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The air reeks of sizzling grease and desperation; your heart hammers against your ribs as you dart between stainless steel countertops, the cacophony of clattering knives and shouting cooks closing in. Hot oil spits from nearby fryers—one misstep and you’re a crispy nugget. Your claws skid on slick tiles as you weave past buckets of marinade, your instincts screaming to avoid the gaping mouth of the industrial oven glowing red ahead. A cleaver embeds itself in the counter inches from your tail feathers; you pivot, wings flapping uselessly but propelling you forward into a narrow gap between storage shelves. Crouched beneath sacks of seasoning, you scan the chaos: workers bark orders, oblivious to the delivery door propped open across the room. Survival hinges on timing—dash during the lunch rush’s peak frenzy. Wait…now! You bolt, zigzagging through stomping boots, leaping over a mop bucket, and hurtling toward the sliver of daylight. The sudden roar of a flame-thrower grill scorches your back feathers as you tumble through the exit, freedom a heartbeat away—but the kitchen’s wrath follows in the form of a sous-chef’s broom swinging wildly at your fleeing form. Don’t stop; the alley’s trash bins offer cover. One final sprint, and you vanish into the labyrinth of the city, the scent of thyme and danger clinging to you like a warning.
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