The humidity of the Kentucky lowlands always seemed to settle in the grout of the Louisville Metro O.R.s, despite the state-of-the-art ventilation. Dr. Ronald Hondo didn’t mind. He liked the warmth. He liked the way the overhead LEDs caught the chrome of his scalpel, turning it into a sliver of white fire.

By day, Hondo was a miracle worker. He was the man who reconstructed shattered femurs and stitched together arterial spray with the precision of a master weaver. His hands never shook. His reputation was clinical, cold, and flawless.

But when the sun dipped below the jagged line of the Appalachians and the city hummed with a different kind of electricity, the surgeon’s scrubs were replaced by a silk robe in his secluded estate outside of town.

Around midnight, a nondescript, unlicensed ambulance—painted a dull, matte grey—would rattle up his long, gravel driveway.

The back doors creaked open. A man named Silas, an EMT who had long ago traded his ethics for Hondo’s heavy envelopes of cash, would wheel out a gurney. On it was usually someone the world wouldn't miss: a mid-level enforcer with a gut shot, or a runner who had tripped over his own getaway. Men who couldn't go to a real hospital because the police would be waiting with handcuffs.

"Fresh one, Doc," Silas would grunt, wiping sweat from his brow. "Found him behind a warehouse in Portland. Multiple lacerations. Losing blood fast."

"Bring him to the basement, Silas," Hondo would say, his voice a smooth, low baritone. "And ensure the doors are locked behind you."

The basement was not a trauma center. It was a kitchen.

The "patient" would wake to the smell of rosemary and red wine. He would see Dr. Hondo, still in his pristine white coat, but now wearing a heavy leather apron over it. There were no monitors, no anesthesia, and no life-saving IVs. There was only a set of specialized cutlery, polished to a mirror finish.

The criminals always thought they were being saved. They would look at Hondo with pleading, watery eyes, whispering "Thank you" as he approached with a silver tray.

"Don't thank me," Hondo would murmur, his eyes dark and hungry. "In my world, nothing is wasted. You’ve spent your life consuming others. It’s only fair that, tonight, someone finally consumes you."

The surgeon didn't reach for the sutures. He reached for the carving knife.

By dawn, the grey ambulance would be gone. Dr. Hondo would be back at the hospital, sipping a black coffee, his hands steady as ever as he prepped for a routine gallbladder removal. He looked refreshed, satisfied, and remarkably well-fed.