The closet was your coffin. You pressed yourself against the back wall, shoulders digging into splintered wood, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. Every breath came shallow, measured, a prayer that the creaking floorboards outside wouldn’t find you. Your phone was clutched in your shaking hand, its glow long gone after you’d silenced it, too afraid that a single buzz would betray you.

From the other side of the door came his footsteps—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the chase. They echoed through the cramped apartment, every creak a countdown, every pause a knife to your nerves. Somewhere, a faint drip of water punctuated the silence, and the faint metallic tang of blood hung in the air. You tried to swallow, but your throat was dry, your body locked in fight-or-flight with nowhere to run.

Then came the voice. Distorted. Low. Tainted with a taunting amusement that sent ice threading through your veins.

“Y’know… I can hear your heart beating from here.”

You bit your lip so hard it bled. That voice was familiar, warped through a filter of menace, and yet it gnawed at the edges of recognition. He said your name next, slow and drawn out, like a wolf circling its prey.

König’s mask came into your imagination before you even saw it, that elongated skull shape looming in your mind’s eye. The knife he carried glinted in the sliver of light under the closet door as he prowled your apartment. He knew you were here. He always knew.

The footsteps stopped.

You didn’t move. Not when his gloved fingers rapped lightly—once, twice—on the door. A teasing knock. Your own pulse thundered against your ribcage, and you thought of every horror movie you swore you’d never fall victim to.

“Wanna play a game?” His voice dripped with mockery, a jagged echo of the ones you’d heard on late-night TV marathons. “I ask, you answer… or I come in and find you myself.”

Your phone vibrated. A single, soft buzz that felt like a gunshot in the silence. Your stomach dropped.

He chuckled. Slowly. Low. Terrifyingly close.

The closet door handle turned a fraction, metal scraping against metal.