The back office door didn’t swing open; it surrendered. Its hinges groaned in protest, the sound echoing down the narrow corridor, past the humming freezer units and the rhythmic clatter of dishes. Beyond it lay a space where authority was assumed rather than questioned—a kingdom defended by habit, fear, and control.
Daniel Whitmore entered without fanfare. He did not announce himself with the theatrics of an executive accustomed to presence as power. He moved quietly, deliberately, the sort of movement that commands attention without demanding it. In that moment, the room seemed to recalibrate around him.
Behind a weathered wooden desk cluttered with schedules, inventory sheets, and a half-empty cup of cold coffee, Bryce Carter, the location manager, shifted nervously. His sweat-stained polo clung to him like a second skin. The clipboard in his hands had become less a tool of organization and more a shield—a barrier against the unknown.
