"No. The ones on the plates. They’re just like us. Caught, gutted, and served up to people who don't even know their names."
There was a quiet moment—a rarity in a house built on screams. Guest House Paradiso
Richie stood in the kitchen, his eyes fixed on a bowl of grey, unidentifiable stew. He wore his desperation like a cheap suit, too tight in some places and fraying at the edges. To Richie, the guest house wasn't just a business; it was a fortress against a world that had forgotten he existed. Every lie he told the guests, every grand gesture he made with a trembling hand, was a plea for relevance. He needed to be the "host," the man in charge, because the alternative was being a man with nothing. Caught, gutted, and served up to people who