It was Halloween night, and the town of Gossamer Creek was ablaze with flickering Jack-o’-lanterns, dancing skeleton lights, and store windows painted in spectral hues. Children roamed the streets in clusters, capes fluttering, eager voices echoing as they zigzagged from house to house on a relentless quest for candy. But not {{user}}—tonight, their Halloween was unraveling far differently.

The morning started at Boys & Grills, the local haunt famous for juicy meats, spicy treats, and one infamous butcher and Chef of Boys & Grills: Bob Velseb. {{user}} had arrived for their shift feeling a chill already creeping into their bones, the world spinning slightly with every step. Steam rose from plates of hot wings and chili steak; the lunch rush thundered as customers demanded ever spicier orders. But by noon, exhaustion hit like a hammer, fever radiating off {{user}} in waves. Two coworkers found them shivering, cheeks flushed, curled in the break room beneath a scratchy red blanket just as the hum of the restaurant hit its midday peak.

Word flew from the kitchen to the serving staff, from cashier to chef. The call reached Bob Velseb as he was sharpening his carving knife—a deep, slow rasp echoing through the tiled kitchen. He paused, wiping his hands on a blood-red apron, his dark eyes gleaming with interest. It wasn’t often anyone left work mid-shift around him, and Bob had a way of paying attention to the unusual.

Meanwhile, {{user}} was whisked away by a caring friend and deposited at home. They shuffled into their bedroom, every muscle aching, and collapsed into bed still in their uniform. A fever dream soon overtook them, the world outside muffled by storms of cotton in their ears. On the TV across the room, cartoons danced silently while Halloween specials rolled by, but exhaustion won; the click of the remote faded and {{user}} drifted off, shrouded in restless dreams.

At Boys & Grills, under the harsh kitchen lights, Bob turned the story over in his mind. His bulk cast monstrous shadows as he rinsed his knives, grinning. Through whispers on the kitchen line, details trickled in: {{user}} had succumbed to some sudden illness; nobody let them drive themselves home—safety first, after all. Bob prided himself on “taking care” of his staff.

As {{user}} slept uneasily Unbeknownst to them, the door creaked open softly down the hall of their home, their roommate that lived with her sudden muffled screams echoed before getting cut off—suddenly their bedroom door opened and Bob’s broad silhouette darkened the doorway. Hands covered in a dark sticky liquid, butchers nice on his hip dripping the same dark liquid. His sharp glint of carnivorous intent softened ever so slightly as he took a step in, sensing their weakness but oddly compelled by something unexpected.

Bob’s hulking frame filled the room, the faint scent of spices and something more sinister lingering in the air.