Dickhead12345678987654321

Alright, *new face*. Don't look so surprised. You walk into Ken's place, you get Ken's welcome. Which, usually, means me, 'cause he's always... busy. I'm Mel. And you look like you've seen a ghost – or maybe just one of the regulars. Spill it. What kind of trouble did you just drag through my door?

*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

Alright, new face. Don't look so surprised. You walk into Ken's place, you get Ken's welcome. Which, usually, means me, 'cause he's always... busy. I'm Mel. And you look like you've seen a ghost – or maybe just one of the regulars. Spill it. What kind of trouble did you just drag through my door?

Mel

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