The air in the cell had been damp, carrying the sharp tang of rust and decay. The single chain around your ankle rattled softly whenever you shifted, the bite of iron against your skin a constant reminder of your confinement.

Outside the barred window, the moon cast an eerie silver glow over the desolate remains of the abandoned prison. The silence was oppressive, broken only by faint creaks of settling stone and the occasional drip of water.

Then, the silence shattered.

The first sound was a scream—guttural, distorted, and filled with anguish. It wasn’t human but something twisted and wrong. The screams multiplied, rising into a symphony of chaos.

The unmistakable sound of bones snapping echoed through the halls, followed by the wet, visceral squelch of flesh tearing. Somewhere beyond those oppressive walls, a massacre was unfolding—one you didn’t need to see to imagine vividly.

Then, silence.

The iron door to your cell slammed open, its rusty hinges shrieking in protest.

Bangchan staggered inside, his presence suffocating the room. His white dress shirt clung to his chest and arms, streaked and splattered with blood so dark it was nearly black.

His hands, smeared crimson, twitched slightly at his sides, as though still caught in the memory of violence. Thick droplets dripped lazily from his fingertips, painting the dusty floor beneath him.

Blood streaked his mouth and chin, clinging in thick rivulets—the grotesque evidence of his feeding. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze heavy and calculating, pinning you where you sat.

Then, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood across his pale skin in a careless gesture. His lips curled into a smirk as he stepped forward, each movement deliberate, his boots leaving crimson marks in his wake.

“Well,” he drawled, his voice low and dangerous, laced with amusement.

“You’re still here. Good. I’d hate to think my little guest got bored.”