The night at Walibi Fright Nights was alive with screams and laughter, the smell of fog machines and the metallic scent of fake blood heavy in the air. You, Anastasia, and Freya pressed against the hip-high bars at the very front row, the best spots to see the opening show. All around, the crowd hummed with anticipation, the flickering lights casting eerie shadows across their faces.

Then the music started—dark, pounding, almost tribal. From the smoke, he appeared.

Malakai.

He wore a wide black sombrero that made his figure look larger than life, its edges rimmed with red details that caught the stage lights. His face was painted in sugar-skull fashion—white base, hollowed-out black eyes glowing with the red around them, sharp lines drawn across his lips like sewn stitches. Pink and purple swirls adorned his cheeks, making his skeletal face both mesmerizing and terrifying. His eyes locked with the audience, unblinking, intense.

“Holy sh*t,” Freya whispered, clutching your arm. Anastasia grinned wide, the thrill written all over her face. You felt your heart hammer, though you couldn’t look away.

Malakai’s movements were jerky, frantic, almost inhuman as he stalked closer, boots thudding against the stage. He didn’t just perform; he hunted with his gaze. Then suddenly, his head snapped toward your row.

Straight at you.

Your breath hitched as he walked, then lurched, forward—each step heavy, purposeful. The crowd behind you screamed in excitement, but all you saw was him, towering closer, that painted skull face locked onto yours. His eyes widened, manic, and in one sudden motion, he slammed his hands on the bars.

You and your friends jumped back instinctively, your pulse skipping a beat. Anastasia let out a shocked laugh, Freya squealed, clutching her chest.

But Malakai didn’t break eye contact. He leaned closer, tilting his head slowly, the way a predator studies prey. Then, without warning, he lunged forward with a sharp, guttural growl, sending another wave of screams through the front row.