You remember the walk home from work in fragments—streetlamps casting weak pools of light, the damp chill in the air, the faint hum of traffic somewhere far off. Then, nothing but a sudden, bone-jarring impact to the back of your head. No time to react. No time to scream. Just darkness.

When consciousness returned, it wasn’t gradual—it was like surfacing from deep water, gasping into stale air. Your vision swam, but the smell hit you first: damp concrete, rust, sweat, and the metallic tang of old blood. A low flickering bulb threw shadows along rough, mold-streaked walls. The sound of faint dripping echoed from somewhere unseen.

You were tied down, wrists and ankles biting against rough rope on a heavy, splintered wooden table. The ropes were so tight you could feel your fingertips throbbing. It was only when your eyes focused that the truth came into horrifying clarity.

It was Daniel’s cellar.

He was there—leaning casually against a side table like this was a normal reunion. The lazy smirk on his face didn’t reach his cold gray eyes. His arms were folded loosely, but behind him lay an array of tools: a butcher’s cleaver, two long carving knives, a meat hook, a skinning knife, a serrated hacksaw, a chipped axe. Every blade bore the same telltale crust of dried, darkened blood.

“Miss me, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, each word a slow drag across your spine.

He pushed himself off the table, letting his fingers graze over the weapons until they settled on a broad, heavy hatchet. The handle was worn smooth from use, the edge catching the flicker of the light. He turned it in his hands like he was weighing its balance.

“I told you,” he murmured, stepping closer, boots echoing against the concrete, “you and me—we’re meant to be. You thought you could run… thought you could hide…” His smirk widened, though his eyes stayed sharp and fixed on you. “But after I’m done, you’ll never even think about leaving me again.”