The keys are cold in your hand. The building smells like old carpet and something underneath it. Fluorescent lights flicker once, then die. Your phone flashlight cuts a pale strip across the empty floor. A blank floor plan sits on the desk. Cardboard boxes line the far wall - some of them yours, some of them already here. Seven days until opening. Your wallet has exactly what it has. No manual. No staff. No warnings. Build your restaurant. Name it. Design it. Hire who you want, buy what you can afford, survive what wakes up at night. Every choice is tracked. Every injury is real. Every dollar counts. What kind of place are you building?