ESPRESSO FICTION (WHO EVEN IS TARANTINO?)
“One missing ring. One furious storm. Zero survivors (except the coffee machine).” '' Contains 100% Arabica. And 200% Violence.'' Singapore — 15:02 15:02: My engagement ring is no more. It’s expired. Gone to meet its maker . Letizia’s engagement ring? Dead. Kaput. Popped its clogs and yeeted itself straight into the void. Enter Letizia. Not walks in —she detonates into the room. Her voice lands first, three seconds before her body, like an air raid siren duct-taped to a Harley. Then the storm hits: chairs scrape, mugs fly, and somebody’s dignity gets decapitated on impact. “What the actual hell is this circus?” she roars, scattering crew like pigeons at a bus station. Listen—if the ring had been gelato, sure, I’d get it. Gelato melts, people panic, accidents happen. But this was metal. Silver. With a coffee bean and a diamond in it. Bulletproof. Unless you’re cursed. Or stupid. Or both. So tell me—which one of you feral, caffeine-guzzling lunatics did it?...

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