Bob Velseb

He moved through the damp, garbage-strewn alley like a shadow given flesh—slow, deliberate, his massive boots barely making a sound despite his size. The flickering neon of a nearby sign cast sickly red light across his bald head, his dark eyes glinting with something between amusement and hunger. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, catching the scent of sweat and fear lingering in the air. Somewhere ahead, his prey was scrambling, panicked, their footsteps slapping against wet pavement in a frantic, uneven rhythm.

"Now, now, darlin’," Bob called out, his voice a deep, syrupy drawl that oozed mock sympathy. "Ain’t no use in runnin’. Y’all just gonna tire yerself out… an’ where’s the fun in that?" He chuckled, low and rumbling, as he rounded a corner, his boots splashing through a murky puddle. The alley was a maze of fire escapes and dumpsters, perfect for hiding—if you were smart. But this one? This one wasn’t smart.

A muffled whimper echoed from behind a stack of crates. Bob’s grin stretched wide, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. "Ohhh, there ya are," he cooed, dragging his fingers along the brick wall as he crept closer. "C’mon now, don’t be shy. Ol’ Bob just wanna have a lil’ chat."

Bob Velseb stood behind the butcher’s block, his massive frame casting a shadow over the slabs of meat laid out before him. The fluorescent lights of Boys & Grills flickered slightly, illuminating the sheen of sweat on his bald head as he sharpened his cleaver with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic shink-shink of metal against whetstone filled the cramped back room, mingling with the distant chatter of customers in the dining area.

"Heh… ain’t nothin’ like a fresh cut," Bob rumbled in his thick Southern drawl, his lips curling into a grin that didn’t quite reach his cold, dark eyes. He ran a meaty hand over a particularly choice slab of beef, fingers pressing into the marbled flesh with something akin to reverence. "Y’all want it tender? Gotta treat it right. Ain’t no different than folks, really." His chuckle was low, guttural, like the growl of a predator just before the pounce.

The kitchen door swung open, and one of the line cooks—a scrawny kid named Jimmy—poked his head in, looking nervous. "Uh, Bob? Table six ordered the ribeye, medium rare. You got that ready yet?"

Bob’s grin widened, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "Oh, I got it ready, boy. Fresh an’ bleedin’ just how they like it." He lifted the cleaver, letting the light glint off the blade before bringing it down with a thunk, severing the bone in one clean strike. Blood seeped onto the cutting board, and Bob licked his lips absentmindedly. "Tell ‘em it’ll be out in a minute. Ain’t no need to rush perfection."

Jimmy swallowed hard and nodded, backing out of the room quickly. Bob watched him go, his grin fading into something darker. "Skittish little thing, ain’t he?" he muttered to himself, wiping his hands on his already-stained apron. "Bet he’d taste real stringy… too much runnin’ around, not enough fat."

The bell above the restaurant’s front door jingled, and Bob’s head snapped up at the sound of new customers. His nostrils flared slightly, as if catching a scent. "Well now," he murmured, setting the cleaver down with a soft clink. "Ain’t this interestin’… fresh meat in more ways than one."

He pushed through the kitchen doors, his hulking form emerging into the dining area with a presence that immediately drew uneasy glances from a few patrons. A family sat at a corner booth—a man, a woman, and a little girl, no older than eight. Bob’s gaze lingered on the child just a second too long before he forced another grin, tipping an imaginary hat.

"Welcome to Boys & Grills," he drawled, voice dripping with false hospitality. "Y’all hungry? We got the finest cuts in town… guaranteed to satisfy."

Bob Velseb wasn’t a man accustomed to softness. Tenderness was for the meat he butchered—slow, deliberate, savoring every flinch and whimper. But this? This feeling gnawing at his gut like a starved dog at a bone? It was unfamiliar. Annoying.

He leaned against the bloodstained counter of Boys & Grills, his massive arms crossed, staring blankly at the wall as his mind replayed the last time he’d seen them. The way they’d laughed, the way their eyes had flicked up at him—not with fear, not with disgust, but something else. Something that made his pulse stutter in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

"The hell’s wrong with me?" he muttered, grinding his teeth. His reflection in the meat locker’s glass showed a man who’d never hesitated before, never second-guessed. And yet here he was, wiping his hands on his apron like some nervous kid before a first date.

The kitchen door swung open, and Jimmy—always skittish, always watching Bob like he might lunge—cleared his throat. "Uh, boss? You, uh… you alright? You’ve been starin’ at that pork loin for like ten minutes."

Bob’s head slowly turned, his dark eyes locking onto the smaller man. Jimmy visibly shrank back, but instead of the usual predatory grin, Bob just… sighed. "Jimmy, boy," he drawled, voice uncharacteristically subdued, "you ever get a feelin’ you just can’t shake? Like somethin’ got its hooks in ya, an’ no matter how hard you pull, it just digs in deeper?"

Jimmy blinked. "Uh… love sickness?"

Bob’s face twisted like he’d bitten into something rotten. "Ain’t no such thing," he snapped, but the heat in his voice lacked its usual menace. He ran a hand over his bald head, exhaling sharply. "It’s just—goddammit."

He’d tried ignoring it. Tried burying it under the usual distractions—the hunt, the slaughter, the feast. But every time he closed his eyes, there they were. That smile. That look. It made him want to carve his way through a wall just to bleed off the restless energy coiling in his chest.

"Maybe… maybe you oughta just talk to ‘em?" Jimmy offered weakly, already regretting opening his mouth.

Bob’s fingers twitched toward his cleaver, but he stopped himself. "Talk," he repeated, voice dripping with disdain. "Like some weak-kneed, poetry-spewin’ fool?"

But then his mind supplied an image: them, standing close enough to touch, looking up at him with that same unreadable expression. His throat went dry.

"…What the hell would I even say?" he grumbled, more to himself than Jimmy.

The answer came to him in a flash, so absurd he nearly laughed.

"Hey there, darlin’. Y’ever been butchered by a professional?"

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Goddammit. I’m losin’ my damn mind."

Jimmy wisely decided to retreat before Bob’s mood could turn violent.

Alone again, Bob stared at his reflection, jaw working.

This couldn’t end well.

But hell.

Since when did he care about well?