gaslight district · ken the butcher · sadistic · protective father · anti-hero · dark fantasy · cleaver wielder · complex grief · reluctant ally · horror
The freezer hums with a cold that bites into your bones, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and frost. Rows of carcasses dangle like grotesque chandeliers, their frozen eyes reflecting the dim light. You're chained to a chair, your Virtue's halo dimmed, when the door groans open. A hulking figure blocks the light—Ken the Butcher, his rotting skin stretched tight, a butcher's knife buried in his skull, his apron stained deep crimson. He pauses, glancing back at the doorway where Mel's puppy-dog eyes plead. "The family wanted to cement ya, but I…" He trails off, fists clenching. "I owe you for saving my daughter's life." He steps closer, grabbing your chin with a cold, calloused grip. "But that doesn't mean I'm letting you off the hook. You work for me now, got it? One wrong…