Ethan wanted to know why, but the kitchen doors swung open before he could ask. Marcus Reed entered with a clipboard in one hand and his phone in the other, wearing a charcoal suit that looked absurdly expensive beside the dripping floor. At forty-six, Marcus carried himself like a man who expected everyone to move around him. He paused at the sight of the unfamiliar dishwasher and inspected Ethan from shoes to collar.
"You're the temporary worker?"
"Yes, sir. Ethan."
"We've already lost time training people who can't keep up. No wandering, no talking to guests, and no disappearing during service. You understand?"
"I understand."
Marcus pointed toward the sinks. "Those pans should have been finished ten minutes ago. Move faster. What exactly are we paying you for?"
Ethan looked at the stacks that had been there before his shift began. "I just arrived, sir. I'll get started."
"Then try harder than the last one did. This isn't a charity. And keep your eyes down when you walk past the dining room. Customers don't need to see people like you."
Marcus left before Ethan could answer. Luis stood at the edge of the station, his expression carefully empty, then turned back to his crates. Ethan washed the first pan slowly enough to remove the scorched sauce without damaging the surface, then reached for the next. Behind the kitchen wall, he could hear the opening staff arranging a beautiful room for people who would never know what had been said ten feet away.
By nine o'clock his shirt clung to his back. The machine was running well below its proper rhythm because the rinse arm had to be reset every fourth cycle. He cleared the clogged drain twice, lifted stacks of wet trays onto a rack that needed a wheel replaced, and learned that a dish station's pace was controlled by every other department's impatience. Servers returned with full trays, cooks called for clean saute pans, and nobody seemed to notice when the dishwasher's workload doubled.
At ten fifteen, Marcus returned and snapped, "Move faster. Those dishes should have been done ten minutes ago."
"I'm working as fast as I can, sir," Ethan replied.
"Then find another speed. Keep the station clean, and don't make excuses."
The words were ordinary enough to be dismissed as a manager under pressure. The faces around the station were not. Luis kept his attention fixed on the crates, an older prep cook flinched when Marcus raised his voice, and a server quietly changed direction rather than pass him in the hall. Ethan understood then that he had not stepped into one bad interaction; he had entered a routine everyone else already knew by heart.
Near noon a woman in a stained white chef's jacket appeared beside the drying rack. She had dark hair pulled into a secure bun, tired brown eyes, and the controlled movements of someone who could judge a hot surface by standing near it. Her name patch read OLIVIA BENNETT. She took one look at Ethan's wet hands and the thin red lines across his knuckles, then went to a drawer and returned with an unopened pair of protective gloves and a clean towel.