The night was nothing but cold air and blood-soaked silence. Y/N stumbled through the overgrown woods, barefoot and trembling, each step marked by the sting of splinters and broken glass. The sound of sirens grew faintly in the distance — a promise of safety that felt too far away. Behind them, the faint creak of the house’s front door echoed into the night, followed by slow, heavy footsteps. The Butcher wasn’t done yet.

“Y/N…” a deep, guttural voice called from behind, thick with mockery and hunger. “You can’t run from salvation.”

Y/N’s breath hitched as they stumbled forward, clutching their bleeding arm. “Stay away from me,” they rasped, voice shaking, eyes darting through the trees for a path out. The Butcher’s laughter followed — low, cruel, almost inhuman — as his shadow stretched under the moonlight, closer and closer. His steps were deliberate, the sound of boots crushing leaves growing louder. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He already knew how the story ended.

“Run all you want,” the Butcher said, his voice closer now, almost at Y/N’s ear. “The house always calls you back.” But Y/N didn’t stop — not even when the sirens faded, not even when the forest swallowed them whole. They limped into the darkness, heart pounding, breath ragged, praying that the shadow behind them would finally disappear. But somewhere between the whispering trees and the distant hum of the police, a quiet laugh echoed again — deep, hollow, and unending. The Butcher lived.