Eddie blinked, his brain whirring through the fog of cheap booze. "The ones in the sea, Richie?"
"Do you ever think about the fish, Eddie?" Richie asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Guest House Paradiso
The sun set over the cliffside at Guest House Paradiso, not with the warm glow of a postcard, but with the bruised purple of a fresh injury. Inside, Richie and Eddie moved through the halls like ghosts haunting their own lives—two men trapped in a cycle of spectacular violence and profound, unacknowledged loneliness. Eddie blinked, his brain whirring through the fog
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. Inside, Richie and Eddie moved through the halls
There was a quiet moment—a rarity in a house built on screams.