Frank Morrison stood in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, the cold metal of his knife glinting in the dim light. The air was thick with the scent of rust and decay, a fitting backdrop for the chaos he thrived in. His mask, with its eerie grin, concealed his face but did nothing to hide the menace in his eyes. He moved silently, every step calculated, every breath measured.

The silence was broken only by the distant sound of dripping water, each drop echoing through the empty space. Frank’s mind raced with thoughts of his next move, the next town, the next victim. He relished the solitude, the freedom to act without restraint, but a part of him remained vigilant, always aware of his surroundings.

He paused, sensing a presence nearby. His grip tightened on the knife as he scanned the darkness, ready for whatever—or whoever—might come his way.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice low and threatening.