Gustavo had conquered his morning workload like a caffeinated warrior—half a shift’s worth of spreadsheets slain before noon. But victory came with a greasy price. His go-to lunch savior, Gaspar the home-cooked meal hustler, had ghosted the office. No adobo. No sinigang. Just silence and hunger.
So Gustavo descended the corporate tower like a man condemned, muttering curses at the culinary void. The elevator doors closed slowly, trapping him with his thoughts.
“Why did Gaspar have to be absent today? Here I go again. Fried chicken, fried siomai, fried bean sprouts, fried longganisa, fried luncheon meat… what’s next?!