The butcher hums as she switches tools.

  The pairing knife was fine for the delicate work, but now...

  She needs something with a bit more bite.

  Her bloody fingers close around a boning knife. Thin, curved, sharp.

  She runs the edge along the girl's bare thigh, barely pressing down.

  The sensation is unbearable.

  "You know..." she muses, voice light, conversational, "most people don't appreciate the importance of different blades."

  The girl whimpers, trembling.

  "See, a butcher's knife is for cleaving. A chef's knife is for chopping. And, sometimes, for the finer details...well, there is the scalpel."

  She presses down.

  The blade glides through the girl's calf, splitting skin and fascia like butter.

  The girl screams.

  The butcher shudders.

  "But this..."

  She twists the knife, feeling the way the muscle moves around it.

  "This is for precision. For filleting."

  She drags the edge in a slow, loving arc, exposing more of that glistening, quivering red.

  The girl chokes on sobs.

  "Please..." Her voice is cracked, hoarse.

  Desperate.

  "P-please, stop—"

  The butcher snorts.

  "Stop?"

  She pulls the blade out, admiring the way the muscle twitches from the trauma.

  "I'm sorry, but I can't just stop now, you know..."

  She leans in, lips close to the girl's tear-streaked cheek.

  "I'm making something beautiful."

  Her breath is warm, thick with the scent of copper and hunger.

  The girl shakes violently.

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  The butcher grins, amused.

  "But let's talk about you, huh?"

  She gestures vaguely at the mess of exposed flesh and glistening wounds.

  "I mean, I know what you are now."

  A sharp giggle. "Meat."

  The girl wails.

  The butcher licks her lips.

  "But before... Who were you? A student? A waitress? A daughter?"

  She runs her fingers through the girl's damp hair, almost affectionate.

  "Do you think any of that matters now?"

  The girl sobs, trying to form words. "I—I don't—I don't want to die!"

  The butcher laughs.

  "Oh, darling."

  She presses the knife to the girl's quivering throat, just enough to make her breath hitch.

  "You died the moment you woke up here."

  The girl chokes on air. She can't breathe.

  She wants to scream, to beg, to pray—

  But then.

  The butcher turns.

  Just for an instant.

  She moves toward a tray of tools, distracted.

  And in that moment—

  The girl slips from her restraints, all ruined by the blood and strain.

  Every nerve in her body screams.

  Her muscles feel like they've been torn apart, flayed open— because they have.

  But she forces herself up.

  Off the table.

  The pain is blinding. She nearly collapses, her ruined leg buckling beneath her.

  But she stumbles forward.

  Moves.

  She doesn't know where she's going. Just away.

  The door is too far.

  But there's another hall—dark, slick with something wet.

  She limps toward it, dragging herself forward.

  Behind her—

  A soft chuckle.

  She risks a glance back.

  The butcher hasn't moved.

  She's just watching.

  Smiling.

  Enjoying the show.

  "Mmm..."

  A low, delighted sound, almost a purr.

  "God, this fucking smell..."

  The girl's breath stutters.

  "That fear. That adrenaline. It gets into the meat, you know?"

  The butcher licks her lips.

  "You're making yourself so much better for me."

  She shudders, fingers clenching around the knife.

  She's trembling.

  Not in anger.

  Not in frustration.

  In hunger.

  Her red eyes are glazed, unfocused, lost in it.

  She can barely hold herself back.