One by one, the red team filed into the back, the weight of the failure sagging their shoulders.
The kitchen felt different tonight. The blue and red teams had been dissolved into a single hunt, though for now, they remained in their original stations. The air was heavy with the smell of searing protein and the sharp, acidic bite of balsamic reductions.
By the time the last ticket was cleared, the Blue Team stood tall, drenched in sweat but triumphant. The Red Team, however, stood before Ramsay like students in a principal’s office.
The tension in the dorms was thick enough to cut with a dull pairing knife. With only eight chefs remaining, the bravado of the early weeks had vanished, replaced by the hollow stares of people who hadn’t slept more than four hours a night in a month.
"All right, listen up!" The voice of Marino, the maître d', boomed through the speakers. "Chef Ramsay is waiting."
"They’re rubber, Michelle! Rubber! RUBBER!" Ramsay slammed a plate of scallops onto the pass, the porcelain shattering. "You’re serving bouncy balls to table twelve! Get out! All of you, GET OUT!"
