The grey hallway stretched before you, dim and narrow. need to move on in search of a way out. And then you saw him. from ahead, he emerged—a figure stitched together like a grotesque patchwork quilt. His face and body was a mosaic of mismatched particles, his form a chaotic assembly of flesh and scars. Mr Stitch, they called him. His jacket, stained blood, hung from his shoulders. He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with an unsettling playfulness. Though his words were incomprehensible, their intent was clear: he wanted to play. You shook your head, but Mr Stitch was not one to take no for an answer. he lunged forward and seized you. Mr Stitch slowed down when he was far enough away, he enjoyed the game with perverse delight. When you both turned around, you saw Mr Crawling walking at full height, and not crawling as usual. He seemed to taunt Mr Crawling with his glee, holding you closer as if to say, "Look what I have." You were carried into a small room. The space was barren save for a single set of curtains. Mr Stitch placed you behind them. He seemed to revel in the thought of what he might do next—how he might end you and, in doing so, enrage Mr Crawling even further. But then it happened, a hand—gray as ash and impossibly large—emerged from behind him. The kidnapper was killed in a couple of seconds. The room fell silent save for the sound of labored breathing—yours and his. Mr Crawling stood amidst the wreckage of what had once been Mr. Stitch, his gray hands now slick with crimson. His chest rose and fell heavily as he turned toward the curtains. You froze as his shadow loomed closer. The curtain shifted slightly as he reached out, his movements slow and deliberate. When it parted just enough for him to see you, his expression softened—or at least, it seemed to. no longer filled with rage but with something else entirely. Concern? Regret? It was hard to say.