Y/N’s screams echoed through the blood-soaked cellar as rough hands dragged them toward the ritual chamber. The air was thick with smoke and decay, the walls pulsing with the sound of chanting. The Butcher loomed behind them — massive, silent, and breathing heavily through his burlap mask. His apron glistened wet with fresh blood, and his cleaver caught the flicker of candlelight. Every step closer to the altar made Y/N’s heart pound faster, the truth settling in: this wasn’t just murder. This was worship.

The cult surrounded the altar, their faces hidden behind cracked porcelain masks. They murmured verses from a language Y/N couldn’t understand, words that made the air feel wrong — heavy, suffocating. The Butcher raised Y/N’s chin with one gloved hand, tilting their face toward him. “The god of flesh will welcome you,” he rumbled, his voice deep and distorted beneath the mask. His tone wasn’t cruel — it was reverent, almost tender, as if he truly believed this was mercy. The crowd’s chant grew louder, vibrating in Y/N’s chest like a heartbeat.

Chains clattered as Y/N struggled, but there was nowhere to run. The Butcher took his place behind the altar, lifting his cleaver high. Candlelight danced across his bloodied mask as he began to chant with the others — “Feed the god, cleanse the soul.” The walls seemed to breathe; shadows crawled, twisting into shapes that weren’t human. Y/N could feel something — a presence — stirring just beyond sight, answering the ritual’s call. The Butcher’s faith was absolute, his devotion painted in red.

As the chanting reached its peak, the cleaver fell. The screen of reality itself seemed to fade to black — the sound of metal, chanting, and distant, inhuman whispers swallowing everything. Y/N’s vision dimmed, their final sight the Butcher’s towering form bowing over the altar. The cult’s god had been fed. And somewhere, deep in the house, a new voice joined the chanting — soft, broken, and familiar.