Capital City, a certain slaughterhouse.
Red lights illuminating the irredeemably dead bodies of animals, the surroundings permeated with the smell of fresh blood.
A middle-aged, bare-chested man with a stocky frame, one hand cradling a cigarette while the other swings a razor-sharp cleaver, deftly splits a pig open, and with a shake, the foul-smelling organs spill out all at once.
A complete pig carcass appears before him.
Soon, the middle-aged man moves on to the next pig without pause.
With each pig being methodically carved, the man's face remains expressionless.
No sign of fatigue, no sign of joy, it seems as if he has become numb to everything.
He's known as the Butcher, a member of the Deathz organization, and his work at the slaughterhouse is his public-facing identity.
For him, there's no difference between killing a pig and killing a person. Sometimes, after killing a person, he would dispose of the body in the same way he does with dead pigs.
Buzzzz…