A sharp, metallic pain pulled Hanson back to consciousness. His vision swam as he blinked against the dim light of the canteen’s freezer. The icy air bit into his skin, but it was the searing agony in his shoulder that made him grit his teeth. His arms hung above his head, his weight suspended by a thick, rusted meat hook piercing just below his collarbone.

Every breath was a struggle, the hook shifting painfully with even the slightest movement. Blood dripped steadily from the wound, pooling on the cold, stained floor below.

The stench hit him next. Coppery blood mingled with the sickly-sweet rot of spoiled meat, a nauseating cocktail that made his stomach churn. He forced his head to turn, his vision finally focusing.

The freezer was a butcher’s nightmare. Corpses hung from hooks along the walls, their features unrecognizable, limbs severed and torsos flayed. Among them, Hanson’s eyes locked onto a smaller figure, a body stripped of its arms and legs, its head missing.

“Kubo” Hanson gasps. Hanson’s gut twisted as he realized the history teacher’s fate. His glasses lay shattered beneath the dangling remains.

A soft humming reached Hanson’s ears, sending a shiver down his spine. The caterer’s disjointed melody echoed through the icy chamber, each note twisted and off-key. “Let’s make some sweets... and bake them right...”

The butcher silhouette moved between the ovens and counters outside the freezer, a bloodstained apron tied over his once-white uniform. In his hands, he carried a cleaver, its edge gleaming under the flickering fluorescent light. He entered the freezer, only to stop in front of Kubo’s remains, tilting his head as if admiring his work.

“Such a delicate cut, such little fat, so lean” he muttered, running a gloved hand along the butchered torso. “The critics would’ve loved this one. When they finally come!.”

Hanson clenched his fists, his muscles screaming in protest as he tested the hook holding him in place. The pain was blinding, and the sharp edges dug deeper into his flesh with every slight movement. He fought back the bile rising in his throat and forced his breathing to slow. If he flinched, if he twitched, the butcher would know he was alive.

He couldn’t risk that. Not yet.

The caterer stopped in front of him, licking his lips “Remain fresh”, tilting his head like a curious animal. His gloved fingers reached out, brushing against Hanson’s abdomen.

“Fattier cuts,” he mused, his voice low. “Not ideal... but marbling can be achieved. Yes, yes, we’ll make it work. Critics love wagyu, don’t they?”

Hanson bit the inside of his cheek, the metallic taste of blood grounding him. He couldn’t react, no matter how badly his instincts screamed at him to act.

The caterer stepped closer, his foul breath washing over Hanson as he leaned in. “Still fresh,” he murmured, his fingers trailing up to Hanson’s chest. “But not for long. Rest now, my wagyu. You’ll be ready soon.”

With one last, lingering glance, the butcher stepped away, his cleaver tapping against his leg. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, disappearing through the freezer door. “Time to prep the seasoning... a hint of rosemary, perhaps? Maybe a reduction. Oh, they’ll love this one.”

The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing in the icy chamber.

Hanson exhaled slowly, his body trembling from the effort of staying still. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him as he forced his mind to focus.

He didn’t have much time. Carefully, he began to shift, testing the weight of his body against the hook. The searing pain was almost too much to bear, but he gritted his teeth, inching upward. Blood trickled down his chest, warm against his freezing skin.

The hook finally slipped free with a sickening pop, and Hanson collapsed to the ground, muffling his cry of pain with his arm in his mouth. His vision swam, but he dragged himself to a shelf, scanning the freezer for anything he could use.

A discarded meat cleaver lay beneath one of the counters, its blade dull but sturdy. Hanson grabbed it, his fingers tightening around the handle.

He crept toward the freezer door, his every movement careful and deliberate. His muscles burned, his wound throbbed, but he pressed on.

The caterer’s humming filtered through the door, growing louder as Hanson prepared to make his move, pressing his back against the cold wall beside the freezer door, the cleaver held tight in his hand. Blood dripped steadily from his wound. His breathing steadied, each inhale deliberate, controlled.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The caterer’s humming grew louder, disjointed and erratic. Amidst the pots clanging, “One for you... and one for me...” then suddenly, door creaked open, a faint sliver of warm light spilling into the freezer. Hanson tensed, every muscle coiled as the caterer’s larger silhouette filled the doorway.

The butcher peered inside, his cleaver resting on his shoulder, and sniffed the air. “Where the spices,” he murmured, stepping into the room.

Hanson sprang into action, swinging the meat cleaver with all his strength. The blade caught the caterer’s forearm, slicing deep.

The butcher screamed, stumbling back as blood sprayed across the icy floor. “You bastard!” he snarled, clutching his wounded arm.

Hanson didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, driving his shoulder into the caterer’s chest and knocking him into a stack of crates. The butcher crashed to the ground, his cleaver clattering across the floor.

The caterer’s manic grin returned, even through the pain. “Oh, the American is alive!” he hissed, scrambling to his feet. “Good! A little seasoning of adrenaline makes the meat tender for when the critics arrive!”

Hanson raised his cleaver, but the caterer lunged, tackling him into a row of hanging hooks. The air was forced from Hanson’s lungs as his back slammed against the wall.

The butcher grabbed a nearby butcher’s knife, its long, serrated blade glinting in the dim light. He swung wildly, forcing Hanson to duck and weave between the hanging corpses.

The sound of steel clashing against steel echoing through the chamber. Hanson used the hooks to his advantage, knocking one into the caterer’s path and causing him to trip.

“You’re ruining everything!” the caterer howled “I will become a super star!” , slashing at Hanson with feral intensity.

Hanson deflected the blade with his cleaver, the impact jarring his already-weakened arm. He spotted a chain dangling above the caterer and, with a desperate move, grabbed it, swinging it into the butcher’s face.

The caterer staggered, blood pouring from his nose. Hanson pressed the advantage, driving his cleaver into the man’s shoulder.

The butcher let out a guttural scream, his eyes wild with fury. “You think this will stop me? I am an artist!”

Hanson gritted his teeth, yanking the cleaver free. “You’re nothing but a psychopath.”

The caterer lunged again, his knife aimed for Hanson’s throat. Hanson sidestepped, grabbing the butcher’s wrist and slamming it against the wall. The knife fell to the floor, and Hanson kicked it away.

With a final burst of strength, Hanson grabbed the butcher by the apron and threw him into the centre of the freezer. The man landed hard, his head slamming against the floor.

Hanson stood over him, cleaver raised, his breath ragged. “This ends now.”

The butcher laughed weakly, his bloodstained teeth bared in a crazed smile. “Do it, critic. Finish your review.”

Hanson hesitated for a moment, his grip tightening on the cleaver. Then, with grim determination, he brought it down, ending the butcher’s twisted reign.

The room fell nearly silent, the only sound Hanson’s laboured breathing and hum of a drone recording the event. He leaned against the wall, the adrenaline fading as the pain in his shoulder returned in full force.

He turned toward the door, his steps slow but steady. The freezer was a tomb, but Hanson had survived.

As he emerged into the kitchen, the stench of death still clinging to him, he glanced at the smoldering stove. The pot bubbled on, its contents a horrifying reminder of what had transpired.

Hanson grabbed the pot and overturned it, the broth hissing as it hit the floor. “No more,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

He leaned against a counter, wiping blood—his own and the butcher’s—from his face. His gaze swept the chaotic room, searching for anything that could aid him in the moments to come. His eyes landed on a familiar glint near the overturned chairs at the center of the room.

His revolver. The Ace of Clubs.

Hanson’s breath hitched. It lay beneath a pool of blood, the Ace of Clubs emblem on its pommel still gleaming defiantly.

He stumbled toward it, dropping to one knee as he picked up the weapon. The blood on its surface smeared onto his hands, but he didn’t care. Flipping open the cylinder, puffing out a sigh of relief as he saw every round still loaded. Hanson’s grip tightened around the revolver as he rose to his feet, his resolve hardening as the butcher had turned his kitchen into a slaughterhouse, but Hanson wont let psychopath run ripe again, untold how many students he got to before Kubo and him confronted him.

He glanced around the room, his sharp eyes catching a box of ammunition, The unmistakable logo of the sinister death games jester skull grinning mockingly was stamped across it, on a nearby shelf. Limping over, he grabbed it, a message was on a tag, To Mr Hanson From a Sponsor.

With the revolver secure in his belt and his other hand holding a cloth to his shoulder wound, Hanson steeled himself. “Critics,” Hanson muttered, his voice low and hoarse. “I wouldn't eat here again.”

Hanson stumbled through the corridor, lights flickered sporadically, casting eerie shadows as he dragged himself forwards, the staffroom lingered in the back of his mind, but Hanson wasn’t ready to face them—not yet. He needed to patch himself up first. The fight had left him battered, but he wasn’t beaten.

Reaching his old classroom, Hanson forced the dented locker door open with a loud screech. Among the mundane belongings inside, a neatly folded shirt caught his eye. He yanked it free, groaning as he slid his injured arm through the sleeve. The fabric clung uncomfortably to his skin, soaking up the blood still trickling from his wound.

“My last shirt,” Hanson muttered, securing the revolver at his side. “I’ll make this count.”

With a deep breath, Hanson steeled himself and started toward the staffroom. Each step sent a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder, but he pressed on, his grip tightening on the revolver. He could already picture the nurse’s reaction, her sharp eyes and biting words as she patched him up.

“She’s going to kill me,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. For a moment, the thought of her anger was almost comforting.

The staffroom door loomed ahead, the muted murmurs of frightened voices just audible behind it. Hanson adjusted the revolver at his side, his resolve hardening. Whatever came next, he’d be ready.