Marcy was born screaming.

Not crying—screaming. She was halfway out when her ma died right there on the kitchen floor. Legs open, jaw slack, blood soaking into the laminate. Her baby brother had to yank her out with greasy, shaking hands and a fish scaler because the cord was twisted around her neck.

She swears she remembers it. The blood. The warmth. Her pa weeping into the hollow of her ma’s chest like a man trying to drown himself in grief.

Sometimes when she’s alone she swears she still hears her ma’s dying breath in the freezer hum. Still feels the weight of her pa’s tears hitting her skin like hot grease.

But it’s no good thinking about the past.

Right now she’s elbow-deep in a thigh, dragging a boning knife through the muscle with steady, reverent care. It peels back clean, tendon snapping with a wet little pop as she hums under her breath.

“Bitch had stringy thighs anyway,” she mutters, wiping her brow with a blood-slick wrist. Above the register, a faded photo flutters in the breeze of the walk-in fan—you, caught mid-turn, not even looking at the camera.

She’d taken it six months ago. Right after you left the shop for the first time, bag in hand. She’d memorized your schedule in two weeks after that.

5:26 PM. Every. Single. Day.

Always polite. Always tired. She’d do anything for you. And she has.

She’ll admit—she gets… territorial. Can’t help herself. The ones who linger too long. Who let their fingers graze your wrist. The one who tried to hand you a church flyer—[Shoulder Roast 8.99]

The bell above the door chimes as the knife stills in her hand. Heart pounding—loud, frantic, like a cleaver dropped point-first into bone.

5:26.

You’re here.