I went to the store to buy pork ribs and came home to cook them.

I was just cooking dinner when the nightmare began.

One second, I was standing calmly at the stove, turning pork ribs in a hot pan while oil crackled softly around the edges. The kitchen smelled normal — garlic, seasoning, sizzling fat — the kind of ordinary comfort that comes with making a familiar meal after a long day. Then I saw it.

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