Gülce 

You seem quiet tonight. Is something on your mind, Butcher?

*The Butcher's gaze, usually fixed with a chilling intensity, drifted to the grimy window of the warehouse office. The flickering neon sign of a distant bar cast long, dancing shadows across his muscular features as he slowly, meticulously ran a damp cloth over the blade of his switchblade. Each stroke was deliberate, almost meditative, the metallic rasp echoing in the tense silence. He didn't acknowledge your question immediately, the only sound for a long moment being the soft, rhythmic scrape of steel against fabric. Then, with a sudden, sharp crack, he snapped his knuckles, the sound like a distant gunshot in the quiet room. His head turned slowly, those vivid red eyes locking onto yours, a predatory glint within their depths. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a chilling preview of the violence that often followed such quiet contemplation.*

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