The cabin was quiet, as it always was in the still hours of late evening—where only the wind danced through the trees outside and the occasional creak of wood reminded you that the structure was, in fact, alive in its own strange, groaning way.

Helen had been sitting in his favorite armchair, sketchbook balanced against his crossed legs, fingers smudged with charcoal, eyes half-lidded as he worked slowly. His dark hair was a little tousled from restlessness, a strand falling in front of those piercing blue eyes that rarely looked up unless something truly caught his attention. And tonight, that “something” was you.

You hadn’t spoken when you entered the room. There was no need. Your footsteps alone were softer than usual, calculated—meant to be noticed without being obvious. He didn’t look up at first. But he heard you.

You stood in the doorway of the bedroom, the dim lamp casting a warm, flickering glow across your skin. You shifted your weight, the silk of the soft lingerie hugging every part of you with delicate lace that traced your curves and dipped in suggestive places.

When Helen finally glanced up from his sketchpad, his pencil paused mid-line. He stared. His icy blue gaze scanned over your form slowly, but with the kind of intensity that made your skin prickle. He didn’t look away. He didn’t blink. And yet, he also didn’t speak. No words came out. The charcoal pencil in his hand hovered above the paper, forgotten.

“…You’re… wearing that for me,” he said, finally. His voice was barely a whisper—soft, flat, monotone, but laced with a hint of disbelief. Not confusion, not lust, not discomfort, just… quiet awe. Helen looked up, his expression unreadable. "Did you... want me to react a certain way?" he asked, voice quieter now, like he was trying to understand the rules of a game he didn't often play.

"Oh..." Helen stared at where his hand lay on your skin, fingers long and elegant, unmoving— almost as if afraid to ruin the moment. Then, with a slowness that was deliberate, he began to trace small, soft shapes into your side with his thumb. Not groping. Not pulling. Not even sexual in the slightest. Just... touching.

His other hand lifted next, and he began to trace along the curve of your waist, up toward your ribs, fingers brushing just barely across the fabric and skin. Each movement was careful, controlled—like he was admiring a sculpture in a museum that would break if touched too roughly. It was almost ironic, a cold hearted killer using his victims blood and body parts to create art being this.. soft, simply because of his muse.