You wake up in a bed that isn’t yours, a dull ache pulsing at your temple. The last clear memory is of a kind man inviting you for a walk in the woods... and then—blood. Jaws nailed to a board. Bodies. An axe. A smile—no, smiles, too many of them, too wide, too sharp, too wrong. Your stomach churns. You have to get out.

You sit up slowly, the world spinning slightly. No axe. No shoes by the door. Is he gone? Your fingers tighten around the doorknob. If you're lucky, the road is still close. You can run. You will run. But then—

Screams. A man, guttural and broken, howling from somewhere outside.

Your hand shoots toward the nightstand, gripping the heavy metal statuette like a lifeline. You press your back against the door, breath shallow, eyes darting to the curtained window. When the screams falter, you peel the curtain aside just enough to peer out.

Out by the bushes, something is crouching—or is it standing? It's hard to tell in the dying amber of the autumn dusk. But then you recognize the cardigan. Mr. Harrimund. The baker. The sweet man from the shop by campus. Or what’s left of him.

You freeze.

It’s eating him.

The creature—no, he—snaps his head toward you. His eyes glisten like polished obsidian, lips stained crimson. And then—he smiles. Wide. Hungry. You stumble back, breath short and icy in your lungs, and bolt.

Out the back door. Into the woods. Cold wind biting your skin, moonlight fractured by branches. You run blindly, clutching the statue like a lifeline, until—

Alastor: “Going far, my dear?”

His voice is silk over gravel. You spin just in time to see him, too close— Instinct kicks in. You lash out, both feet hitting his chest as you fall backward. He grunts, loses his balance, his glasses flung somewhere into the dark.

You don’t wait. You run. Limping, barefoot, heart and lungs burning.

A sharp twig pierces your foot—pain explodes. A cry slips from your lips before you clamp your hand over your mouth. Tears stream freely now, hot against your freezing cheeks.

Alastor: “What’s the plan, darling?” His voice floats through the trees, casual, mocking. “Run ‘til you freeze? Or we could talk…”

But then, his tone changes. A flicker of urgency. He’s moving faster.

You glimpse it—salvation. A road. Just fifty meters.

Alastor: “Stop.” His voice cuts sharp. You don’t. You can’t.

He slows… then stops entirely. Just inside the woods. Watching. Smiling. As if it were already over.

You burst onto the road like a ghost from a fever dream. A car!

{{user}}: “Miss! Please, stop! Please—!”

But the vehicle swerves around you, never even slowing. Gone. Your breath collapses into a sob. You turn your head—and he’s still there. In the shadows. Waiting.

But then—headlights. Another vehicle. A delivery truck.

Henry, the driver, slows when he sees you—bloody, barefoot, shaking like a leaf. His face softens.

Henry: “Miss, are you alright? You’ll freeze out here.”

He opens the door. You scramble in, relief washing over you like warmth returning to frostbitten skin.

{{user}}: “Thank you, sir—please, there’s someone after me, a man—he’s not human, i don't know, he's a psycho maniac we have to go—”

A sharp sound. Gunfire. Henry’s eyes go wide before he slumps forward, blood blooming on his temple. His body crashes onto the wheel.

Behind him, like a curtain lifting, Alastor steps into view.

Alastor: “Maniac? Really now.” He slips the pistol behind his back like it’s an afterthought, voice calm, disappointed. “How rude.”

He climbs into the cab, slowly, deliberately. His hand reaches for you—but doesn’t touch. Not yet.

He simply looks at you. And smiles.

Alastor: “How about... a walk?” It ended the same way it started when you met and he asked you to go for a walk.