There's a particular horror in realizing safety regulations often resemble sandcastles during high tide, sturdy looking until actual danger comes rolling in. The sheer predictability of it feels like watching a horror movie where the audience yells "don't go upstairs" while the character dutifully climbs toward the ax murderer. Except in real life, nobody gets a sequel.

This week's tragedy at a bustling Goa nightclub, where 25 souls perished amid flames and toxic smoke, showcases this dynamic with ghastly efficiency. Early reports suggest the venue might have bypassed basic fire protocols, trapping employees in a basement death trap while horrified tourists watched a beachside holiday curdle into a mass funeral. The rhythmic thumping of nightlife beats replaced by screams, the neon lights overpowered by the orange flicker of uncontrolled flames. Tourism brochures rarely picture that.

Goa, that glittering jewel of India's coastline, markets itself as paradise found. Five million visitors annually flood its shores for sun, psychedelic trance parties, and the kind of freedom only anonymity and cheap liquor can provide. But beneath the footloose facade lies an uncomfortable truth. Hospitality empires built on quick profits often treat safety budgets like unwanted diet plans, something everyone agrees is important right up until the dessert cart arrives.

The economics are simple, if grim. Tight margins breed corner cutting. Fire exits become storage closets. Wiring meant for industrial lighting gets jury rigged to handle pyrotechnic displays better suited for a Metallica concert than a bamboo roofed club. Inspectors develop selective vision after a wad of cash changes hands under paperwork. And so we get catastrophe math. A few thousand rupees saved on extinguishers versus dozens of lives erased. Profit calculus rarely favors ethics.

Workers bear the brunt of this calculus. Most victims in this blaze were staff, trapped below ground like coal miners during a tunnel collapse. Their deaths reveal hospitality's dirty secret. Those serving the cocktails and mopping vomit from VIP bathrooms become sacrificial pawns when reckless operators treat human resources as disposable as plastic drink stirrers. Unlike affluent tourists who choose these dens of revelry, employees lack the luxury of deliberation. Show up or lose your livelihood. Clock in or your children skip meals. It's not a choice so much as slow motion strangulation.

Yet finger wagging at "third world negligence" misses the forest for the charred trees. Wealthy nations enjoy similar horror stories. Remember The Station nightclub fire in Rhode Island? Packed venue, foam soundproofing that burned like gasoline, exits blocked by bodies scrambling over each other. One hundred people died watching Great White play "Desert Moon." Or the 2015 Formosa Fun Coast explosion in Taiwan where colored powder igniting at a water park turned a teenage hangout into an open air crematorium. Fifteen dead, nearly 500 scarred for life while dancing to a remix of "Party Rock Anthem."

The pattern transcends geography. From South Korean department store collapses to Brazilian nightclub infernos, cultures worldwide play Russian roulette with public safety whenever money and amusement share a bed. We build temples to escapism using combustible materials, staff them with underpaid laborers, then feign shock when sparks meet kindling. The recurring lesson remains unlearned. Profit prioritized over people reliably produces corpses.

Solutions exist, though they lack sexy headlines. Global safety certification programs for entertainment venues, with public online audits showing compliance records as easily as Yelp reviews. Insurance companies refusing coverage without third party fire marshal inspections. Technology like thermal cameras triggering automatic sprinklers when temperatures spike near stages. But mostly, customer awareness. Patrons who ask where exits are located before ordering their first drink. Tourists who reward resorts investing in safety trainings with their bookings.

Goa will heal, of course. Tourism dollars hold miraculous regenerative powers. Within months, new clubs will bloom where ashes now settle, their owners promising state of the art precautions. The dead will become statistics recited during political speeches about accountability. Survivors will battle trauma in silent bedrooms far from sympathetic headlines. And somewhere, another entrepreneur will sketch plans for a "must visit" hotspot, eyeing that corner where emergency lanes could squeeze in six more cocktail tables. The tide comes for sandcastles every time.