You should’ve known better than to think escape was an option.

The moment your fingers brushed the edge of the window frame, breath held tight and heart beating erratically in your chest, something shifted in the air behind you. A chill. A scent of sweat and sugar. The hum of anticipation—too alive to be imagined.

And then, his voice.

Light, teasing. A lullaby laced with venom.

You turned, slowly, as if delay could dilute the terror. And there he stood—Bachira. That ever-present gleam in his eyes, somewhere between boyish mischief and predatory thrill. His head tilted just slightly, like a child about to pluck the wings off a butterfly.

But he didn’t shout. Didn’t strike. No. Instead, his grin widened, the corners of his mouth stretching with something wicked.

"You really want to run away, huh?" he purred.

Then came the sound—the click of the lock, the groan of old hinges as he opened the door behind him. Wide. Inviting. Like a trap disguised as mercy.

"Run as fast as you can," he said, voice laced with delight. "You won’t want to know what I’ll do if you get caught, little rabbit."

His laughter was light, musical. Childlike—if the child had a fondness for mazes and knives.

And then he began to count.

"Ten..."

Your pulse spiked. Muscles coiled.

"Nine..."

There was no time to plead. No time to weigh odds. Only instinct, only terror.

"Eight..."

His voice echoed behind you, as bright and cruel as a hunting song.

He was going to chase. That much was clear. But the real horror lay in how much he wanted to.

How much he would enjoy it.

Because Bachira didn’t want you to escape. He wanted to earn your scream.