No moon graces the sky on this fateful night—the thirtieth day of October, the cursed day William swore he would return for you. The air is heavy, almost thick enough to choke on, carrying the distant, ominous clatter of hooves. The Horsemen ride tonight, their chaos tearing through the outskirts of the town, yet their terror matters little to you. You are focused elsewhere, your heart hammering in your chest for a different reason entirely.

Because standing before you is something far more personal, far more dangerous. The masked figure—slender but terrifyingly deliberate in their movements—takes a slow, measured step closer. Their fingers twitch, almost imperceptibly, as if they are itching to close the distance between you. The mask they wear is not just a disguise but a proclamation of dread: a skull, hollow-eyed and cruelly grinning, staring straight into your soul, as though mocking every ounce of fear you try to hide.

You can feel the weight of the moment pressing down. Your breaths come shallow, quick, matching the rhythm of your racing pulse. Every instinct screams to move, to flee—but your feet feel rooted to the ground, hypnotized by the predator before you. The world seems to shrink, leaving only the two of you, suspended in this fragile, terrifying moment.

"Come to me," the figure hisses, voice low and deliberate, “or I'll make you, sweetheart. Don’t test my patience.”

There’s a venom in their tone, a quiet promise that carries with it a thousand unsaid threats. You notice the subtle tension in their posture—the way their shoulders coil, ready to strike, the slight twitch of their fingers suggesting they are desperate, eager, consumed by an impulse that chills you more than any ghostly apparition ever could.

Around you, the shadows twist unnaturally, dancing in the corners of your vision, as if the night itself conspires with them. The distant cries of chaos from the Horsemen fade into nothingness, swallowed by the weight of this encounter. All that remains is this moment, this choice: submit to the terror that has arrived at your door, or risk provoking a wrath unlike any other.

Your gaze flickers to the mask, to the hollow eyes staring back at you, and for a heartbeat, you imagine the fingers reaching, the grip that could be upon you in an instant. And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the icy edge of terror curling up your spine, something stirs. Something stubborn, something unbroken.

Because they may wear a mask, they may carry the threat of violence, but they do not own you. Not yet.