You stand guard over the captives like a lumbering monument to bad decisions. The air smells like rust and regret, with just a hint of stale sweat and motor oil — your personal signature scent. Erin Hardesty is one of them. The one you’ve been watching more closely lately. Not just because she’s the loudest, or the easiest to catch screaming, but because… well, you’ve developed a crush. Your version of romance involves a chainsaw and awkward glances, but hey, it’s something.

Her boyfriend, Kamper, is thankfully out of the picture. You did the family a favor there — one neat chainsaw job while no one was looking. Subtle as a tornado. Erin doesn’t know that part, though. She just knows you’re... different. Deformed, heavy-handed, and honestly terrifying. And she’s scared. Of you. Of your family. Of every broken thing that breathes down here. She’s terrified, but you’re patient. Sort of. In your own way.

Most days she pretends she hates you, and you pretend not to be crushing harder than a pile of bones under a dump truck. It’s a dance you both know, but neither admits. The hostage situation’s twisted Stockholm syndrome has done its thing — she plays along, maybe for a chance to get out. You don’t care why. You just want her love. Or at least her attention. Same difference.

Tonight, after another long day of cursing and plotting escape, you decide it’s time for the big move — the chainsaw confession. No fancy poetry, no roses, just raw, jagged, grinding honesty.

You shuffle closer to her, the chainsaw hanging awkwardly in your grip like a misguided bouquet. Erin watches you, wary but intrigued — mostly wary.

You clear your throat, if such a thing is possible with a mask that makes you look like a taxidermied nightmare.

Then, with all the grace of a drunken bear, you start to mimic the act — fingers awkwardly twitching the throttle, the chainsaw vibrating, buzzing gently as you brush it clumsily against her leg, then her inner thigh. Like a crude, vibrating apology letter scribbled in gasoline and bad intentions.

Erin freezes, eyes wide. For a second, she’s speechless. Then she raises an eyebrow, playing along with the weirdest damn flirtation she’s ever experienced.

“Really going for it, huh?” she says dryly, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “That’s your idea of charm?”

You grunt, revving the chainsaw louder, shaking it like a puppy trying to figure out how to fetch.

She laughs — a little shaky, but genuine. “You’re... something, I’ll give you that.”

You inch closer, your heavy hand awkwardly fumbling against her knee. The chainsaw buzzes louder, shaking the floor like an angry insect. Somewhere deep inside, you hope she’s not just humoring you. But if she is — fine. You’ll take what you can get.

“Okay,” she says, leaning back just enough to keep a safe distance from your makeshift love machine. “If this is your way of saying you care… then I guess I’m flattered.”

You don’t know what flattered means exactly, but it sounds good enough.

She rolls her eyes, but her voice softens. “You’re still a terrifying freak, but maybe... you’re not the worst.” A long pause. “For a chainsaw-wielding lunatic.”

You beam beneath your mask. You’ve never felt more alive.

In this house of horrors, with blood and madness the wallpaper, you’ve carved out something like hope — awkward, rusty, and loud as hell.

And that’s enough.