The kitchen had always been hot, but today, the heat felt unbearable.

Kazuya wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands moving mechanically as he prepared the garnishes for the next round of orders. The same rhythm, the same routine—but today, it felt different. The weight of the pressure seemed heavier than before. His hands, though more skilled than they had been a week ago, still ached. His mind felt fuzzy from exhaustion, and the flicker of self-doubt, that ever-present shadow, hovered over him.

The orders were coming in fast, too fast. The rush was on, and everyone was pushing to keep up. The sound of clattering plates, sizzling pans, and shouting orders filled the air. There was no time for mistakes, no room for hesitation.

“Hey, Kazuya!” Takashi barked as he tossed him a freshly prepared bowl of broth. “This goes to table five! Move it!”

Kazuya nodded, grabbing the bowl, but as he turned to walk to the pass, his foot slipped on the slick floor. He stumbled, barely catching himself, but not before the bowl tipped over, splashing hot broth across the counter.

“Damn it!” Takashi yelled, his voice sharp with frustration. “You need to be more careful! This is the third time today!”

Kazuya’s heart sank. He had already made a few mistakes that afternoon, but this one felt different. It wasn’t just the accident. It was the weight of everything else—the frustration he had been holding in for weeks, the tiredness he couldn’t shake off, the constant feeling that he wasn’t doing enough.

He felt his face flush with embarrassment. Takashi’s harsh words cut deeper than usual.

“I’m sorry,” Kazuya muttered, but the words didn’t feel like enough.

“You’re sorry, huh?” Takashi’s voice softened just a little, but it still carried the sting of disappointment. “You’ve been sorry for a while now. You’re not a kid anymore, Kazuya. We don’t have time to babysit you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. His throat tightened, and for a moment, it felt like the walls of the kitchen were closing in on him.

Was he just a failure?

The question gnawed at him, louder than any of Takashi’s reprimands.

Was this the best he could do? Was this all he was—someone who couldn’t even hold a bowl steady without making a mistake?

He set the bowl down and turned away, his chest tightening with something that felt dangerously close to panic.

“Hey.” It was Hiroshi’s voice this time. His tone wasn’t angry. Instead, it was… gentle, almost like he understood something Kazuya couldn’t quite put into words.

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Kazuya looked up, but Hiroshi wasn’t looking at him. He was busy prepping something else. “You okay?”

Kazuya didn’t answer at first. The kitchen was alive around him, but inside, everything felt still. The question hung in the air, and for the first time in a while, Kazuya felt a strange, uncomfortable stir of vulnerability.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice low, barely audible over the clattering noise.

Hiroshi finally looked at him, his gaze sharp but steady. “Look, it’s gonna be tough. We all have our moments where we feel like we’re failing. But nobody’s gonna be good at this overnight, especially not after… well, everything you’ve been through.” He gave Kazuya a look that wasn’t pity—it was understanding. Hiroshi knew what it was like to struggle, to feel like the world was too much to carry.

Kazuya swallowed. There it was again—the weight of his past, of everything that had led him to this point. He had never let himself fully face it, never allowed himself the space to admit how deeply the failure of his career had wounded him.

But Hiroshi was right. He wasn’t just fighting the pace of the kitchen. He was fighting himself.

“Thanks,” Kazuya said after a long pause, the words feeling strange in his mouth. He wasn’t used to accepting help—or even acknowledging that he needed it. But here, in this kitchen, with these people, he was slowly learning to accept that sometimes, it was okay to be imperfect.

As the day wore on, the weight didn’t magically lift, but the crushing pressure of failure began to feel a little less suffocating. He had a long way to go, sure—but he was still here. He was still trying. That counted for something, didn’t it?

THE FALL

The evening shift arrived, and the kitchen buzzed with activity once more. The heat, the noise, the demands—they all pressed in from every direction. Kazuya moved through the motions, still trying to shake off the earlier embarrassment. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that had him on edge. It was the emotional exhaustion, the sense that he was too far behind to ever truly catch up.

The night went on without incident—until the very end.

Kazuya was tasked with cleaning the grill. It wasn’t a difficult task. It was a routine one. But as he scrubbed, his mind kept wandering. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back. His body was sore from days of constant work. His hands were red from the heat, from the endless chopping and stirring and scrubbing.

And then, it happened.

His grip slipped on the grill brush, and before he could react, his hand collided with the hot surface of the grill.

“AH!” Kazuya yelped in pain, pulling his hand back instinctively. He gripped it tightly, but the burn was already there—painful, sharp, searing.

The kitchen fell silent for a split second. Takashi, who had been observing, rushed over, his expression momentarily softening.

“Idiot!” he snapped, but it wasn’t cruel. It was concern. “Get your hand under cold water. Now.”

Kazuya stumbled toward the sink, his heart racing, his hand throbbing with pain. It was just a small burn, but in that moment, it felt like everything had collapsed around him. The constant mistakes. The pressure. The self-doubt. All of it seemed to converge in that single moment of pain.

As the cold water hit his hand, Kazuya breathed out, trying to steady himself. He felt the weight of his failure, the frustration building up inside of him. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe he wasn’t meant to rebuild his life. Maybe he was just destined to fall short, again and again.

“Take a breather,” Hiroshi said, appearing beside him. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re not the first person to get burned in the kitchen.”

Kazuya didn’t respond. He just nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat.

It was a small moment. A single mistake. But it felt like the breaking point. The point where everything he had been working for threatened to unravel.