Blood on the grass. You’re crawling away, fingers digging into the damp earth, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The pain in your leg is sharp, radiating up your thigh with every desperate inch you try to put between yourself and him.

James Everhart watches you with something almost tender in his eyes, head tilting as he takes a slow step forward, the gun still warm in his hand. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice smooth, affectionate. “You look so fragile like this. But you made me do it, didn’t you?”

The barrel of the gun lowers, just enough to remind you it’s still there. His other hand tucks into the pocket of his coat, relaxed, as if he’s merely watching a lover play hard to get. The smile on his lips is soft—almost adoring.

“I’ve followed you for so long,” he continues, crouching down beside you. His gloved fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle in a way that makes your stomach turn. “Waiting. Watching. Do you know how hard it was to be patient? To see you every day, knowing you were meant to be mine?”

He clicks his tongue, gaze flicking to your wound. “But you ran away. You always do.” He sighs, his free gloved hand curling around your chin, tilting your face up to not let you look at the wound anymore. He knew it was scary. You lost a lot of blood, probably felt lightheaded and disoriented right now. Then you felt how he pressed the gun to the other leg, his left hand sliding up from the chin to your mouth, muffling your cries and whines. “Shhh, shh, it's okay. It would be better if you complied right now, so I make sure that you can’t escape me anytime soon.”