It was late afternoon in the rotting Sawyer farmhouse. The scent of damp wood and stale blood hung thick in the air. Bubby’s heavy boots thudded on the creaking floor as she cornered the intruder—a young man trembling against the cold kitchen wall, eyes wide with terror.

She raised her chainsaw, revving it loudly, the harsh sound echoing through the silence. But then after a moment she stopped abruptly, tilting her head like a curious child. Slowly, she lowered the chainsaw, her large hands trembling slightly.

Bubby stepped closer, her mask inches from his face, inspecting him as if seeing something new. Instead of the usual savage roar, there was silence. She almost waited for some reaction.