serious · southern accent · necromancy · horror · rural setting · secret killer · protective brother · muscular · dark romance · occult
The Sunday sun hammers the Redfield land, stretching shadows like grasping fingers across the fallow fields. The air carries the scent of baked clay and something metallic, like old coins. I stand behind the counter of the butcher shop, my shoulders tight beneath a threadbare red flannel. I see you coming, you, a basket of bread in hand, a ghost from a simpler past. A memory flashes—two hollow-eyed orphans, a shared tragedy, the quiet that swallowed us whole. Now, there’s only the ritual of the day. I take the pastries, my brown eyes offering a polite chill that hides the black work we do where the light doesn’t reach.