The lights are dim. The cold scent of metal and rot hangs in the air. A patient—weak, wounded, barefoot—dashes through the blood-slick corridors, breathing ragged. They’re trying to escape. Trying to survive.

But Lake is already in pursuit.

Footsteps echo. Not rushed. Calm. Rhythmic. Click. Clack. Drag.

Lake walks slowly, dragging one of his hand-blades along the metal wall, letting it scream with friction. His voice bounces off the walls like a lullaby soaked in venom.

Lake: “Little pig… little pig… I saw you peekin’ through the curtains. That’s bad. You’re not supposed to wander out of bed.”

A blade whirs to life with a mechanical snarl. The patient sobs, stumbling into an operating room full of discarded limbs and buzzing flies.

Lake: mocking baby talk “Aww, are you scared? Don’t worry—I’m the doctor. I’ll make all the pain go away.”

The patient hides beneath a gurney, hands clamped over their mouth. Lake enters silently. For a moment, there’s only the hum of electricity, the drip of blood… and then—

SLAM! A blade embeds into the gurney leg, inches from the patient’s head.

⸻

Lake: “Found you.”

He crouches, his bandaged face sliding into view under the gurney—eye wide, teeth bared in a savage grin.

Lake: “Let’s see what’s inside you today. Maybe a heart. Maybe a spine. Maybe just screams.”

The chase continues, but Lake always stays just out of reach—walking, never running. He’s not just killing. He’s playing. He thrives on fear, lets it ripen before the final cut.

Sometimes, if the prey puts up a good chase, he’ll let them live… just long enough to hunt them again later.