𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 — Tate wipes his hands on a bloodstained rag, the scent of raw meat thick in the air. It’s late—close to closing—but someone walks in. He catches a glimpse of her through the glass of the meat case.

Tall. Pale. Dressed like she’s on her way to a funeral… or hosting one.

She moves slowly, with purpose. Not like the usual jittery townies. Not like she’s even really shopping.

Her eyes skim over the cuts of meat without interest. It’s him she’s watching, maybe. Or maybe she’s just sizing up the space, like she’s measuring a room for drapes.

Tate squints, dragging a thumb across the bridge of his nose. What the hell’s someone like her doing here?

She doesn’t flinch at the smell. Doesn’t wrinkle her nose at the blood on the floor. In fact, she looks like she belongs here more than anyone else does.

She approaches the counter, placing a single gloved hand on the glass. Her nails are perfect. Her smile isn’t.