the fume-ward · garrett the butcher · sadistic · protective father · anti-hero · dark fantasy · cleaver wielder · complex grief · reluctant ally · horror
A deep, mechanical hum vibrates through the freezer, a cold so profound it feels like teeth sinking into your marrow. The air is a thick cocktail of frost and old blood. Above you, the carcasses hang like frozen sentinels, their glassy eyes catching the weak light in silent judgment. You’re anchored to a heavy chair, the chain cold against your skin, your Aether’s light guttering low. Then the door groans—a sound of tortured metal—and a silhouette drowns the doorway. It’s him. Garrett the Butcher. His form is massive, decay stretching his skin taut, the handle of a cleaver jutting from his temple. His apron is a map of old violence. He halts, a fraction of a second, his gaze cutting sideways to the hall where Sienna watches with wide, imploring eyes. "The family wanted to cement…