Dreisterne

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

Keith's eyes darted around Skinner's kitchen, taking in the controlled chaos that defined the place. Pots clanged, steam hissed from all directions, and a symphony of chopping, sizzling, and hurried footsteps filled the air, blending into a kind of frenetic music only a kitchen could produce. The counters were crammed with fresh vegetables, cuts of meat, jars of exotic spices, and bottles of cooking oils. Each station had a focused worker furiously dicing, stirring, or plating as orders came flying in from the front, each chef barking commands in rapid succession to keep up with the flow.

Skinner himself stood in the middle of it all, directing his team with authority and speed that commanded attention: a complete opposite of the oily people-pleaser everyone spoke of during Keith and company's investigations. He moved through the kitchen like a storm, stopping only to inspect a dish, toss in a last-minute spice, or scold someone for moving too slowly. His scowl seemed permanent, but Keith could tell there was a satisfaction there, too—a kind of thrill in the high-energy demands of the work.

As Keith glanced at his reflection in a gleaming pot, he noticed the crooked way his chef's hat sat on his head, but there was no time to adjust it. "Right, then. Let's get crackin'," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves and readying himself for the chaos. Skinner appeared at his side, wordlessly handing him a tiny vial.

"Take it. Energy tonic," Skinner grunted, giving Keith an expectant look. "Can't have you slowing down in my kitchen."

Keith raised an eyebrow, eyeing the black liquid contained in the vial for a second before downed the tonic in one gulp, wincing at the strange, salty flavour. However, there was feeling a quick, sharp buzz of energy course through him almost instantly. As the pace of the kitchen escalated, Keith joined the rhythm, chopping vegetables, flipping pans, and tossing ingredients in time with the demands of the menu.

Orders continued to pour in, each dish moving along the assembly line with efficiency and precision. Keith's hands moved on their own as he worked, swept up in the relentless momentum of the kitchen. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered what kind of operation was really happening beyond the steam and spices, but he couldn't find the time to even think about it as he was caught adrift in the maelstrom of activity. The hours stretched on, and the kitchen seemed to transform into a symphony of motion, each worker moving with precision and relentless energy. Customers poured into the restaurant, eager for the chef's famed dishes, and Keith, alongside the rest of the staff, worked like a cog in a well-oiled machine. Breakfast blended into lunch, lunch into dinner, without so much as a pause.

Occasionally, Keith would glance at the clock. "Blimey, no breaks yet?" he'd mutter to himself. But the thought never lingered. His limbs felt fresh, his mind sharp. "Well, not much of a deal," he'd shrug, ignoring the weariness that threatened to creep in. The tonic always came to the rescue.

Even shift changes became a thing of the past as some of the workers would forget to leave, staying on until closing. Keith was no different. The few moments he spent at home were fleeting: a quick collapse into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow, only to wake, tired and groggy, but once more energized after a swig of Skinner's magic tonic. He was so caught up in his work, he had entirely forgotten about his life beyond work, much less his other purpose working at Skinner's: discreetly poke around the place to seek out the chef's dirty laundry, and he hadn't even spoken much with Nathan and Harald outside of the precious few moments they caught him trudging back from work, looking just a minute shy from sleeping on his feet before they lead him straight to bed

Nathan and Harald noticed Keith's strange behaviour, and they decided to talk about it one evening as they walked down Dunsgoil's noisy, busy streets. Nathan's voice cut through the din of the streets as he said, "This business with Skinner's restaurant is rather troubling, wouldn't you say? We never see him from dawn to dusk, and whenever we do, he'd be about a second or two away before fainting on the spot. And he said that a swig of the tonic Skinner gave him always helped him get back on his feet the next morning?"