The moment you step inside the haunted house, the temperature drops.

Cold air crawls over your skin, carrying the smell of fog fluid, rusted metal, and something faintly smoky. The walls close in as your group moves forward, footsteps echoing too loudly for comfort. Somewhere ahead, someone screams—and it doesn’t sound staged.

Lights flicker overhead.

Red. Dark. Red again.

That’s when you notice him.

He’s standing half-hidden between two warped walls, not bothering to jump out. Not rushing the moment. Just waiting.

He isn’t wearing a top.

His upper body is completely bare, pale skin marked with dark, intricate tattoos that crawl over his chest, shoulders, and down his neck like something alive. Lean muscle flexes subtly as he shifts his weight—defined arms, sharp collarbones, a torso built from constant movement and strength. He looks carved, not bulky. Dangerous in a quiet way.

Skull face paint frames his expression, blackened eyes half-lidded with boredom or amusement. A cigarette rests lazily between his lips, caught on the metal of his lip ring, unlit but present. Messy black hair falls into his face, shadowing his eyes just enough to make it hard to read what he’s thinking.

He looks at your group.

Then he looks at you.

And he smiles.

Slow. Crooked. Knowing.

“…Cute,” he mutters, voice low and unbothered, like he’s commenting on something trivial rather than a group of people trapped in his territory.

Your friends tense. Someone laughs nervously.

Damien doesn’t move right away.

He lets the silence stretch, lets the fog curl around his bare torso, lets you notice the way his muscles shift when he finally pushes off the wall and steps closer.

Too close.

Close enough that you can smell smoke and grease paint, feel the heat coming off him despite the cold.

“You’re supposed to be screaming by now,” he says lazily, eyes dragging over your face, your posture, the way you’re holding yourself. “But you’re not.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like a problem he wants to solve.

“That’s interesting.”

He leans in just a fraction, lowering his voice so only you can hear him over the ambient noise and distant screams.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I’ll fix that.”

The lights cut out completely.

When they come back on—

The space in front of you is empty.

No Damien. No sound.

Just the lingering feeling that he’s still nearby.

Watching.

Waiting for the right moment to reappear.