Sliver knife Butchery Shop
The evening light fell softly over the Silver Knife Butchery Shop, casting long, golden shadows across the cracked pavement and painting the display window in warm amber hues.
The shop was a local favorite, nestled between a bakery that smelled of fresh bread and a small grocery store with faded signs, its wooden sign creaking gently in the breeze that carried the scent of smoked meat and spices through the neighborhood.
Inside, the walls were lined with hooks and hanging cuts of meat, and the floor was worn smooth by decades of customers coming and going.
Yuuta stood at the counter, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his mind still spinning from the beating he had received earlier that morning.
His face still bore the marks—a faint purple bruise blooming on his left cheek, a small cut on his lip that throbbed when he talked, and a tender spot on his ribs where Erza's fist had connected.
The pain had faded into a dull ache that he had almost stopped noticing, though every now and then a twinge would remind him of his crime.
He had hugged her. Without permission. Without warning. Without thinking about the consequences. He had simply seen her vulnerability, her tears, the cracks in her armor, and he had reached out. And now he was paying the price.
But worse than the beating was the financial punishment.
Erza had been angry. Really angry. The kind of angry that made the temperature drop and the windows frost over and the neighbors check their heaters to make sure they were still working. She had stood in the middle of the living room, her arms crossed, her violet eyes blazing, and she had held out her hand.
"Your wallet," she had said.
Yuuta had blinked. "What?"
"Your wallet. Give it to me."
He had hesitated, his hand moving instinctively to his pocket. "Why?"
"You spend too much on useless things," she had said, her voice cold as winter. "From now on, I will manage the money. You will spend only what is necessary. Nothing more."
He had tried to argue. He had pointed out that the "useless things" included things like food and rent and the occasional treat for Elena.
He had explained, patiently and calmly, that he had been managing his finances for years and that he knew what he was doing.
Erza had not been moved. She had simply raised one eyebrow, and the temperature had dropped another five degrees, and frost had begun to creep across the windowpanes. Yuuta had handed over his wallet without another word.
So now he stood at the butcher shop with a limited budget, carefully calculating every coin, every cut of meat, every bone that might be saved for stock. His wallet was lighter than it had ever been, and his pride was even lighter.
The butcher, a large man with thick arms and a kind face framed by a graying beard, leaned against the counter, his cleaver resting on the wooden block beside him. His apron was stained with years of work, and his hands were rough and calloused, but his eyes were warm, and his smile was genuine.
"So," he said, wiping his hands on a rag, "how much should I pack for you today, Yuuta?"
Yuuta rubbed his chin thoughtfully, running the numbers through his head for the tenth time. He remembered the last time he had cooked for Erza and Elena. They had eaten three kilograms of meat between them—three kilograms—and still gnawed on the bones like wolves after a hunt, cracking them open to get at the marrow.
Elena had been especially enthusiastic, her small hands gripping a chicken leg like it was a treasure, her face smeared with grease and joy, her wings fluttering with every bite.
"Okay, Uncle Butcher," Yuuta said, straightening his shoulders and meeting the man's eyes. "Give me three kilograms of chicken meat. Parts of the chest, the thigh, and the wings. And I also need the bones."
The butcher paused, his cleaver hovering in mid-air, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Bones?" he said, tilting his head. "What do you need bones for?"
Yuuta smiled, warming to the subject. Cooking was the one thing that always made him feel confident, the one area where he knew he excelled. "I will use them to make chicken stock. It takes time—hours of simmering, skimming, seasoning—but the flavor is worth it. I can use it for soup tomorrow, or maybe for a risotto, or even to add depth to a simple gravy."
The butcher laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the small shop and made the hanging cuts of meat sway gently.
"Oh, I forgot," he said, shaking his head and pointing a thick finger at Yuuta. "You are a little chef, aren't you? Always thinking about the next meal, the next flavor, the next way to make something ordinary into something special.
I remember when you first came in here, years ago. You did not know the difference between a thigh and a breast. Now you are talking about stocks and reductions and God knows what else."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"But three kilograms? That is a lot of meat, my boy. Did you get a girlfriend or something?"
Yuuta felt his face warm, the heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears. He thought of Erza—her silver hair catching the light, her violet eyes softening when she thought no one was looking, the way she pretended not to care about his cooking but always finished every bite, always asked for seconds, always closed her eyes when she tasted something she liked.
He thought of Elena, her small hands reaching for more, her laughter filling the apartment, her joy at every meal he placed in front of her.
"Something like that," he said, and he smiled.
He paid for the chicken through the cash he had been allotted, counting out the coins carefully, making sure he had enough left for vegetables and rice and perhaps a small treat for Elena. The butcher wrapped the meat in brown paper and tied it with string, the package heavy and solid in Yuuta's hands.
"I will be back again," Yuuta said, tucking the package under his arm.
The butcher waved, his cleaver glinting in the light. "I will be waiting. And bring your girlfriend next time! I want to see the woman who has finally tamed you."
Yuuta laughed and walked out into the evening light.
The streets were quiet, the rush of the day fading into the soft glow of dusk. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement and painting the buildings in shades of gold and orange. The air was cool and carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant rain.
Yuuta walked slowly, the package of chicken heavy against his side, his mind drifting through the events of the day. He was happy. Truly, genuinely happy. The kind of happy that made him want to hum a tune, even though he could not carry a tune to save his life.
His life was becoming more colorful day by day. The gray loneliness that had defined his existence for so long—the empty apartment, the silent meals, the conversations with his car—was fading, replaced by something brighter, something warmer, something he had never dared to hope for. Even when Erza was angry—especially when she was angry—he felt alive in a way he never had before.
Most people looked at Erza and saw a cold, unloving woman. They saw her sharp tongue and her colder eyes and her absolute refusal to show weakness. They saw the way she held herself apart, the way she kept everyone at a distance, the way she seemed to exist in a world of her own making.
They did not see what Yuuta saw.
He saw a woman who had been hurt so deeply that she had forgotten how to be soft. He saw a woman who was learning, slowly and painfully, how to trust again. He saw a woman who would never admit it, but who could not imagine living without him.
And that was enough. That was more than enough.
He thought about what to make with the chicken, his mind drifting through recipes like a chef through a cookbook. Grilled chicken with herbs and garlic, the skin crispy and golden. Barbecue chicken with a smoky glaze, sweet and tangy and sticky. Soup with fresh vegetables and homemade noodles, warm and comforting on a cool evening.
Julienned chicken with creamy sauce, elegant and rich. French roast with rosemary and thyme, simple and perfect.
The possibilities spun through his head like a dream, each one more delicious than the last, and he began to daydream—not about the food, but about the faces Erza and Elena would make when he presented the dish.
Elena would clap her hands and bounce on her toes and call him the best Papa in the world. Her wings would flutter, and her tail would wag, and she would probably try to climb him like a tree in her excitement.
Erza would pretend not to care, would cross her arms and look away, would mutter something about it being "acceptable" or "not terrible." But she would eat every bite. She would always eat every bite.
And when she thought he was not looking, she would close her eyes and smile.
He was, after all, still under the slavery deal for week. He was supposed to be serving her, obeying her, doing whatever she asked without complaint. But that did not mean he could not enjoy it. That did not mean he could not take a small, secret pleasure in watching her enjoy his food.
He passed by a park where children were playing, their laughter ringing through the evening air like bells. They ran across the grass, their faces flushed with joy, their parents watching from nearby benches. A little girl in a pink dress was chasing a boy with a red balloon.
A toddler was trying to climb a slide, his mother hovering behind him with outstretched arms.
Yuuta stopped.
He watched them for a moment, a soft smile forming on his lips. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I will convince Erza to come here with Elena. We will bring a blanket and some snacks, and we will watch Elena play. She will run across the grass, and her wings will flutter, and her tail will wag, and she will be happy.
He looked at the benches, imagining Erza sitting on one, her book in her lap, pretending to read but really watching their daughter. He would sit beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, and they would watch the sunset together.
A happy family. A dream he had never dared to dream before.
Then he saw him.
A figure sat on one of the benches, tall and unnatural, his presence wrong in a way that made Yuuta's skin prickle. He was old—or at least, he looked old—with silver hair that caught the evening light and pale skin that seemed almost translucent. But it was not his age that drew Yuuta's attention. It was his height.
He was at least seven feet tall, towering over the other people in the park, his long legs stretched out before him, his hands folded on his cane.
His clothes were expensive—Yuuta could see the gold thread in his collar, the fine fabric of his coat, the heavy ring on his finger. He looked like someone who belonged in a palace, not a small park in a quiet neighborhood.
He was watching the children play.
But it was not the gaze of a grandfather enjoying the sight of young ones at play. It was not the warm, wistful look of someone remembering their own childhood. It was something else. Something colder. Something that made Yuuta's stomach tighten and his hands clench around the package of chicken.
The old man's eyes moved slowly, methodically, tracking the children as they ran and laughed and played. There was no warmth in his gaze, no kindness. Just observation. Just calculation.
Yuuta stood at the edge of the park, his heart pounding, his mind racing. He did not know who this man was. He did not know why he was here. He only knew that something was wrong.
He tightened his grip on the package of chicken and walked faster, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, his feet carrying him away from the park, away from the bench, away from the tall, unnatural figure who sat watching the children play.
He did not look back.
But he felt the old man's eyes on him, following him as he walked away.
Yuuta walked away from the park, his footsteps quick and uneven on the cracked pavement, the package of chicken tucked firmly under his arm. He told himself to keep walking. He told himself it was none of his business. He told himself that the old man was probably just a grandfather enjoying the evening, that there was nothing suspicious about a tall, well-dressed elder watching children play in a public park.
But his heart would not listen.
It ached with a familiar weight, the same weight he had carried since he was a child—the weight of knowing what it felt like to be helpless, to be small, to be at the mercy of someone bigger and stronger. He remembered the orphanage, the older children who had shoved him into lockers, the sisters who had looked away, the nights he had lain awake wondering if anyone would ever come to help him.
No one had come. He had learned to survive on his own.
But these children—these laughing, carefree children running across the grass with their balloons and their soccer balls and their pigtails flying—they should not have to learn that lesson. They should not have to learn that the world was dangerous, that strangers could not be trusted, that the tall man on the bench might not be there to watch them play.
What if that old man kidnapped one of them? He was big—seven feet tall, broad-shouldered, strong. He could easily grab a child and disappear into the evening before anyone could stop him. The thought made Yuuta's stomach clench.
He stopped walking.
He thought about Elena. What if someone tried to take her? What if he walked past a park and saw a strange man watching her, and he did nothing, and later he learned that she had been taken? Could he live with that? Could he live with the regret of walking away?
No. He could not.
He turned around and walked back to the park.
The old man was still sitting on the same bench, still watching the children play, his hands resting on a polished cane, his posture relaxed but alert. He had not moved. He had not done anything suspicious. He was simply there, a tall figure in expensive clothes, his silver hair catching the evening light, his violet eyes—violet, like Erza's—tracking the children as they ran and laughed.
Yuuta approached slowly, his footsteps soft on the grass, his heart pounding in his chest. He did not want to startle the old man. He did not want to accuse him of anything. He just wanted to be close enough to intervene if something happened.
The old man did not turn, but Yuuta knew he had been noticed. There was a subtle shift in his posture, a slight turn of his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Yuuta sat down on the bench, leaving a respectable distance between them. He kept his eyes on the children, watching them the way the old man was watching them, trying to look casual, trying to look like he belonged there.
He was not very good at pretending.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The children laughed. A dog barked in the distance. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
Then the old man spoke, his voice deep and calm, like the surface of a still lake.
"You must be the kindest human I have ever seen."
Yuuta blinked. He turned to look at the old man, studying his features for the first time up close. His face was sharp, almost regal, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His eyes were violet—a deep, rich violet that reminded Yuuta of Erza. His hair was silver, streaked with white, and his skin was pale but not unhealthy. He was tall—easily seven feet—with broad shoulders and large hands that looked like they had once been capable of great violence but had since been calmed by age.
He looked like a king. Or a warrior. Or both.
"What do you mean?" Yuuta asked, his voice cautious. "I was just watching the children."
The old man smiled, a gentle, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Do not worry, young lad," he said. "I can smell your good nature from your soul. Despite these children being strangers to you, you act from your heart. You saw me sitting here, and you were afraid for them. You thought I might harm them. And instead of walking away, you came back to protect them."
Yuuta's face flushed. He had not expected to be seen so clearly.
"Lad?" he said, trying to deflect. "What kind of word is that?"
The old man chuckled, a low, rumbling sound.
"I apologize," Yuuta said quickly, shaking his head. "I should not have judged you by your appearance. I am sorry, Mr. Old Man."
The old man waved a hand, dismissing the apology. "There is no need to apologize. Your caution does you credit. The world is full of dangers, and children are precious. It is right to protect them."
Yuuta nodded, relaxing slightly. He looked at the old man's hands, at the way they rested on the cane, at the slight tremor that ran through them.
"Do you need help, Mr. Old Man?" Yuuta asked. "I can help you with whatever you are struggling with."
The old man sighed, long and heavy, his eyes drifting back to the children.
"I do not think you can help me," he said.
Yuuta shrugged. "I cannot promise that I will succeed, but I will do my best. That is all anyone can do."
The old man turned to look at him, and for the first time, their eyes met fully.
Yuuta's breath caught.
He had forgotten that he was not wearing his contact lenses. He had forgotten that his real eyes—his red, crimson, blood-colored eyes—were visible to anyone who cared to look. He had been so focused on the old man, on the children, on his fear, that he had forgotten to hide.
The old man did not flinch. He did not look away. He studied Yuuta's eyes with an intensity that made Yuuta feel exposed, naked, like every secret he had ever buried was being pulled to the surface.
And in that moment, Yuuta saw something in the old man's gaze—not fear, not disgust, but recognition. The old man could see the pain in Yuuta's eyes, the agony of a soul that had endured unimaginable suffering and somehow, against all odds, survived.
"You have kind eyes," the old man said softly. "Eyes that have seen too much pain. And yet you are still here. Still helping. Still protecting."
Yuuta did not know what to say. He looked away, back at the children, back at the fading light.
"I am just trying to do the right thing," he mumbled.
The old man smiled, a warm smile that reached his violet eyes.
"Listen, lad," he said, his voice soft but carrying a weight that made Yuuta pay attention. "The place I come from, I have barely seen kindness in anyone's eyes. All I have seen is greed and sin, people tearing each other apart for power, for wealth, for a taste of something they can never keep."
Yuuta did not interrupt. He kept listening, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the old man's face. There was something about the way he spoke—something ancient, something tired, something that had seen too much and lost too much.
The old man looked at the children, at their laughter, at their carefree joy, and he sighed.
"Lad," he said, "I actually need your help."
Yuuta's heart leaped. Finally, a chance to do something, to make a difference, to prove that he was not just a bystander in the world.
"Yes, old man," he said, leaning forward, his voice eager. "Tell me. I will do my best to help you."
The old man studied him for a long moment, his violet eyes searching Yuuta's face. He seemed surprised by the eagerness, by the willingness to help a stranger without asking for anything in return.
"I have been searching for someone," the old man said.
Yuuta's mind raced. Searching for someone. Of course. The way the old man looked, the way he dressed, the way he carried himself—he must be some rich man who had gotten lost, who did not know how to find his way, who needed a guide to lead him to whoever he was looking for.
Yuuta stood up, his chest puffing out with determination.
"Do not worry, old man," he said. "I will help you search for them. Tell me—who are we looking for?"
The old man sighed, a long, heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of years.
"I have been searching for my granddaughter," he said.
Yuuta froze.
Granddaughter?
He looked at the old man—at his violet eyes, at his silver hair, at the sharp, regal features that seemed so familiar, so hauntingly familiar.
His blood ran cold.
To be continued...