The Butcher's Heart, A Boy's Hope

Name: The Butcher's Heart, A Boy's Hope
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Gavin

Sci-fi | Completed

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The acrid smell of disinfectant and old wax assaulted my seventy-year-old nose. One moment, I was Butcher Betty, cleaver in hand, surrounded by the familiar scent of my shop. The next, I was a stranger in a sterile, enormous kitchen, wearing a stiff uniform, feather duster in my hand. Then, a cold, mechanical voice boomed directly inside my head: "Transmigration successful. Welcome, Host 734." My new identity: Betty, the cruel and sycophantic housekeeper of the Anderson family, tasked with following a novel' s plot. My first directive: lock eight-year-old Liam, the biological son, in the dark, damp basement without dinner to solidify my loyalty to the adopted son, Kevin. I looked at the small, terrified boy cowering in the corner, his eyes wide with a wariness that shouldn' t be in a child. This wasn' t a character. This was a scared, hungry kid. The system blared warnings, demanding I adhere to the script, that I become the villain. But I was a butcher. I fed people. I didn't starve them. "The plot can go to hell," I muttered, grabbing a saucepan. "This boy is getting a hot meal."

Family Housekeeper Rebirth/Reborn Drama Personal growth

Chapter 10

11-04 04:36

Introduction

The acrid smell of disinfectant and old wax assaulted my seventy-year-old nose.

One moment, I was Butcher Betty, cleaver in hand, surrounded by the familiar scent of my shop.

The next, I was a stranger in a sterile, enormous kitchen, wearing a stiff uniform, feather duster in my hand.

Then, a cold, mechanical voice boomed directly inside my head: "Transmigration successful. Welcome, Host 734."

My new identity: Betty, the cruel and sycophantic housekeeper of the Anderson family, tasked with following a novel' s plot.

My first directive: lock eight-year-old Liam, the biological son, in the dark, damp basement without dinner to solidify my loyalty to the adopted son, Kevin.

I looked at the small, terrified boy cowering in the corner, his eyes wide with a wariness that shouldn' t be in a child.

This wasn' t a character. This was a scared, hungry kid.

The system blared warnings, demanding I adhere to the script, that I become the villain.

But I was a butcher. I fed people. I didn't starve them.

"The plot can go to hell," I muttered, grabbing a saucepan. "This boy is getting a hot meal."