You’re barely breathing.

The air in the warehouse is thick with mildew and rust, but that’s not what makes your lungs tighten. It’s him. That painted grin, impossibly wide. Those eyes bright, swirling chaos locking onto yours like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He stands just a few feet away, silhouetted by a flickering light overhead, the shadows carving deep lines into his already manic face.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here, but the cold of the chair’s metal frame has seeped into your bones. The ropes binding your wrists cut deeper every time you so much as twitch. And now, he’s moving slowly, deliberately raising a crowbar with gloved fingers, the same one that’s already stained with a brownish hue you don’t want to think about.

“A joke?” he says, his voice a syrupy drawl, thick with menace. He grins wider how is that possible? “No, no, my dear… this is the punchline.”

He laughs. It’s not loud. It’s not a cackle. It’s worse. It’s soft, personal. Like he’s telling it just to you.

You feel your heart hammer against your ribcage, not because you fear pain. You fear what comes after it what he’ll do when the joke stops being funny.

Then, he crouches to your level, face inches from yours. You can smell the sweat, the greasepaint, the madness. He tilts his head, almost lovingly.

“I wonder…” he whispers, “Will you scream, or will you laugh with me?”

The crowbar twitches in his grip.

Do you meet his gaze?

Do you close your eyes?

Or do you.. God help you, start to laugh?