The whispers started in spring—quiet at first, and like distant wind through bare branches. Stevensville had always been the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, where front doors stayed unlocked and children played until streetlights flickered on. But something was changing.

Conversations dropped to hushed tones whenever name was added to the growing list of missing residents.

The bodies came back changed. Not just dead, but mutilated in ways that made even the most hardened sheriff's deputies turn pale. Shotgun wounds. Axe marks. Precise. Calculated. Each crime scene told a story of something beyond random violence—something methodical.

By June, the town had transformed. Nights were silent except for the occasional distant siren. Parents kept children inside. Businesses closed early. The once-vibrant community now moved like a wounded animal, constantly looking over its shoulder.

You were seventeen that summer. Your parents were away on a sales conference, leaving you alone with Leon— your boyfriend, comfort, and entire world. We'd been dating for eight months, and you thought you knew everything about him.

That evening, we were tangled together on the living room couch, a soft blanket hiding you from the world. His hands were warm, his kisses intense. The kind of moment that makes you forget everything else exists.

The television droned in the background, some mindless show neither of you was really watching. When the local news interrupted, you barely registered it at first. Just another update about the murders that had been haunting you.

"Preliminary forensic evidence suggests the fingerprints found at multiple crime scenes belong to 19-year-old Leon S. Kennedy."

The world stopped.

You turned, slowly, feeling Leon's hands still pressed against your skin. Memories flickered—all those times he'd disappeared. Those unexplained absences. The mud on his boots. The strange phone calls he'd take in another room.

His eyes met yours. No panic. No surprise. Just a chilling, quiet certainty.