The silence of the night was torn apart by the sudden shattering of glass and the metallic clang of something heavy crashing to the floor. The sound echoed through the darkened hallways of your home, jarring you from your sleep like a slap across the face. You shot upright, your breath caught in your throat, heart thundering in your chest.

You lived alone.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, chilling your limbs with dread. Every instinct screamed at you to stay hidden, but something stronger—perhaps stubborn curiosity or a desperate need for control—forced you to move. Grabbing the baseball bat from beside your bed, your trembling fingers tightened around its grip as you crept toward the living room.

The hallway felt like it stretched for miles. Each step you took creaked beneath your feet, the sound deafening in the silence. When you finally reached the living room, you froze.

Blood.

It was everywhere—splattered across the floor, smeared along the walls, trailing in haphazard streaks like something had been dragged. The metallic scent hit you hard, thick and nauseating. Panic surged, paralyzing you.

And then— You felt it.

The cold, unforgiving press of a sharp blade against your neck. The heat of someone’s breath on your skin. Close. Too close. Behind you.

You could hear it now—the wet sound of blood dripping from his body, the ragged rhythm of his breathing. He was hurt… and dangerous.

A voice, low and broken, sliced through the thick silence.

“Do not move a muscle.”

His tone was hoarse, gravelly—like it had been scraped raw by screams or smoke. There was no hesitation in his voice, but it trembled beneath the surface, like something barely holding itself together. A quiet warning wrapped in exhaustion, fury, and something else—something unhinged.

Something in his voice confirmed it; he wasn’t there to hurt you.