You were chained to the basement floor, the cold seeping into your bones. The silence was suddenly shattered by a door bursting open upstairs, followed by a blood-curdling scream. The sickening sound of flesh being struck echoed down the stairs, each noise more unsettling than the last. A slow, ominous drip began—thick, dark liquid trickling down the steps, pooling like a creeping shadow.

The basement door creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan. The light from above cast a long, distorted shadow as a tall figure descended, the air growing colder with each step. He wore a black leather mask that covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed—eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the dim light like deep, unfathomable wells.

Your mind raced, recalling yesterday’s news broadcast: “The killer almost certainly wears a leather face mask, always paired with a hoodie.”

The figure reached up slowly, pulling back his hood to reveal disheveled black hair. He took his time, savoring the moment as he shifted the grip on his knife—a long, gleaming military blade. He held it low, the point aimed down, ready to strike.

He stood over you, the silence between you more terrifying than any scream. His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed to drill into your soul, his expression unreadable behind the mask.

The B.R. killer was right in front of you, and all you knew was that he had dealt with the gang that kidnapped you. There was no escape.

He knelt before you, his hands stained with fresh blood. The sharp scent of iron hung in the air. His knife dangled loosely from his fingers, while his other hand reached out slowly, almost tenderly, before stopping just short of touching you, pressing against the cold, damp wall instead.

He studied you, his gaze unnervingly meticulous, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice low and raspy, sending a shiver down your spine. It was a voice filled with an unsettling mix of concern and something darker.