There's a little shop downstairs that sells organ soup. It's always packed with customers. People line up as if bewitched, eager for a bowl.

I've often wondered what secret ingredient made their soup so irresistible.

This afternoon, I finally found my answer. Floating in my bowl was a piece of human skin—inked with a tattoo I knew all too well.

It was the one etched on my boyfriend's arm.

My boyfriend, who had gone missing for a month, appeared in my soup.

The shop was crowded, yet I didn't dare raise my voice. Swallowing down the bile in my throat, I staggered outside, found a secluded corner, and retched until my stomach burned.

When I was done, I ran upstairs, locked myself inside, and dialed the police.

An hour later, they called back.

"We've checked," the officer said. "Their ingredients are all sheep offal. As for the tattooed skin you mentioned, we believe it was a standard meat inspection stamp. No missing-person reports have been filed in the city for over six months."

"No!" I protested. "That mark wasn't a stamp. It was a tattoo!"

The officer sighed, his patience thinning. "Miss, you're overthinking this. We thoroughly inspected their kitchen. My colleagues even tested their soup base. It's not human flesh."

Not human flesh? Was I blind?

"I'm certain that was my boyfriend's tattoo. And I haven't heard from him in a month!"

"Oh?" The officer paused, his tone skeptical. "Then why didn't you file a report earlier?"

Because he left in anger. We'd quarreled over something trivial, and he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Normally, he'd return that same night or the next day, sheepish, carrying my favorite snacks as a peace offering.

But this time, he vanished.

At first, I thought I'd gone too far and called him to apologize, to beg him to come home. Every time, his phone was switched off. I remembered telling him I wanted to break up before he left, so when weeks passed without a word, I assumed he'd taken me at my word and ended things.

But today, staring at that tattoo in the organ soup, I realized the truth might be far darker.

I gave the police his information and explained everything in detail. They told me to wait for another call.

No sooner had I hung up than a commotion broke out downstairs.

I opened the window to see the soup shop's boss's wife shouting furiously in the street.

"So this is how you compete? Can't beat our business, so you frame us with filthy lies? Who was it? Come out and face me!"

Confusion stirred in my chest. Did she really think the police raid was the work of a jealous rival? If she had actually used human flesh in her soup, would she react this way, so openly and brazenly?

Could I have been mistaken?

Had my longing twisted my vision, turning a harmless inspection stamp into my boyfriend's tattoo?

Her husband, Roger Warwick, rushed out and pulled her back toward the shop. Everyone knew him as a timid, mild-mannered man. Whenever conflict arose, his wife was always the one who stepped forward, shielding him.

But then, as I wrestled with doubt, Roger suddenly lifted his head…and looked directly at me.

A chill stabbed down my spine. I ducked back, slammed the window shut, heart hammering.

His eyes had terrified me.

I'd seen that look in horror films: the quiet, introverted killers who, in a split second, would reveal the predator lurking beneath their meek exterior.

Could it be him? Was Roger the one who killed my boyfriend and turned him into soup, while his wife remained blissfully unaware?

Through the curtains, I watched as they closed the shop early. Normally, they stayed open past eleven, yet tonight the shutters came down just after dusk.

Moments later, there was a knock at my door.

"Who is it?" I called.

"Uh… it's me," came the reply. "I'm the boss of the organ soup shop downstairs."

It was Roger! What was he doing here? My nerves tightened like a coil.

"What is it?" I forced my voice steady.

"You were the one who called the police today, weren't you?" he asked.

My heart lurched into my throat. How did he know?

"It wasn't me!" I blurted out, panicked.

The thought of his retaliation chilled me to the bone. If he really had killed my boyfriend and used the body for soup, then learning I had reported him might very well drive him to kill me too. Even if I was wrong and this was all some dreadful misunderstanding, my call had still damaged his business. His wife was notoriously aggressive—wouldn't she take revenge?

From the other side of the door, Roger went quiet for about five seconds. Then he gave a low chuckle. "Of course it was you. I saw the footage. You took one bite, covered your mouth, and bolted outside. You looked like you were going to vomit."

His tone was flat and emotionless.

"I… that was morning sickness. I'm pregnant!" I stammered, the first excuse that came to mind. It was the only thing that sounded remotely plausible.

But even as I spoke, a terrifying thought struck me.Since he asked the question, didn't it mean he was admitting—at least to himself—that human flesh really had been in that soup?

My pulse hammered. I edged toward the window, ready to leap if he forced his way inside. It was only the third floor. If I jumped, I'd likely survive.

But then, his tone shifted into concern. "Pregnant, are you? Then you'd better take care of yourself. Best to cook at home. Most of the food outside relied heavily on food additives and chemically-engineered ingredients."

"Uh… right. Thank you," I said, faltering.

"And your husband?" he asked suddenly. "Shouldn't he be looking after you if you're pregnant?"

I almost lied, almost said he was busy with work, but a sharp instinct stopped me. Roger wasn't making small talk. He was probing, trying to confirm if I lived alone.

"My husband's working late," I replied quickly. "He's a fitness coach, probably has extra clients tonight. During the day, my brother looks after me. He's a nightclub bouncer—big, strong guy. He stays here in the daytime before heading out to work at night."

"Ah, I see," Roger said lightly. "Well, if you ever need help, just knock on my door. I live right across from you."

I froze. "What? You live opposite me?"

"Yeah. Just moved in today. The last place I rented was too far from the shop."

"Got it," I murmured.

Then silence.

I waited, barely breathing, for what felt like five full minutes before daring to creep toward the door. Pressing my eye to the peephole, I prayed he was gone.

But he was still there.

His face, distorted by the fisheye lens, looked grotesque and menacing, his eyes cold and unblinking.

A scream tore from my throat. I knew I shouldn't have made a sound, but fear overpowered me.

"You're lying," he said at once. "It was you who called the police. Your husband is a fitness coach? Your brother is a bouncer? That's ridiculous."

"What do you want?" I snapped, my voice trembling. "Leave right now, or I'll call the police again—"

"No, no! You misunderstand me!" His tone cracked with panic.

The raw edge of fear in his voice eased my terror just a little. He wasn't unhinged enough to defy the police outright—not yet.

"A misunderstanding? You've been standing outside my door all this time, and you call it a misunderstanding?"

"No, I—I… I just—ah… you—" His words tangled into a stutter. He always tripped over himself when nervous, I remembered.

I risked another glance through the peephole.

His face was flushed red, and his body fidgeted with restless anxiety. He spun in place like a trapped animal—hardly the image of a cold-blooded murderer.

I couldn't take this anymore. "What do you want from me?" I demanded.

He lifted both hands, and only then did I notice he was carrying two plastic bags.

"I mean no harm!" Roger said quickly. "I… I shouldn't talk to people. Every time I do, I'm… I'm misunderstood! This is… fruit!"

For a moment, he seemed almost painfully sincere.

Maybe he hadn't been lurking outside my door all that time. Maybe he'd simply gone back to fetch fruit for me?

When I replayed everything in my head, I realized that if I ignored his unsettling tone and those unnerving eyes, nothing he had said actually carried malice.

"But your tone…" I started.

"I… I stutter," he explained. "If I don't force out my words that way, I can't even… finish a sentence. That's why… why people misunderstand me. So I just… I just stopped talking to anyone."

"I see…"

I was about to ask why his eyes looked so frightening, when it struck me: he was cross-eyed.

All day I had been convinced he was a murderer. Of course his gaze would seem sinister to me.

The realization made me want to slap myself.

A stutter. Cross-eyed. Minor defects, yes, but not a crime. I had twisted them into something monstrous. If I kept doubting someone who had only tried to be kind, I'd lose sleep with guilt.

No—wait. I still hadn't ruled out the possibility that he was a killer.

I drew breath to press him further, but he spoke first. His voice had flattened again, stripped of all warmth, and—tellingly—his stutter vanished.

"Sorry for frightening you. I didn't clean off the inspection stamp properly. When I saw you lived across from me, I thought I'd check if you were all right. Then I heard you were pregnant, so I brought you some fruit from my hometown."

He set the two bags down on the floor.

"If you're scared, wait until I leave before picking them up. One more thing, don't make up lies that sound so fake. Otherwise, people will know you live alone."

And with that, he walked away.

I stood frozen, my certainty unraveling. Had I really been mistaken when I saw that tattoo in the soup?

After a few minutes of silence, I cracked open the door, snatched the bags inside, and shut it quickly.

They really were just bags of fruit.

Could Roger truly be a kindhearted man, clumsy but well-meaning? I still didn't dare eat them, but doubt gnawed at me.

That was when my phone rang.

The caller ID made my blood run cold. It was my boyfriend.

He wasn't dead!

Relief surged, followed by a wave of fury. If he were alive, why had he vanished for a month without a single word?

I pressed the phone to my ear, ready to unleash my anger… only to hear his frantic voice spill through the line.

"Amanda! Help me! He's cutting off my skin, piece by piece! Ah—don't kill me—"

His scream pierced the receiver, then the call went dead.

I dialed back instantly. Once. Declined. Again. Straight to voicemail.

His phone had been switched off.

I stood rooted to the floor, heart pounding, unable to breathe. He was alive. And in danger.

And if he was being skinned alive… then that soup—

No. I couldn't let myself finish the thought. I called the police immediately.

I told them everything—every word of the phone call. Not long after, two officers showed up at my door and said they needed me to come down to the station to assist with the investigation.

The seriousness on their faces, the fact that they were taking me to the police station—and not just the local precinct—finally made it feel like they were treating this like it was a real case.

But as soon as I stepped inside, a middle-aged officer stormed toward me, his face thunderous. His voice cracked like a whip.

"You're the one who called this in? Do you want to go to prison yourself?"