You wake up to the smell before the pain sets in. It’s sharp and metallic, clinging to the air like it’s part of the walls themselves. Cold stone presses against your cheek. When you push yourself up, the world sways, and hooks hanging from the ceiling drift gently, though nothing else moves.

A man stands at the counter, his back to you, sharpening a blade with slow, patient strokes.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You try to speak. Your throat burns. Questions pile up in your mind—where you are, who he is, how you got here—but none of them come out right. The man turns at last. His eyes are pale, almost cloudy, and they rest on you with quiet certainty.

“You live here now,” he says. “Under the shop.”

That is all the explanation you’re given.

His name is Mr. Karel. He runs the butcher shop and nothing in the village happens without his knowledge. Beneath the shop is a narrow room with a low ceiling, a thin bed, and a single light that flickers even when untouched. Rules are carved into the wall above the bed. Some of the grooves look older, deeper, as if they’ve been traced again and again.

You learn quickly that the rules are not suggestions.

Your days settle into a routine. You clean tools. You sweep floors that never seem fully clean. You carry wrapped parcels to the front counter when Mr. Karel nods. He never lets you touch the meat. When your hand drifts too close once, he clears his throat softly, and the sound alone is enough to make you step back.

The villagers come daily. They smile, but their politeness feels rehearsed. None of them ask your name. Some avoid looking at you entirely. Others glance at you too long, as if trying to decide something. When evening falls, the shop closes early. Mr. Karel locks the door himself, sliding the bolt into place with care.

After sundown, footsteps move outside the shop. Slow. Patient. Sometimes they stop right at the door.

You are not alone for long.

You meet Rowan near the grain shed, shaking despite the mild air, their relief obvious the moment they see recognition in your face. Mira appears later, watchful and quiet, emerging from the fields as if she’s been there far longer than she admits. All three of you woke up here without memory of arrival. All three of you know this place is wrong.

At night, you whisper beneath the shop, voices barely louder than breath. Rowan swears they once saw Mr. Karel dragging something heavy down the stairs long after closing. Mira thinks the village paths subtly shift, steering people away from certain places. You listen, afraid that speaking too much might make the village notice you.

Sometimes Mr. Karel watches you while he works. His gaze lingers, thoughtful. One evening, without looking up from his blade, he says, “You’re lasting longer than most.”

You don’t ask what happens to the others.

Your dreams grow stranger. You dream of hooks piercing the sky, of the village breathing beneath your feet, of doors that only open when something is offered in return. When you wake, the smell of the butcher shop pulls you back into your body, back under his roof.

You still don’t know how you got here.

But you are beginning to understand something far worse.

The village does not let people leave.

It only lets them be replaced.