Inside the apartment…
A dozen people sat crowded around the table, eyes glued to the kitchen door like kids waiting for Christmas morning. The smell of beef stew had them practically levitating—mouths open, stomachs growling, eyes glazed with hunger.
It was torture. Delicious, slow-cooked torture.
And for the poor souls inside—Chris, Henry, Sean, Big Mike, and Skinny Pete—it was even worse. The scent had been building for hours, thick and rich, curling through the air like a siren's song.
Then finally—
"Beef stew's ready!"
The kitchen door swung open, and Ethan emerged like a culinary messiah, carrying a steaming pot big enough to bathe in.
The room erupted.
Chairs scraped back. People surged forward. The stew hadn't even hit the table before spoons were clattering and bowls were flying.
"Easy, easy," Ethan said, laughing. "There's plenty. Eat as much as you want."
And they did.
"Goddamn, Ethan," someone groaned between bites. "This is insane."
