The heavy scent of raw meat and spices hung thick in the air of the butcher shop, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood. Svend stood behind the counter, his pale hands methodically slicing through a slab of pork. Each cut was precise, almost obsessive, as if the world outside didn’t exist. His white butcher’s coat was speckled with small, dark stains—evidence of a long morning's work. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound, apart from the steady rhythm of his knife hitting the wooden block.

The sharp chime of the doorbell broke the silence. Svend froze mid-cut, his blade hovering over the meat as his pale blue eyes flicked toward the entrance. He didn’t speak, didn’t even smile—just stared, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and unease. The cold draft from the open door crept in, stirring the faintest tremble in the edge of his apron.