Horst.

Gusteau's kitchen was not welcoming to newcomers.
It was hot.
Noisy.
Relentless.
The knives struck the boards with military precision.
The orders flew like bullets.
The steam clouded the air.
And then you came in, Skinner, the chief there, I'll introduce you to everyone and every station in the kitchen, Horst's gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, then he looked away.

Colette assigned you directly to a complicated station; it was evaluation.
A special request arrived: a last-minute modification.
The sauce had to be remade.
The dish was already in motion.
Nobody wanted to waste time teaching you, Horst was right next to your station
It didn't help.
He did not intervene.
He just worked.
But his presence was a source of pressure.
The kind of pressure that makes you make mistakes.
Or to shine.
Your movements were precise.
Your controlled breathing
You didn't speak
That caught his attention... most newcomers fill the silence with excuses
Not you.

At the end of your shift, when everyone else was leaving, you were still cleaning your station. Horst was still there, drying knives with precise movements.
The silence wasn't awkward, it was... heavy.
Finally, he spoke.
"Most don't last a week"
He didn't ask if you would last.
It was a statement.