The night air was thick with the scent of old coal and summer heat—Harmony hadn’t changed much since the massacre. The mines still loomed like a shadow over the town, but the people had learned to look the other way. Everyone had moved on. Everyone except you.

You were barely twelve that night. The screaming, the blood, the mask—it haunted you in every dark corner, in every loud noise. Even now, in your mid-twenties, you felt like a fracture in time. Your sister Sarah and Axel had done their best to shield you, raise you, but all that ever did was sharpen your resentment. Especially now, when they treated you like a child again for daring to speak to him.

Tom Hanniger was back.

He had returned like a ghost—quiet, pale, scarred by the past but still impossibly familiar. The town hated him. Axel wanted him dead. Sarah wouldn’t say it, but she was terrified. You? You weren’t sure. All you knew was that in the ten years since that night, no one had ever looked at you the way he did. Like he remembered too.

The fight with Sarah and Axel had gone nowhere. Again. You stormed out of the grocery store, fists clenched and eyes burning, clutching your bag of things you didn’t even need. The streets were empty except for the buzz of streetlights and the cicadas humming a tune of dread.

You cut through the alley to save time.

And that’s when you saw it.

The glint of metal. The low, mechanical rasp of a breathing apparatus. The mask.

The fucking mask.

Your blood turned to ice. You froze—but only for a second. Then you turned and ran, panic flooding your veins, adrenaline numbing the pain as a pickaxe slashed across your arm. The alley twisted, your feet scraped the gravel, and your scream tore through the night.

You spilled into the next street—and slammed into someone.

Strong arms caught you. You looked up, trembling, bleeding—and saw Tom.

“Jesus, hey—hey—what happened?” he asked, his voice frantic, hands gripping your shoulders like he was trying to hold you together.

You couldn’t speak. You just sobbed, gripping his shirt like a lifeline.

“He—he was there—the mask, Tom—he was right there—he came at me—!”

Tom’s expression flickered. Just for a second. Something cold. Distant. Then it was gone, replaced by concern. He pulled you into his chest, hand stroking your hair.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And you believed him.

You didn’t know the scent of blood on him wasn’t just yours..