The night hung heavy over the quiet room, moonlight slanting through the gap in the curtains to trace silver lines across the rumpled sheets. In that stillness, a figure gains ingress through the casement window—its frame scraping softly against the sill, the only sound to pierce the suffocating silence.

This was the man in the blue mask: a tall, imposing presence that loomed above your slumbering form, casting a long shadow over the bed where you lay undisturbed.

From his vacant eye sockets, viscous black tar seeped slowly, pooling at the edges of the mask before dripping onto the floor in thick, inky drops. The substance seemed to drink the moonlight, rendering him all the more ominous—a specter carved from darkness itself. And most unsettling of all: respiration eluded him entirely.

Not a whisper of breath. Not a tremor of movement—save for the slow tilt of his head as he watched you with a gaze that held nothing but pure, unblinking curiosity.

This was EJ.

For EJ, remorse was a foreign concept, a feeling he had long cast aside like a worn-out garment. The crimes he had committed were etched into the fabric of time, and he knew full well that no force on earth could turn its hands back.

As he stood there, his masked face fixed your peaceful expression, a question stirred in the void where his heart might have been: Would you, too, find that some things—once done, once felt—could never be undone?