to me, sweetheart. Now, get to work before I find someone else to replace you."
I know she's joking-mostly. Still, I make my way toward the back where the waitstaff gathers before the dinner rush. The line to the dining area is bustling, and waiters in their own black uniforms weave in and out of the kitchen, carrying plates of perfectly plated food, sending smells that make my stomach growl despite the unease I've carried with me all day.
I spot Tiffany as she enters the kitchen with an empty black tray in hand. Tiffany's one of the more down-to-earth people I work with. Tall, blonde, with green eyes that seem to always be looking for trouble. She's the kind of person you'd want at your side if things ever went sideways, though she's blissfully unaware of how dangerous some of the situations here can get.
"Hey, Tiff," I say, giving her a half-smile as I walk up beside her.
"Cassie!" she greets me with a grin, turning her head slightly to meet my gaze. "How's it going?"
"Actually, I'm doing pretty well. Not a bad day," I say, trying to sound upbeat. She gives me a small nod, but I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. We've both been putting in longer hours lately, and it's starting to show.
"Well, I'm going to get back to work," she says, lifting the tray of food. "Dinner rush is just about to hit, and Mitchie's got a list a mile long."
"Tell me about it," I reply. "I swear, if I hear her yell 'service' one more time, I might lose it."
Tiffany chuckles softly, then waves as she heads toward the main dining room. "See you around, Cass."
"Yeah, see you around," I call after her, but as she walks away, I mentally facepalm myself. The words had come out too quickly, too awkwardly. I meant to ask her about something else-how she was doing, if she was managing-but I've never been good at casual conversation. My mind always drifts to darker things.
The night begins in earnest, the clink of silverware and the hum of conversation filling the air as the dining room fills. A few customers trickle in early, and by 10 p.m., the place is full. The stress is palpable-every one of us darting around the restaurant with a sense of urgency, making sure each customer gets what they've ordered and every dish leaves the kitchen pristine.
I'm in the weeds by the time the first wave of orders hits, but it's nothing new. This is the life I've carved for myself, a life where the hours are long and the work never stops. Where you push through your fatigue and keep going, because you have no choice.
I can feel the weight of my past pressing in as I walk back into the kitchen, sliding past a row of chefs prepping appetizers. It's been almost three months since I killed Lucien, and I still haven't shaken the guilt, the fear, the paranoia. It gnaws at me every minute, every hour of every day. But here, in the bustle of the kitchen, in the chaos of dinner service, I can almost forget for a little while. Almost.