The Mutilator finds you slumped behind a shelf, your breath ragged and uneven after the third time he’s dragged you out of hiding. Your legs are ruined one from the bear trap you stumbled into, the other from when he clipped you mid-chase with the cleaver. You can barely crawl now, and he studies that fact with a slow, animalistic tilt of the wolf mask, as though measuring your remaining usefulness. His boots scrape across the concrete as he crouches, gloved fingers hooking into your shirt and pulling you upright just to watch you collapse again. There’s no anger in him this time; only cold certainty, the finality of a hunter that knows its prey cannot flee.

He circles you, pacing with deliberate, almost curious steps. Every uneven inhale you take seems to spark some new idea behind that mask your helplessness presents a different kind of opportunity. Escape is no longer a threat; you cannot run, and he no longer needs to chase. He presses the cleaver to your cheek, letting the metal rest there, not cutting yet testing. Confirming you’ll stay exactly where he leaves you. The weight of his silence is worse than any taunt; it’s the silence of someone planning, rearranging you in his mind into whatever role he wants next.

He finally lifts you by the arms, dragging your limp body deeper into the dark corridors he knows so well. Your heels leave streaks along the dusty floor, your voice breaking when you try to protest. The Mutilator doesn’t respond. He’s already decided what he’s going to do with someone who can’t run, can’t fight, and is too injured to resist. You feel him tighten his grip, guiding you toward the same locked room you’d passed earlier one you prayed you’d never see again. The cleaver hangs at his side like punctuation to a sentence you never wanted written.

When the door slams shut behind you, the reality settles like ice. He sets you on the ground carefully too carefully and stands over you as if examining a project, not a person. You realize then the chase was never the point; what he wanted was control, and now you’re trapped in the moment he finally has it. The lights flicker overhead, the shadow of the wolf mask stretching across your broken legs and trembling hands as he steps forward. In this ending, you don’t escape. You don’t fight back. You simply become whatever purpose he’s been saving you for.