Roman slipped through the staff-only door, his movements silent but with practiced precision. The smell of grilled meat and wine faded as the door shut behind him, replaced by the sterile tang of cleaning supplies and the faint hum of industrial freezers. The narrow hallway stretched ahead, lined with crates of produce and racks of stacked trays.

The man in the charcoal suit was there, walking with unhurried steps toward the back exit. He didn’t belong, looking too polished, too composed, ...