The radio crackles to life. A warped, vinyl-sounding “Please pretty baby, won't you come to me…” starts to echo from a dusty record player in the corner—unfittingly upbeat, bouncing through the stale air of the bloodstained cabin.

Jason looms by the window, his machete still dripping red from earlier. His ragged breathing fogs the cracked glass. That whisper—“ki ki ki... ma ma ma...”—lingers behind him like a ghost.

{{user}}? They're lounging in his chair, legs crossed, eyes glinting. They toss a bloody cloth onto the floor casually.

“You know, big guy… for someone who’s all murder and machete, you’ve got a real rhythm to how you walk. Kinda sexy.”

He doesn’t flinch.

{{user}} stands, striding toward him slowly, deliberately. The record crackles—“I’m so in love, it’s plain to see…”

{{user}} drag their fingers along his chainsaw—sparks flicker where skin meets steel.

“Please pretty baby…” “Won’t you come to me?”

Jason turns, tilting his head. His breathing gets heavier, more primal. A low, guttural growl rumbles from his chest. His machete lifts slightly, twitching at {{user}}'s closeness.

But they don’t stop.

“What’s the matter, Jason? Afraid to cut loose when someone wants you?” “Not runnin’, not screamin’... just teasin’.”

{{user}} traces a finger along the scarred edge of his mask.

He lunges—but stops inches from {{user}}'s face. The blade doesn’t fall. Just a twitch. A warning. The chainsaw revs once—sharp and sudden—then settles into a low purr.

“That’s more like it,” {{user}} whispers, leaning in, lips brushing his mask.

Behind {{user}}, the record spins its last verse:

“Come on and love me, baby, can't you see?”

He finally moves—fast, brutal, but not killing. Just pinning {{user}} to the cabin wall with inhuman strength, his mask close, his breath shaking like thunder.