Ellie's POV
Smash.
The sound of shattering porcelain ripped through the noisy kitchen. Ellie didn't even flinch. She just stared at the pieces of the expensive white plate scattered across the greasy floor tiles. A single, sad ravioli oozed its filling next to her worn-out sneaker.
"Wells! My floor!" Chef's bellows cut over the sizzle of pans and the shouts of the line cooks.
"Sorry, Chef," Ellie mumbled, the words automatic. She was already grabbing the broom and dustpan from the corner. Her body moved on tired, practiced autopilot. Sweep, clatter, dump. Another mess cleaned up. Another thing is broken. Story of her life.
It was December 23rd. The restaurant, Giovanni's, was a sweltering, frantic hell of tinsel and tension. Every table was packed with people laughing too loudly, spending too much money, pretending to be happy for the holidays. Ellie hated it. The fake cheer was like a bright light shining right on everything she'd lost.
Her feet throbbed with a deep, constant ache. She'd been on since ten that morning. It was now past eleven at night. A double shift because, of course, someone else had called out. The money was the only reason she'd said yes. The money that never seemed to add up to enough.
As she dumped the plate fragments, she passed the holiday schedule pinned to the wall. Her name was there for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. No stars next to it. No time off. Just more shifts. While other people opened gifts, she'd be refilling water glasses and smiling at tips.
"Order up, Table Seven! Two risottos, one veal!" a cook yelled.
Ellie scooped up the heavy, hot plates, feeling the heat seep through her sleeves. She pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. The air changed instantly from sweat and garlic to perfume and money. Soft violin music played. Golden light glinted off crystal glasses. It was a beautiful prison.
Table Seven was a couple. They held hands across the tablecloth. The woman was laughing at something the man said. Ellie placed their food down without a word, her smile a tight, professional line on her face. "Enjoy," she said, the word tasting like dust.
She turned away, her eyes catching her own reflection in a dark window. A pale face with dark circles under tired eyes. Hair pulled back in a messy bun that had long since given up. At twenty-six, she looked worn out. She felt a hundred years old.
The rest of the shift was a blur of carrying, cleaning, and pretending. Her mind was a million miles away, in a small, warm kitchen from her childhood. Her dad, humming an old rock song, was teaching her how to tell when pasta was perfectly al dente by throwing it against the wall. "If it sticks, Ellie-girl, it's done!" He'd laugh, and she'd giggle, and the kitchen would be full of steam and love.
That kitchen was gone. He was gone. Taken by a sickness that ate all their savings and left her with nothing but an empty apartment and a dream that felt stupid now.
Finally, the last customer left. The clock above the pass-through hit 11:47 PM. Her body screamed with relief. She untied her apron, the damp fabric stained with a day's worth of spills. The knot was tight, and her fumbling fingers took a minute to pick it loose. It felt symbolic. Being freed from a trap she'd built for herself.
In the cramped, smelly staff locker room, she counted her tips. A few crumpled bills and a handful of coins. One customer had left a fake hundred-dollar bill that said "In Dog We Trust" on the back. She almost laughed. It was that kind of night.
She shoved the money into her wallet, next to the folded, worn-out brochure for the Culinary Institute. The tuition number on the front was a joke. A mean, impossible joke. She slammed the locker shut.
"Night, Ellie," called Juan, the dishwasher, his kind face smeared with grease. He had three kids at home. He worked harder than anyone. He still found a smile.
"Night, Juan," she said, and this time she almost meant it.
Pushing open the heavy back door was like stepping onto another planet. The kitchen's wet heat vanished, replaced by a cold so sharp it stole her breath. Snow flurries danced in the jaundiced glow of a single security light. The alley was a canyon of brick and garbage smells. This was her walkway to freedom. Five steps to the dumpster, then the long trudge to the subway, to her quiet, lonely apartment.
Thud. She heaved her bag of kitchen trash into the dumpster. The lid slammed with a final, metallic crash. Silence, except for the distant wail of a siren. She pulled her thin coat tight—it was more of a sweater, really, not meant for a New York winter. She was already shivering.
She turned to go, her eyes on the slick pavement, watching her step.
A flicker.
Red.
Then gone.
Then red again.
She stopped, one foot in the air. Her tired brain processed it slowly. A light. Under a car. Not the steady glow of a parking light. A blink. A heartbeat.
The car was a monster of black metal and dark windows, parked in the restaurant's lone reserved spot. It looked like it ate other cars for breakfast. For a second, she thought it was just a reflection from the buzzing light above. But the rhythm was wrong. It was coming from underneath.
Go home, Ellie. You're seeing things. You're exhausted.
Her dad's voice, warm and scratchy from memory, cut through her own thoughts. "Listen to the machine, kid. A blinking light is a cry for help. Something's wrong in there."
He'd fixed old motorcycles, not bombs. But the tone was the same. A warning.
Against every piece of logic that told her to mind her own business, Ellie took a step closer. The snow soaked through the thin soles of her shoes. A chill, deeper than the cold air, crept up her spine.
She crouched down, her knees popping. The smell hit her first. Sharp. Chemical. Like burning plastic and sour candy. It was wrong. Cars smelled like oil and gas, not this.
She peered into the dark space beneath the car's chassis.
Her heart stopped.
It wasn't a bundle of wires. It was a nest of them. Torn, stripped, their colored insides exposed like raw nerves. They were taped messily, hastily, to a brick-shaped block of something dark. A tiny LED was stuck to the side of the block. Green. Blink. Red. Blink. Red.
A timer.
This wasn't a glitch. This wasn't a broken taillight.
This was a bomb.
The world narrowed to that blinking red eye. The sounds of the city faded. All she could hear was the pounding of her own blood in her ears. Her lungs locked. She couldn't move. She was a statue of ice, staring at her own death, and someone else's, hidden under a fancy car.
SCRAPE-CLICK.
The sound of the restaurant's heavy back door swinging open ripped her from her trance.
Boots. Sharp, confident footsteps on the wet concrete. A man's voice, deep and annoyed, talking on a phone. "I'm outside now. Five minutes."
He was coming. He was coming to his car.
He was going to get in.
Ellie's head whipped from the blinking red death under the car to the tall figure walking toward it. Her mouth was desert-dry. Her voice was a trapped bird in her frozen throat. She tried to stand, but her legs were jelly.
He was ten steps away. A tall man in a long, dark coat. He didn't look down. He didn't see her crouched in the shadows. He was focused on ending his call, on getting out of the cold.
Five steps.
He reached for the car door handle.
His fingers closed around the handle. The chunk-whirr of the unlock was the loudest sound Ellie had ever heard. The red light under the car went solid, steady red.