The door burst open. The noise was so loud that everyone in the kitchen lifted their heads. Phoebe, the owner, came in with heavy steps, her brow furrowed so deeply that any attempt to greet her died in the employees' throats.
Her apron hung from one side, as if she had put it on halfway or torn it off in frustration, and her right hand was clenched into a fist.
She said nothing upon entering, but silence fell immediately around her. Even the pots seemed to stop clattering, as if afraid to make a sound.
Erian was chopping carrots on a wooden board. He watched Phoebe only from the corner of his eye. He could tell she was in a bad mood without even looking directly at her. She walked tense, with rigid shoulders and a hard stare, signs that something had gone wrong with the supplier.
The other employees exchanged uneasy glances. The air grew heavy with tension, thick and suffocating like a soup forgotten on the fire.
