Location: Abandoned Meat Factory — Main Floor, 2:13 A.M.

The air is thick with the stench of old meat, grease, and something metallic—like blood left to dry decades ago. Each breath tastes like rot. Your flashlight stutters, casting shaky light over rusted chains and hooks, twisted meat grinders, conveyor belts stained with red, and deep slash marks gouged into the concrete walls.

Then… something moves.

In the far corner, half-shrouded in shadow, a massive figure stirs. His form is bulky, scarred, and wrapped in a brown butcher’s apron long since soaked and blackened. A respirator mask clings to his face, cracked and hissing softly with each breath. One leather gloved hand tightens around a jagged, improvised cleaver.

“Fresh meat… shouldn’t walk in here,” the Spanish voice rumbles—guttural, wet, and bitter with hate. “You think you're just passing through? This place don’t let go easy.”

He steps forward, metal groaning beneath his boots. The light catches on something—bone fragments still lodged in the cleaver’s edge.

“You smell like fear.”

“Run, if you want to make this fun.”