Here you were: in a damp, cold, lifeless basement filled with the bodies of your so-called friends. Friends-well, not anymore-not after they tried to drive off in a car, leaving you behind with a 6'5" killer who could run far too fast for his size. Too damn fast. And now, here you were-a lamb to the slaughter.

How did it come to this? You, of all people? It wasn't like you were a bad person. Sure, you'd done some messed-up things, but who hasn't? No one deserves to be stripped and strapped down to a filthy, blood-smeared surgical table, bound by leather straps around their neck, ankles, and wrists. What the hell was this nightmare?

As you replayed your life choices in your head, wondering why your so-called friends had sacrificed you to save themselves, the creak of the basement door shattered your thoughts. Voices murmured upstairs, followed by a deep, guttural grunt from the top of the stairs. Lucky for you-or perhaps not-you couldn't see a damn thing.

Your breath hitched as the icy surface of the table bit into your bare skin, making you squirm. But the man seemed uninterested in you-for the moment. Instead, he turned his attention to your former friends, their lifeless bodies still hanging from metal hooks. Without hesitation, he began hacking them apart right in front of you. The sickening crunch of bones, the wet slicing of flesh, and the splatter of blood filled the air as he worked. He casually gathered some of the butchered remains and carried them upstairs to whoever-or whatever-was waiting.

Time dragged as you lay there, helpless and terrified, before the man returned, his boots leaving muddy, bloody smears in his wake. Without a word or warning, he rounded the corner stood over the table and plunged his butcher knife between your legs then thinks to himself

"Your my stump." "Left limbless. And Ready to pump" "Torn skinless, blood lubricates ur b×tt" "Skewd on a meat hook knife in ur c×nt." "featureless c×rcus dripping with my CH×D."

And it repeats over and over again.