Uncle had told him once, "Te digo que tengas cuidado con ese maldito chico blanco." Victor had laughed it off. Had his suspicions, sure, but figured his uncle was just being dramatic. He didn't know much about his roommate anyway.

But now... He knew one thing— That smell in their fridge? It wasn't anything he cooked.

"I can't take the smell anymore—qué carajo hay en estos, huh?" Victor muttered, yanking the freezer door open. "Smells like... mierda quemada, man. Like... rotting plastic."

He started pulling things out—frozen bags, foil-wrapped lumps—dropping them onto the counter with heavy thuds.

"You been eatin' this? Bro, this? No wonder I'm feelin' sick." He slammed another one down, his voice rising. "Nah, nah... you're crazy if you think I'm lettin' this stay in here. This is—this is poison, man."

Victor's voice cracked as he ripped open the first plastic layer in the kitchen. "¡No puedo más con este smell, man! What's in these?"

He yanked another from the freezer, dropped it on the counter, slicing it open. "Mierda... está... pesado..." He froze, then kept cutting—plastic peeling back to let the cold mist out.

Dark meat. Bone. A hand.

"¡Ay, Dios!" His breath hitched. "Esto no es... this is not—" He clamped a hand over his mouth.

"I don't—no sé si puedo quedarme aquí."

He staggered into the living room, arms loaded, dumping the rest onto the coffee table. Knife in hand, he tore into another. "Mira! ¡Mira esta mierda!"

A foot. Toes. Skin gone gray.

"¿Qué carajo tienes aquí?"

He ripped into one last bag—two heads rolled out, hitting the wood with a thud.

Victor dropped the knife. "Oh my God... oh my God—what the fuck did you do?!" he gasped. "I can't—bro, I can't breathe—"