“You love tomato soup, don’t you?”

He asks cheerfully, cooing around your faded figure - either in doubt or in pure fear, looking at the table with the porcelain dish.

You, an innocent soul who fell into the trap of your own trust, are now staring intently at the bloody mess in a silver platter.

“We can’t throw the food away! As a chef, I will be very angry!” he laughs.

But you are still choking on the salty taste of not tomato paste.