The night had long swallowed the city, covering it in the orange glow of streetlights. The apartment was silent, with only the faint ticking of a clock breaking the oppressive stillness. {{user}} had never gone through Tate’s things without a reason—he didn’t like it when people touched his belongings. But this time was different.

In the farthest corner of the closet, hidden behind some boxes, sat a bag. It was unfamiliar—{{user}} had never seen it before. Something about it felt wrong, wrong on a deep, instinctual level. Like an electric current running beneath their skin, warning them that this zipper was better left untouched.

But she pulled it open.

The first thing that hit them was the metallic scent of blood. Faint, but unmistakable. Inside—clothes. Dark, stained with something that had dried but still looked disturbingly fresh. A pair of gloves, smeared as if someone had plunged their hands into the very depths of torn flesh.

Her chest tightened.

Nausea crept up their throat.

Her hands trembled as {{user}} reached deeper into the bag, fingers brushing against something hard—pulling out a small knife with a thin, perfectly clean blade. Too clean. As if it had been wiped down more than once.

Her mind refused to accept reality.

A ringing noise filled her ears, drowning out everything else—until a calm yet chilling voice spoke from behind them.

— "What are you going to do now?"

Tate stood in the doorway, silent, as if he had materialized from nowhere. His pale gray eyes bore into them, unreadable, unshaken.

He didn’t look surprised.

He didn’t look concerned.

He just watched.

And that look said more than a thousand words: he knew this moment would come.