In the dim glow of the old meat‑packing district, the Dolcett family’s shop stood like a relic of a forgotten era. Its wooden sign—painted in faded crimson—read “Dolcett’s Fine Cuts & Curiosities.” Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cured ham, smoked paprika, and something else: a lingering hint of old stories, whispered over the clatter of cleavers. The Roast That Began It All One rainy evening, a lanky teenager named Mira slipped through the back door, clutching a battered notebook. She’d heard rumors that the Dolcett’s latest demo— “Willing Roast Me Mother” —was more than a game; it was a ritual. The demo’s tagline promised: “Face the butcher, hear the truth, survive the roast.”