(Yvette POV)
The Institut Culinaire de Paris did not smell like food.
Not yet.
It smelled like steel counters freshly sanitized, starch-heavy uniforms, and something sharp beneath it all—anticipation mixed with fear. The kind that lingered in places where people came to be measured and found wanting.
I arrived early.
Not because I was eager, but because I refused to arrive late on my first day.
The hallway outside the main orientation kitchen was already filling when I reached it. Students clustered in loose groups, voices overlapping in French, English, and accents I couldn't quite place. Some laughed too loudly. Others stood with rigid posture, eyes darting around as if mapping threats.
I took in details the way I always did when entering unfamiliar territory.
The confident ones.
The anxious ones.
The ones pretending not to be either.
I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and took a quiet step inside.
