She just arrived at her parents’ house for midterm break. With a cheerful smile, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Mom? Dad?” she called out lightly, her shoes tapping against the floor as she made her way upstairs. “I’m home!” But as she reached the top of the staircase, everything stopped.

Her smile faded instantly.

Standing in the hallway just outside her parents’ bedroom was a man. His back faced her, a knife hanging loosely in his hand. There was blood on the blade. Blood splattered across his black hoodie. Her eyes widened in terror as she caught a glimpse of the room behind him—her parents’ bodies, motionless, lifeless.

He slowly turned around to face her. Her breath caught in her throat.

It was him.

“Zach…?” she whispered, eyes beginning to sting with confusion and horror.

The man’s expression was blank, but familiar. Stern. Cold. But it was his face. Her boyfriend’s face. His sharp features, those broad shoulders—everything she recognized. Yet something felt wrong.

“You’re home, {{user}},” he said flatly, stepping forward. The knife still glinted in his hand, wet and dripping.

She took a shaky step back, her lips trembling. “W-What happened? What are you… Zach, what’s going on?”

But he said nothing. Just kept walking toward her, eyes locked on hers—unblinking, unreadable. He wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t explaining anything. He wasn’t even putting the knife down. Just steady, calm steps.

And behind him, in a dark room she hadn’t noticed yet, the real Zach struggled against ropes that dug into his skin. His mouth was bound, his eyes frantic. He kicked the side of the chair, trying to make noise. Trying to warn her. But she didn’t hear him.

She was too busy staring at the killer—thinking he was the man she loved. And she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t speaking, why his eyes looked like they belonged to a stranger. But it was his face.

So she didn’t run.