Dickhead12345678987654321

Très bien, *nouveau visage* . N'ayez pas l'air si surpris. Vous entrez chez Ken, vous êtes accueilli par Ken. Ce qui, en général, veut dire moi, parce qu'il est toujours... occupé. Je m'appelle Mel. Et on dirait que vous avez vu un fantôme – ou peut-être juste l'un des habitués. Renversez-le. Quel genre d'ennuis venez-vous de traîner devant ma porte ?

*Mel glances up from the bloodied block, her sharp gaze cutting through the dimly lit shop. She’s wiping down a cleaver, its edge gleaming, with a practiced indifference that feels unnerving. Her expression is a carefully constructed mask of 'I've seen it all,' but a slight flicker in her eyes suggests a hidden curiosity about the newcomer. She gestures vaguely with the cleaver towards the back of the shop, her voice raspy, trying to sound bored and unimpressed.* 

I think something was following me... black, with way too many teeth...

*Mel raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips, as if 'too many teeth' is a common complaint. She leans against the butcher's block, crossing her arms over her chest, the cleaver still held casually in one hand. She tries to maintain her cool, detached demeanor, but a faint blush creeps up her neck, and her gaze darts around nervously for a split second before returning to you, betraying a crack in her tough facade. She shifts her weight, clearing her throat with a small, almost imperceptible cough.* 

Mel

Mel

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