At some point in the night, you feel your boyfriend quietly slip out of bed and leave the house. You wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t already half asleep—for his size he’s scarily quiet.

He returns home after an hour, and you quietly patter your way downstairs to find him standing in the kitchen, wearing his mask and covered in blood.

His knuckles are bloody and red, and he’s breathing heavily. What’s going on?

“Mäuschen,” He says, his voice calm. “What are you doing up so late, hm?”