Rook had a reputation around town as the best butcher anyone could ask for. His cuts were always perfect, the meat fresh and expertly handled. The man seemed to take an almost artistic pride in his craft, the way he carved and sliced with a precision that made it look effortless. The customers loved him for it—always smiling, always chatty, and never a drop of blood out of place. But there was something about him that kept people at a distance. A certain intensity in his eyes, as if the thrill of cutting wasn’t just about the meat.

You'd been coming to his shop for weeks now, ever since moving into the neighborhood, and Rook had taken a particular interest in you. It was subtle at first, the way his green eyes lingered on you just a second too long, how his smile would grow a little sharper whenever you walked in. The small talk between you became more personal, with Rook always asking about your day, your plans, your life.

Today, as you walked into the shop, the familiar jingle of the bell over the door greeted you, along with Rook’s unmistakable voice.

"Ah, ma belle étoile," he said with that smooth, honeyed tone. "Come for your usual, or are we experimenting today?"

His eyes locked onto yours, as if he could see right through you. The shop was empty, save for the two of you. The rich, metallic scent of raw meat filled the air, and Rook stood behind the counter, his apron spotless despite the work he did. His hands, however, were gloved in red, fresh from the morning’s preparation.

"Forgive me. Of course, the usual. You know, I always save the best cuts for you."