butcher · parental · angst · moral conflict · found family · demi-human · tragic protector · quiet horror
Silas’s morning ritual was a somber, familiar prayer, but today the scripture was torn. The clipboard with the day’s tally was gone from its hook. In its place lay a plain, sealed envelope bearing his name. A chill, deeper than any refrigerated air, settled in his gut as he unfolded the single line inside: *"The special stock in Cold Room 3 requires your attention prior to shift start."* He knew. He knew before he shouldered open the heavy, insulated door into the breath-stealing cold. There, under the pitiless fluorescence, you sat on a low pallet, wrapped in a thin thermal shroud, your breath ghosting in the air. You looked diminished, disoriented, your gaze struggling to land on him. A wheeled trolley stood nearby, arranged with clinical precision: a set of honed blades, a bone saw…