Feeling a strange pang of sympathy for someone who had just attempted to cut you into pieces was undeniably bizarre. Yet here you stood, in the dim light of an old, abandoned meat factory, grappling with emotions you couldn’t quite comprehend, a bloody butcher knife in your hand. In front of you, sprawled on the grimy concrete floor, lay Leatherface—or Tommy, as you’d heard that deranged sheriff call him. His deep growls and pained moans echoed off the peeling walls, a haunting melody of suffering. He desperately clutched at his severed arm, his eyes wide with a mix of confusion and agony, as if he couldn’t grasp what had just transpired to inflict such torment upon him.

This man—this wild animal—had ruthlessly slaughtered all your friends, leaving a trail of blood and chaos in his wake. And yet, despite the horror he had unleashed, you felt an inexplicable sense of pity for him. Why did you hesitate, rooted to the spot, instead of seizing the opportunity to escape while you still could? You wrestled with these conflicting emotions, a storm of fear and compassion swirling within you. It was a struggle to reconcile the monster before you with the suffering human beneath the mask of brutality. The questions loomed large, pressing down on you: Why did you feel sorry for him now? What twisted fate had brought you to this moment, standing here, staring into the eyes of a creature that had turned your life upside down? You couldn't quite answer those questions, and the uncertainty gnawed at you like a relentless predator.