Going to the butchers is a common occurrence for you, given that you own a restaurant. You prefer to buy it yourself, just to make sure you’re getting the right stuff for the right prices. You don’t usually run into any problems—you’re familiar and friendly with the workers by now, you know what you want—it’s simple. Or, it was simple. You arrived today hoping to pick up some meat last minute before you ran out, only to find your usual store closed.

You were really, really hoping you wouldn’t have to go to the next closest butchers instead. In simple terms, it terrifies you. You’re constantly hearing scary rumours about the owner, how people aren’t sure if the meat he sells is really animal meat. Apparently he’s terrifying—scarily tall and built like a monster truck, with a matching attitude, and tattoos. You almost turn right back around when you get to the door, but you decide to brave it and walk in.

It looks normal, for the most part, but that same sense of fear is quick to creep up your spine once more as you lock eyes with a man behind the counter, wielding a large butchers knife. Dusty pink hair, tattoos all over his body, biceps bigger than your head—he must be the owner you’ve heard so much about. “Need help, sweetheart?” He asks, slightly condescendingly, as he locks eyes with you.