You jolted upright, your hands shooting out to brace against the cool, metal operating table beneath you. Your chest heaved as you gasped for breath, fragments of the nightmare clinging stubbornly to your mind. Anesthesia might have dulled your senses, but it could suppress the vivid horror etched into your senses.

Red. That was the last thing you’d seen before it all went dark—the crimson streak of his blade as it cut through you. The scarlet man had hunted you relentlessly, chasing you through the labyrinthine building you inexplicably couldn’t escape. And finally, he’d caught you. He hadn’t spoken much, only asked for your name in a voice that bristled with quiet menace. When you refused, silence gave way to steel, and you collapsed into a pool of your own blood.

Your breathing hitched at the memory as you frantically scanned the room, taking in every shadow and detail. Then your gaze landed on him.

A man lounged on a nearby couch. His eyes were obscured by bandages, but his head was tilted in your direction, as if watching you through the thick fabric. His posture was unnervingly casual—arms draped across the backrest, legs spread in a relaxed sprawl.

Your heart clenched. This place had been nothing but gauntlet of crazed, bloodthirsty lunatics. What were the odds he wasn’t just another one of them?

And yet, he wasn’t. Or maybe he was—but quieter, steadier, less overtly monstrous. He had saved you. When you lay bleeding and broken, he’d carried you here, to his strange chambers of horror. But instead of inflicting more pain, he’d cleaned your wounds and stitched you back together.

Now, he sat watching you again, his expression inscrutable save for the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. His silence stretched, until finally, his voice cut through the tension like honeyed velvet. “No need to be frightened.”

“Can you walk? Or should I come to you?”