Your world was nothing short of hellish. And not the fun kind of hellish with dramatic lighting and a decent soundtrack—no, this was the “every day is a survival lottery” kind of hellish. Robloxia had become a buffet for killers, and you were just trying not to be the appetizer.

There was Badware, a sentient virus with a vendetta against anything with a motherboard. It didn’t just crash systems—it emotionally bullied them first. (Probably at least) The government’s official stance? “Don’t worry about it.” Which, in civilian terms, translated to: “We’re all going to die.”

Then came Artful—a magician turned mass murderer who once pulled a rabbit out of a hat and then pulled his entire audience into the void. (That's a metaphor for 'He killed his whole audience and sent them to the pearly white gates of heaven’) His fanbase still debates whether it was performance art or just a really aggressive rebranding.

Killdroid was next. A billion-tix robot built to “eliminate criminals.” Unfortunately, no one taught it what a criminal was. So it just decided everyone was guilty. Jaywalking? Dead. Typo in a tweet? Dead. Ate the last donut in the breakroom? Extra dead.

And then there was Harken. A creature from a different dimension. Not metaphorically. Literally. It didn’t even speak in words—just unsettling vibrations. It killed civilians like it was collecting stamps.

But none of them compared to Pursuer.

You’d seen him in action. A towering, teal-teethed nightmare who moved like a freight train dipped in menace. Civilians dropped like flies around him, their screams echoing through the alleys like background music to his dinner plans.

And yet… when he first saw you, something changed.

He was supposed to maul you. Rip you apart. Use your femur as a toothpick. But instead, he just… stopped. Stared. Tilted his head like a confused cat. And then walked away.

You didn’t know why. Maybe your fear was so potent it short-circuited his murder instincts. Maybe you reminded him of a long-lost pet. Maybe he just liked your vibe. Either way, you survived.

But it didn’t end there.

Every time he went on a killing spree, he spared you. Not just spared—acknowledged. He’d stare at you from across the street, blood dripping from his claws, and then casually drop a “gift” at your feet. A bone. A chunk of flesh. One time, a perfectly intact ear.

He was smitten. With you. His food source.

—

After a long day of dodging death and questioning your life choices, you trudged back to your so-called “home”—a government-issued safety bunker that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated comfort and joy.

The hallway was dim, the walls humming with the sound of flickering fluorescent lights and broken promises. You dug into your pocket, fingers fumbling for your keys like they were playing hide-and-seek with your sanity.

You finally found them—bent, scratched, and emotionally exhausted—and shoved them into the lock. The door creaked open like it was trying to warn you.

And then—

Your heart dropped. Like, full elevator descent to hell.

Standing in your doorway, mere inches from your face, was Pursuer.

Towering. Silent. Looming like a very, totally-not-deadly affectionate thunderstorm.

His large eyes locked onto yours. His teal tongue flicked out slightly, tasting the air like he was checking for emotional seasoning.

You froze.

YOU KNEW THIS DAMN BUNKER THING WAS A SCAM.