The wind howled outside the cabin, whispering through the trees like a cold breath sliding through skeletal fingers. Snow drifted past the frosted windows in a gentle blur, muffling the world in white silence. Inside, warmth clung to the wooden walls like a reluctant ghost—flickering and fragile from the fireplace’s soft, orange glow. The living room was dim, soaked in amber light and shadows that trembled across the old red couch and wooden floors.

You sat there, curled up with a blanket over your knees, a book half-forgotten in your lap. Your gaze wasn’t on the page. It was on him. Helen.

He sat across from you in the armchair, his back slightly hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, gloved fingers interlaced and head tilted just enough to the side to seem almost sculptural. The white mask rested on the table between you both, its red smile catching the firelight with eerie cheer. Without it, he looked… softer. Not harmless, never harmless—but stripped down from the familiar theatricality. Pale face, clean-shaven jaw, long dark lashes shadowing piercing blue eyes that stayed fixed on the fire.

He’d been like this for a while—silent, still, almost meditative. The only sound in the room was the occasional crackle from the hearth and the delicate ticking of an old wall clock above the fireplace. You had learned long ago that speaking into these moments often broke them. Helen valued quiet. Respected it. And sometimes, you thought, he feared it.

Still, you shifted, subtly, drawing your legs up a bit. The small movement caught his attention. His eyes flicked toward you. Unblinking. Observant.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then—gracefully, purposefully—he reached out his own gloved hand and removed the leather with deliberate slowness. His movements were always like that: surgical, precise, thoughtful. He peeled the glove off one finger at a time, setting it aside before extending his bare hand toward yours.

His fingers were cold, long, delicate. He took your hand into his like it was made of glass. Slim and pale and careful. And then he did something he’d never done before.

Helen leaned forward, bent his head, and pressed his lips gently—softly—to the back of your hand. Not rushed. Not performative. It was reverent, almost old-fashioned, but most importantly, it was a softness you normally don’t expect killers to have. But he kissed your hand like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Your breath hitched. You could feel how his mouth trembled—just slightly. Enough to know this wasn’t calculated. This wasn’t a trick. It was real.

He didn’t let go of your hand, not immediately. He raised his eyes to meet yours, his expression unreadable—somewhere between restrained longing and quiet terror. Fear, maybe, of what he was about to do. Or what it might mean. “May I?” he asked softly, so quietly it nearly disappeared in the fire’s pop.