The aroma of rosemary, garlic, and lemon zest curled through the air like a promise. Aria Monroe leaned over a sizzling pan, tongs in hand, turning golden skin on a line of herbed chicken legs. Behind her, the soft murmur of conversation filled the dining room. Plates and glasses clincked. A love song hummed low through the speakers, unnoticed but kind of setting the mood.
It was a Saturday night. Dinner rush had peaked, and now the mood had calmed.Aria lived for this window, the tail end of the storm when things slowed enough for her to breathe but the energy still buzzed under the surface. Her apron was stained with flour, oil, and the day's stress. Her arms ached, her feet too, but her eyes were sharp, moving from plate to plate with a chef's sixth sense.
Monroe's, her restaurant, was small, intimate, and underdog scrappy. Just ten tables, one open kitchen, and a chalkboard menu that changed daily depending on what she found at the market. It wasn't trendy. It wasn't Instagram famous. But it was hers.
A bell rang. Table six needed water. Someone else asked if the pork belly was spicy. Jasmine, her front of house worker, floated between the tables like a ballet dancer, multitasking smiles and side plates.
Aria gave a quiet "yes" to the pork belly question and reached for the pepper grinder.
In the background, the receipt printer pinged out another order.
"Two truffle gnocchis," Jasmine called back.
"Got it," Aria replied. "It will be ready in ten minutes."
The gnocchi were delicate things,house made, potato light, just barely clinging to shape. She moved with fluid precision: butter sizzling, mushrooms caramelizing, white wine reducing into gold. Her fingers worked fast but never rushed. People always assumed a chef's life was glamorous. They imagined tasting spoons and creative sparks. They didn't see the endless hours, the backaches, the thirty times a night she burned herself without reacting. They didn't see how many mornings she got up at five to buy herbs and eggs from vendors who barely spoke her language.
But it was all worth it when someone took the first bite and closed their eyes like they'd just experienced something outwardly.
She lived for that.
Jasmine leaned into the kitchen window. "You know this couple at table three just said, and I quote: 'This is the best f*cking meal I've had all year.' Should we get that on a T-shirt?"
Aria grinned. "Better yet let's put it on a billboard."
They laughed, and for a moment the exhaustion melted. This was the part she never wanted to give up not the food, but the rhythm. The dance. The invisible thread that connected her to every table, every tongue, every bite. By 10:53 PM, the last customers were just lingering over dessert. Aria slipped off her apron and leaned against the back counter, rolling her sore shoulder. She checked her phone: one missed call from her mom (ignored), and two notifications from a food truck podcast she'd been meaning to listen to for the past few weeks.
Food trucks. That had been her original dream. Quick, mobile, spontaneous. She could see it, the neon signs, loud music, midnight crowds in parking lots. But then Monroe's had come along, and the brick-and-mortar idea lured to her. Something permanent. A home, now years in, she couldn't help but wonder: was she settling, or building?
"Hey," Jasmine said gently, interrupting her spiral. " I'm clocking out. You want me to walk you?"
Aria shook her head. "I'll be fine, just go. Thanks for tonight, you killed it like always"
"Always,boss" Jasmine winked. "Be safe, yeah?"
"I am always ."
Aria flipped the sign on the front door to "CLOSED" and locked it behind her, as soon as jasmine was out the door. The street outside was damp with a recent drizzle, the air cool, humming with the low noise of a city winding down, she sorted out the cash register and arranged a few things around the restaurant before heading out herself too,and locking the place down.
She started walking, earbuds in,keeping the keys in her pocket.
She always took the alley, it was the short cut to her house, it was easier this way than picking the bus and cheaper too, it wasn't dangerous , just narrow, shadowed, and about five minutes quicker than walking around the block or taking the bus or a cab.She passed a bakery, dark for the night, and a shuttered video store store sprayed with a layered graffiti . Her sneakers splashed lightly in shallow puddles. The music in her ears was lo-fi jazz horns over a steady beat. She zoned out, replaying the night in her mind. The near-miss with the cream pasta .The couple who had asked if she catered weddings. Jasmine's smart-ass remarks. The little girl who'd drawn a smiling sun on her placemat and handed it to Aria like a gift. Little moments. But they made the night feel full.
Still, under all the satisfaction was that familiar, quiet ache. She'd spent years building something from nothing. She had no romantic life to speak of. Her closest friends were her workers .And while she loved Monroe's, she couldn't help but think: What now? What next? What was she supposed to do now?How long could she keep doing this alone?she sighed, pulling one earbud out. That's when she heard it.
A sound that didn't really make sense, a rustle. Then a thump, like a weight slumping, she stopped walking. The alley stretched ahead of her, dimly lit by a single overhead bulb and the glow from a neon sign around the shop corner. At first she thought it was a mugging. Three silhouettes clustered near the dumpster. One standing watch, one kneeling. The third hunched over a fourth shape on the ground.
Aria froze.
She should've backed away. Should've turned and run. But curiosity held her like a hook.
The kneeling figure straightened, blood glistened on his mouth.
She blinked, no way, her brain stuttered. That didn't just happen, the figure who had been watching turned sharply toward her. His eyes silver bright, animal sharp and locked on hers.
"She's seen us," he said, voice too calm.
The tall one moved first. He stepped into the light, fast and silent.
Aria turned and ran no questions asked.