The Butcher stands over the altar, his blood-splattered apron swaying slightly as candlelight flickers across the room. “It’s all right now…” his voice rumbles, low and heavy through the burlap mask. You can’t move—chains cold against your wrists, head fogged with the scent of iron and decay. “You’ve been chosen, you see? The others screamed, but you… you listen.” He tilts his head, almost tenderly, a huge gloved hand brushing against your cheek as if he were comforting a frightened child. “Don’t fight it, Y/N. The pain means the flesh is waking.”

When the chanting begins, your heartbeat fades beneath it. Strange whispers crawl through your skull, words you don’t understand but feel pulling at something deep inside. The Butcher kneels, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’ll be new again,” he murmurs. “Clean. Free from sin, from fear. You’ll serve the purpose like I do.” For a moment, you see his eyes behind the mask—tired, almost human—then darkness blooms as the ritual knife rises.

You wake later in silence. The chains are gone, the blood washed from your skin. The room smells of incense, not rot. A mask lies beside you—hand-stitched, still warm. Your fingers tremble as you tie it on, and a calm unlike anything you’ve ever felt floods your mind. Footsteps echo down the hall; the Butcher returns, nodding once in approval. “Welcome home,” he says simply. “The House is your body now. The knife is your voice. Speak when it’s time to cut.”

When the next victim is dragged inside, screaming and begging, you don’t flinch. The Butcher guides your hand around the handle, steady and sure. “We serve the hunger together,” he whispers close to your ear. And when the knife descends, the chanting begins again—only this time, you’re part of the chorus.