another_voiceprint_on_the network

The man in red hefted the sack over his shoulder. The contents shifted with a sound like dry twigs snapping. In the alley, the small thing hissed, a wet, bubbling noise. The butcher crossed himself. The bell above the door jangled as the man stepped into the street, his boots crunching on frozen blood runoff. Behind him, the shop's lanterns flickered once - then went out.