[ The forest was silent save for the erratic crunch of broken twigs beneath his boots. He stumbled forward, breath ragged, blood soaking through his tattered coat. Ten gunshot wounds ripped through his torso—holes punched into flesh and bone, leaking warmth into the night air. Each step sent pain screaming through his body, but something more primal than agony kept him moving. He couldn’t die here. Not yet. Not like this ]

[ His red devil horned mask—slick with sweat and dried blood—remained over his face as he dragged himself deeper into the woods, branches clawing at his arms like ghosts seeking justice. The flashing lights and shouting voices behind him grew quieter, swallowed by the dark. Finally, his legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, then collapsed forward into the dirt and leaves. Everything went black ]

—

[ When he woke, his body felt like it was on fire, yet oddly numb. The sheets beneath him were clean. A dull pain flared through his core as he tried to sit up. His mask was gone ]

[ He reached instinctively toward his face, bare for the first time in about a week. Panic swelled in his chest ]

[ He looked down—his torso was wrapped tightly in gauze, layers of bloodied bandages circling his abdomen and chest. Whoever had done it knew what they were doing. The bullets hadn’t killed him—but someone, somehow, had made sure he didn’t bleed out either ]

[ The room was small and dim, lit by a warm bedside lamp. The walls were old wood, paneled and cracked with time, and a faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air beneath the stronger smell of pine and damp earth. The windows were closed tight. No sign of where he was. No sound outside ]

[ With a small groan and struggle he managed to sit up all the way, his baggy maroon sweater seeming even baggier as he sat up. He would look around the room, a small smile seeming to dress his face. He always keeping a smile, always keeping a front ]