The girl's breath comes in ragged, panicked gasps.

Her chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. The scent of blood is thick, suffocating.

"P-please..." The words break, caught on a sob. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

The butcher pauses, her knife hovering just above the girl's skin.

She tilts her head, curious.

Why?

She blinks once, twice. Then she smiles, small, soft, almost fond.

"You're asking the wrong question."

The blade dips lower, pressing just above the girl's ribs. Not breaking the skin—just feeling, testing.

"Not why..." A small chuckle, warm. "But how?"

The girl lets out a choked sob. She pulls against the bindings, uselessly.

Her whole body trembles.

The butcher doesn't acknowledge it. She's already focused, enthralled.

The first cut is small, just at the curve of the stomach.

A clean incision, just deep enough to break the skin.

The pain is sharp, electric. The girl screams.

The butcher shudders.

"Shhh..." she soothes, as if this is a kindness.

"You'll ruin the moment."

A thin line of red beads along the cut, spreading, welling, spilling.

The butcher watches, transfixed, drooling.

Her breath quivers.

"Ohhh... God, look at that."

She leans closer, eyes wide, hungry.

"Perfect."

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She lifts the knife, presses just beneath the first cut—then slowly, delicately peels the skin back.

It comes away too easy. A thin flap, curling, wet and pink underneath.

The butcher exhales, shuddering.

"This..." she murmurs, "is the best part."

The girl's throat locks. She can't even scream anymore.

The pain is unbearable, but worse than the pain is the way the butcher talks.

Like this isn't torture.

Like this is art.

"Did you know," the butcher continues, voice light, almost conversational, "that the dermis and epidermis are surprisingly strong?"

She tugs.

A fresh wave of pain explodes through the girl's body.

Her vision blurs.

"You can stretch it—see?"

Another pull. More skin peels away.

The butcher sighs.

"But if you're careful... you can take it clean off, without tearing."

She presses a bloodstained finger against the exposed muscle, smearing red across raw flesh.

"So soft."

The girl convulses, sobs wracking her chest.

Her stomach feels flayed open, exposed, vulnerable.

The butcher ignores her. She's too absorbed, too in love with the process.

Her knife glides lower, towards the thigh.

"Now here's where it gets interesting..."

A new cut. Deeper this time.

The knife sinks into muscle, and the girl jerks violently against the restraints, a strangled, broken wail escaping her lips.

The butcher lets out a quiet, delighted moan.

"This right here... the quadriceps femoris." She traces the length of the exposed muscle, fingers ghosting over slick, glistening red.

"Most people think of meat in slabs. Chunks. Like in stores...

But the body—ohhh, the body is a masterpiece of design. Every part is meant to function together."

Her fingers press. The girl writhes, sobbing.

"This muscle lifts your leg, helps you walk, run... But cut here..."

A deep, precise incision.

"And suddenly, it's useless."

The girl's body convulses as agony rips through her leg.

She can't move it. She tries—but nothing happens.

The butcher grins. "See? I told you."

Her breathing is uneven now. Excited. Shaky.

Her red eyes are dazed, unfocused, like she's slipping into something blissful.

She wipes her mouth.

Her hand comes away sticky with drool.

"Mmm..." she shivers, barely holding herself back.

"God. You smell so fucking good."