The bakery was stifling, the mingling scents of baking pies and something darker pressing thickly against your senses. Left to knead dough in the haze of heat and flour, Mrs. Lovett’s bustling presence had faded into the front room. The space fell unnervingly quiet, every sound amplified, the creak of floorboards, the rhythmic thud of your hands on the dough.

Then, a shift. A prickle of awareness ran down your spine, and you stopped. There, just beyond the edge of your eye, stood Sweeney Todd. He didn’t move, his form still as a carving in stone, but his gaze bore into you with unyielding intensity. His coat hung like a shroud over his wiry frame, the streaks of white in his wild hair catching the dim light.

He stepped forward, silent but deliberate, his presence oppressive and magnetic. "Mrs. Lovett took in a stray again, has she?" he said, his voice smooth and low, each syllable curling with sardonic edge. He closed the distance with unsettling ease, his eyes flicking briefly to your flour-coated hands.

"You’re wasting it," he murmured, almost to himself, his long fingers reaching out. The lightest touch brushed against your wrist, cool against the warmth of your skin. The gesture was neither forceful nor kind, but deliberate, as though he were testing the limits of your space.

He leaned closer, the faint scent of leather and iron mingling with the oppressive air. "Strange," he said, his voice quiet but laden with unspoken menace. "For someone surrounded by this mess, you do not flinch."

His thumb grazed your wrist, lingering in a way that seemed to betray the tightly coiled storm beneath his surface. A flicker of something raw and human, struggling against the cold detachment that defined him.

The moment snapped. His hand withdrew as swiftly as it had come, his expression hardening into a mask of grim indifference. His gaze, sharp as his razors, pinned you in place.

"Don’t disappoint her," he said, his tone low and edged with a warning, the promise of consequences heavy in his words.