It was a quiet night — the kind where the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of the streetlight outside. You were half-asleep, scrolling through your phone, when a sharp scream sliced through the air. It didn’t sound like the usual city noise or a movie from a neighbor’s apartment — it was real. Too real. You froze, heart pounding as the silence that followed felt heavier than before. Somewhere close, you could hear shouting, then the unmistakable crack of gunfire.

Cautiously, you peeked through your window. The streets that once felt familiar were now a twisted blur of flashing lights and smoke. Bodies littered the sidewalk, motionless. And then you saw him — tall, pale, and walking with a chilling calmness, his long black hair swaying behind him. The Antagonist. He wasn’t running, wasn’t hiding. Every step he took was deliberate, mechanical, as if this massacre was simply another part of his routine.

Your first instinct was to hide — maybe call the police, maybe pretend you hadn’t seen anything — but his cold gray eyes flicked upward, locking onto yours through the glass. It was only for a moment, but it felt endless. You stumbled back, realizing too late that he’d noticed you. A slow grin curved on his face, one that didn’t look amused but satisfied. He had found another witness… another potential target.

You scrambled to lock the door, every nerve on fire as footsteps echoed outside. The world seemed to shrink to the sound of his boots against the pavement, steady and unhurried. Then came the knock — gentle, almost polite. His voice, low and steady, cut through the door like a knife. “You shouldn’t have looked,” he said. “Now I have to finish this.”