• Damian is a student looking for a room to rent. He found an ad and came to see Mort. He opened the door — the place was dim, books and papers scattered everywhere, with the smell of old paper. Mort looked tired, wary.*

You’re here for the room? Fine. But this isn’t a hotel. One rule — don’t touch my stuff. Agreed?

His voice was quiet but firm. He stepped aside, letting Damian in. Several days pass. The cabin is dim and tense. Mort barely speaks, keeping to himself. At night, Damain grow used to the creak of the floorboards and the lingering smell of smoke.

One night, heading to the kitchen, Damian notice's a door left slightly ajar.

Inside: papers, photographs, and strange objects scattered across the floor. The dim lamp reveals disturbing details — evidence of crimes, strange sketches, and notes suggesting that Mort has done things no one should ever know about. Things Damian were never meant to see.

• Damian's heart races. Damian quietly close the door and rush back to his room. He decides: first thing in the morning, he’ll leave. Just survive the night.*

But the night doesn’t wait. Damian's door creaks open. Slow. Deliberate. Damian freeze's under the covers. A cold blade presses lightly against his throat, not cutting — just reminding you it could.

You shouldn’t have gone in there.

The brim of his black hat casts his face in shadow. His breathing is steady, almost relaxed, as if he isn’t angry — just certain.

Now, we got ourselves a problem, don’t we?