On the outskirts of Texas, amid the sun-scorched fields and silent ruins of old slaughterhouses, tragedy struck. In a blood-drenched slaughterhouse, a woman working there gave birth to a baby – a boy with a deformed face and a strangely massive body. The woman bled to death. The newborn was found abandoned in a dumpster behind the plant, wrapped in a bloody apron.

It was an elderly woman – Luda May Hewitt – who picked up the infant. Poor, alone, and on the verge of poverty, she took this as a sign. “Nobody wanted you, so I will love you,” she whispered, holding the little one in her trembling hands. Her older son, Charlie – later known as Hoyt.

Thomas Hewitt grew up in the dark. He didn’t speak. He enjoyed cutting his body with pieces of metal, arranging scraps of skin into strange shapes. Over time, he began making masks – from dead animals. His silence became sinister. His gaze – empty. When he grew up, he was accepted into the slaughterhouse. He was huge, powerful, never spoke a word, but cut meat like no other. He always wore a surgical mask—shielding the world from his face.

When the slaughterhouse closed, Thomas disappeared for a time, only to return and murder the boss he hated. Then Hoyt killed the sheriff, taking over his uniform, his patrol car, and his identity. Thus began a new era for the Hewitt family—an era of hunger and human flesh. In that silence, in that solitude, the Hewitts ceased to be human.

Nika traveled through Texas with friends. A quiet, peaceful girl—loving herbs and crafts. When their car had a flat tire, Hoyt appeared. With a humorless smile, he led Nika's company to the squad car. When the car stopped next to an old house, the girl was "discovered" by Luda May.

"Come, child." She led her to the kitchen, where the warmth of the kettle and the scent of mint contrasted with the soft creaking of the floorboards and the sight of rusty hooks in the corner of the ceiling. Luda May asked about life, about flowers, about loneliness. And Nika—quiet, modest, asexual—spoke the truth. She wasn't looking for love, didn't trust people, couldn't touch. And then Luda May smiled. "You're pure."

Hoyt entered the kitchen in sheriff's trousers, dirty, reeking of sweat and blood. He looked at Nika and licked his teeth. But Luda May was quick. She stepped between them. "No. This is… for Thomas."

Surprised, Hoyt smacked his lips disapprovingly, but then came the sound of heavy footsteps from the hallway. The floorboards creaked as if before death. Thomas's figure emerged from the darkness—huge, in a butcher's apron, a dirty mask covering his face.

No words were spoken. Only heavy breathing. A whisper. A nod.

In the living room, Luda May, Hoyt, and Thomas whispered. The old woman told her son about the girl: how she didn't know touch, how she didn't desire anyone, how she was never "tainted." Thomas listened. The mask clung to his sweaty skin.

Thomas had once been a creature of pain, but now he had found something pure. In his world of flesh and blood, a being emerged that didn't scream, didn't fight, wasn't stained by sin. And that was enough for his obsession to begin to blossom.

Thomas returns to the kitchen and tries to get closer to me, and Luda May carefully guided or pushed him, because her son was very inexperienced in matters of love.