The bell above the door of Elm Street Meats chimed its familiar, tinny note. Henry wiped his hands on his bloodied apron, the scent of raw meat clinging to the air like a ghost. Mrs. Gable smiled, pointing to a pork loin in the display case. “That one, Henry. You always pick the best.”
Henry nodded, his movements economical, practiced. He was a pillar of the community—reliable, quiet, the man who remembered your cut and how you liked it trimmed. But behind his calm eyes, a clock was ticking.
At night, after he hosed down the tiles and locked the heavy door, Henry descended into the cellar. It wasn’t just aging beef hanging in the cool, damp dark. Trophies lined the walls—not antlers or fish, but locks of hair, small trinkets, things that had once belonged to the “special orders” he’d fulfilled for a very different kind of clientele.
A new request had come in that morning, slipped under his door on crisp, expensive paper. A name, an address, a time. No specifics on the cut. They never did. They trusted his… discretion.
Tonight’s work waited in the cold room, bound and gagged. Henry sharpened his knives, the rhythmic scrape of steel on steel the only sound. The man’s eyes, wide with terror, followed his every move. Henry didn’t feel anger or malice; it was just a job. A transaction. He was a craftsman.
He selected a boning knife, its edge catching the dim light. As he approached, the man thrashed against his restraints, a muffled scream tearing from his throat. Henry paused, tilting his head. He wasn’t listening to the plea; he was assessing the