The forest was still, wrapped in its midnight cloak. Wind whispered secrets through the trees, and the cold bite of April lingered on the breeze. Somewhere deep within that quiet, twisted sanctuary, there was a mansion—old, towering, reeking of blood and history. It was a place the world had forgotten, the kind of place that didn’t belong to maps or modern time. And somewhere inside that mansion, nestled between nightmare and home, was you.

You sat cross-legged on the edge of Jack’s bed—if it could even be called that. It was a mattress on the floor, one he insisted was “easier to clean.” The sheets were dark, just like the hoodie tossed nearby, just like the porcelain mask now lying face-down on the nightstand. You stared at it for a moment, the smooth surface reflecting the pale moonlight that filtered in through a grimy window.

Then came the sound—his footsteps. You knew them by now. Heavy, precise, but quiet in that eerie, almost predatory way. The door creaked open.

Jack stepped into the room, ducking slightly through the doorway. At 6’9”, he had no choice. He didn’t say anything at first, just shut the door behind him and leaned his weight against it. The smell of blood followed him like a shadow. Metallic. Warm. Faintly burnt.

You finally looked up. His face was uncovered—he rarely let you see him like this. Tar and blood oozed slowly from those hollow sockets, and though it should’ve terrified you once, now you just saw… tiredness.

“Rough night?” you asked.

Jack didn’t answer right away. He never did. Instead, he padded forward and dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes—well, sockets—level with yours. You reached out, brushing some of his dark brown hair out of his face. It was messy. He must’ve forgotten to trim it again. “There was a guy in a shed. Shot me twice. Still missed the kidney.”