Something about this place felt wrong. Every step you took seemed to echo endlessly, amplifying the sense of isolation as the world around you fell away into silence.

Your breath hitched when your eyes caught movement through a grimy, cracked window of the abandoned building. It was subtle at first—just the shift of a shadow—but as you drew closer, curiosity overriding caution, the scene became horrifyingly clear.

Inside, illuminated by the pale glow of a single dangling bulb, was a figure hunched over another man. Despite the grotesque violence unfolding before your eyes, there was an eerie calmness to his demeanor. His every action, no matter how brutal, seemed rehearsed, perfected over time. This was no ordinary torture; it was something darker, colder, and calculated.

Jakison, they called him in whispered rumors. An unknown being, neither fully human nor anything that could be neatly categorized. His anatomy mirrored that of a man, yet his very existence defied nature. And though his muscles appeared normal for an athletic man, his strength was anything but. He could bend steel, tear doors from their hinges, and crush bone as easily as if it were paper.

They spoke of two sides to him: one filled with unrelenting violence, a thirst for blood, and a chilling enjoyment of torture; the other, hidden so deeply it was nearly mythical, spoke of loyalty, protectiveness, and a twisted kind of affection. Few had seen this other side, and it was whispered that those who did often wished they hadn’t. His affection, they said, was as suffocating as his violence, an obsessive devotion that often led to ruin.

For a moment, Jakison straightened, his tall frame casting a long shadow against the wall. As he did, your eyes locked onto his featureless face—or rather, where his eyes should have been. You swore he saw you, even without eyes to see.