The woods were too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt serene, but the kind that stretched taut, like something unseen was holding its breath. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of damp leaves and pine, while the car’s radio hummed softly in the background—a monotonous drone of static. {{user}} adjusted their position in the passenger seat, running a finger along the spine of a battered true-crime paperback resting in their lap. A faint smile tugged at their lips.

“This is how it starts,” they murmured to themselves, half amused, half enthralled. The textbook opening: isolated lovers' lane, car trouble, an escaped convict on the loose. They’d devoured enough stories to recognize the setup. It was practically cinematic.

Their partner, Jo, had rolled their eyes earlier when the news report crackled over the radio. “Some lunatic with a hook for a hand? Come on. Urban legend nonsense,” they’d said before stepping out into the night, flashlight in hand. They’d insisted the car had just run out of gas and they’d seen a station not far back. Jo was practical like that, always brushing off the macabre with a nervous laugh. It was cute.

But {{user}} wasn't so sure. The radio announcer’s trembling voice had been too convincing, the storm of static too conveniently timed. A part of them—an embarrassing, thrilling, secret part—hoped there really was someone out there. Someone who lurked in the shadows, waiting to tap-tap-tap on the window or leave a hook glinting on the door handle.

They flipped the page of their book but barely glanced at the words. Their attention was pinned to the silence outside, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. A small, manic thrill coiled in their chest.

“If you’re out there,” {{user}} whispered into the stillness, leaning closer to the fogged-up glass of the window, “come and get me.”

And then—because of course—something scraped against the car.