The door to the back office didn’t just swing open; it surrendered.
Daniel didn’t barge in like a CEO; he walked in like the owner of the ground beneath the building. Bryce, the manager with the sweat-stained polo and a clipboard that acted as a makeshift shield, didn’t even look up at first.
“Dining room’s that way, pal,” Bryce muttered, his voice thick with the practiced arrogance of a small man in a small kingdom.
“The dining room is a disaster, Bryce. And the kitchen smells like a freezer burn,” Daniel said. His voice was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes a room feel like it’s losing oxygen.
Bryce froze. He recognized the tone before he recognized the face. He looked up, the color draining from his cheeks until he looked like unbaked dough. “Mr. Whitmore? I… we weren’t expecting a site visit until next quarter. I have the spreadsheets ready, the labor costs are down—”
“I don’t care about your spreadsheets if your staff is terrified of their own shadows,” Daniel interrupted. He pulled the folded note from his pocket and laid it on the scarred wooden desk. “Jenna. Talk to me about her.”
The Breaking Point
Before Bryce could stammer out a lie, the door creaked. Jenna stood there, her hands trembling but her chin held high. She had followed him. It was a career-ending move in any other world, but in this one, it was a rescue mission.
“He’s skimming, Mr. Whitmore,” she said, the words rushing out like a broken dam. “The ‘fair shifts’ you promised? He sells the Friday nights to the highest bidder. The tips? He takes a ‘management cut’ for ‘breakage.’ And the steak you just ate? That wasn’t Whitmore Gold Grade. He’s buying cheap cuts from a local wholesaler and pocketing the difference from the corporate budget.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Daniel looked at Bryce. The manager wasn’t just pale now; he was vibrating.
“Is this true?” Daniel asked.
“She’s a disgruntled waitress, Dan! She’s been late twice this week—”
“I asked you a question, Bryce. Is. This. True?”
Daniel didn’t wait for the answer. He walked past Bryce to the industrial freezer in the back. He ripped open a box of ribeyes. No corporate seal. No USDA Choice stamp. Just generic, graying meat in plastic wrap.
