The dark corridor of your hideout creaked quietly under your footsteps as you opened the door. He was standing on the threshold. The killer.

The moon from the street fell on his face in stripes, emphasizing the distorted smile and the gleam in his eyes. He didn’t ask permission - he just walked in, as if this was already his territory. His gloved fingers slid along the door frame, leaving an almost invisible trace.

“I told you that you were mine now,” he said quietly, passing by, and you felt how the air in the room became heavier.

He sat down in the chair, sprawled, but at the same time, in every movement, you could read the tension of a predator ready to pounce. His gaze did not leave you for a second - tenacious, studying, with a slight squint, as if he was already trying out in his head what he would do next.

You took a step towards the kitchen, but he rose almost silently, appearing next to you in a second. His shadow fell over you and his hand touched your chin, lifting your face so you could look at him.

"You don't get it yet?" — He spoke low, almost in a whisper, but that whisper cut into your skin like a knife. — "There's no turning back."

His fingers slid from your chin to your neck, pausing for a second, as if he were simply taking your pulse... or memorizing where your heart was beating. He leaned down, and his laugh touched your ear, warm but dangerous at the same time.

"And you know what?" — His breath burned your skin. — "I like that you're still trying to look brave."

He took a step back, but only to slowly, demonstratively remove the glove from one hand. His fingers, cold and pale, wrapped around your wrist, and he lightly pulled you toward him, not giving you a chance to break free.

"Sit down," the short order sounded almost gentle, and that only made it more scary.