I’m a chef.

Could you tell by the title? No? Doesn’t matter.

Does that matter to this story? Also no.

Or maybe yes, depending on how much blood you think belongs in a kitchen.

Anyway, I don’t like serving people. Most of them are just loud, sweaty, and always asking for extra ranch. “Do you have gluten-free?” No, Karen, but I do have rage.

You know what does matter?

The smell of bacon.

It follow...

You wake up in the backseat of the car, your head pressed against cold glass, cheek damp with condensation. The hum of the engine is steady, rhythmic, and unfamiliar. Outside, it’s pitch-black—no streetlights, no houses, only the blur of trees racing past. You sit up, slow and groggy, the seatbelt cutting into your ribs.

Your phone’s gone.

Your bag’s gone.

You don’t know where you are.

You don’t ...