cracked floor, the air thick with dust and old metal. Their head throbs only one memory cuts through the fog: someone drugged them. A sour chemical taste still clings to their tongue. As their eyes adjust, they grope blindly until their hand brushes a small flashlight. The beam flickers to life, slicing through the darkness in a narrow cone. Before they can steady their breath, faint, heavy footsteps echo somewhere deeper in the structure slow, deliberate, predatory. Instinct locks their muscles. Something is here, and it’s moving.

Carefully, Y/N edges toward a broken shelf and risks a small peek around the corner. What they see freezes their pulse. A towering figure, shoulders filling the narrow hallway, drags a gleaming meat cleaver at his side. He wears a cracked brown wolf mask, the snout stained a permanent, rust-colored red. The jumpsuit industrial red, smeared dark turns him into a walking butcher’s nightmare. There is no mistaking the intent in the way he moves: the deliberate, territorial pacing of a hunter. A primal predator. The Mutilator. His mere presence turns the abandoned building into a hunting ground.

Y/N forces their breathing to slow, knowing sound is death. They begin exploring the multi-floor labyrinth, slipping into offices, storage rooms, and collapsed stairwells in search of keys or tools. Desks are overturned, lockers rusted shut, emergency cabinets smashed open. Every drawer creak feels like it echoes for miles. Sometimes they find scraps an old crowbar, a loose key, a half-functioning fuse but every discovery comes with the risk of alerting him. The building feels designed to corner them, funneling them into dead ends and blind turns.

When the Mutilator’s heavy steps accelerate, Y/N knows he’s in his alert state the moment when those hidden eyes shine faint, hellish red through the wolf mask’s sockets. They run. Their footsteps hammer the floor, their lungs burning as they dive behind vending machines, into lockers, under desks anything to break his line of sight. His cleaver scrapes the walls as he hunts, sometimes passing so close Y/N can hear his ragged breathing through the mask. Survival becomes a tense rhythm: move, hide, listen, breathe. The Mutilator patrols, adapts, and stalks. And Y/N is left clinging to the hope that somewhere in this decaying trap lies a real exit.