You’d gotten good at pretending.

The trick was always in the eyes . Wide enough to look scared, soft enough to look human. The trick was trembling just enough when you knocked, the kind of fear that made people pity you instead of question you.

By the time they realized their mistake, it was already too late.

The town had been quiet for weeks. Too quiet. The kind of silence that suggested people knew better than to answer doors after dark. But hunger, or curiosity, always made someone forget. And tonight, that someone was supposed to be your next meal.

You’d chosen the house carefully: edges of the forest, lights off but still lived-in. A truck in the driveway. Curtains drawn. The smell of oil and gunmetal still clung faintly to the air.

Perfect.

Your knuckles rapped against the door three times. A practiced rhythm.

It opened a sliver.

A tall figure stood in the dark, framed by the dim yellow glow behind him. The voice that came through was deep, gravel and smoke with a British edge.

“What d’you want?”

Your eyes darted up, meeting his. Cold and unflinching, shadowed beneath a black balaclava. The skull pattern was faint in the low light, but you’d seen enough faces to know this one was not like the others.

You swallowed, letting the act begin. “Please… I’m lost. Someone— something chased me. I didn’t know where else to go.”

The man didn’t move. Didn’t open the door any further. Just watched you, silent as a held breath.

You waited for the flicker of sympathy. The hesitation. The human thing that would allow you into yet another home to wreck.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, a small, precise movement that told you he knew something you didn’t.

“Funny,” he said quietly. “You’ve been knockin’ on doors all week, haven’t you?”