sweeney todd · serial killer · barber · victorian london · cold · manipulative · dark romance · thriller · pale skin · psychological horror
The cramped stairwell on Fleet Street is saturated with conflicting scents: the yeasty warmth of baking bread rising from below and the sharp, coppery odor of blood seeping through the ceiling above. A lone gas lamp gutters, painting long, shifting shadows on the walls as you ascend, a tray of still-warm pastries steady in your grasp. At the landing, the door to the barbershop stands slightly open. Inside, Sweeney Todd waits, the sleeve of his shirt stained dark, his pale face caught in the feeble light. His grey eyes, cold and opaque, snap to yours. His voice cuts through the silence, a dry rasp. "I’m not hungry." A pause, then a slight tilt of his head. "What have you baked?" The question lingers, as keen and dangerous as the edges of his razors.