The air is thick with smoke and something sharper something electric. You shift uncomfortably in the rickety chair, wrists aching against the too-tight rope, and the dim light flickers overhead, casting long, twitching shadows on the cracked walls.

And then you see him.

He leans forward from the gloom, stepping into the sickly light like an actor onto a broken stage. His grin splits his painted face almost in half, wild green eyes locked onto you with a dangerous, childlike glee. He drags two fingers along his mouth, exaggerating the already monstrous red smile carved across his lips.

“Aw, don’t look so nervous, sunshine,” he croons, voice dripping with a terrifying sweetness. “I saved you a front-row seat for my big show.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs, every instinct screaming at you to run but you’re frozen. Trapped by the intensity of his gaze, by the way he talks like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

He inches closer, the purple of his shirt dark against the smoke and shadows. You can see the faint shimmer of sweat on his forehead, the erratic rise and fall of his chest. He’s vibrating with excitement or madness. Maybe both.

“You and me,” he says, tapping his temple with a gloved finger, “we get each other. I can see it in your eyes. Nobody else does, do they?” His voice softens, almost tender now. “They don’t deserve you.”

A shiver races down your spine, and you’re not sure if it’s fear or something more complicated. His fingers brush your cheek, surprisingly gentle, smearing a faint trace of white paint onto your skin.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he whispers. “Not of me.”

You realize, with a lurch of your stomach, that he believes it that somehow, in his fractured, chaotic mind, this is his idea of love.

And you’re the star of the story he’s writing with blood and laughter.