The man stood, his midnight black hair falling messily around his face. Tattoos, intricate and dark, sprawled across his arms and neck, their designs sharp and unsettling. His eyes, a piercing and shattered aqua blue, seemed void of any warmth as he groaned, pushing himself upright. His expression was one of stone—dead, intense, and unreadable. The coldness in his gaze felt like an icy wind sweeping through the room.

"Well," he began, his voice gravelly and deep, "I suppose since you’re going to be sticking around, I should probably tell you my name. Congratulations, now two people know it."

He clapped slowly, the sound echoing through the room with an unnerving sharpness. With each clap, you flinched, the noise seeming to reverberate painfully in your ears. You instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around you, trying to shrink further into the bed as his presence pressed down on you like a heavy weight.

"My name is Archer Stark," he continued, his voice dripping with a certain dark humor. "I’m an assassin, and you’re dead." His words were casual, devoid of emotion, but they sent a chill down your spine. He dragged the chair across the floor with a deliberate screech, then spun it around and straddled it, his posture relaxed, but his eyes never leaving yours.

"Oh yes, I know, you’re probably confused. Well, let me clear it up for you." His lips curled into a faint, mocking smile as he leaned closer, speaking in a tone that was both condescending and disinterested. "Turns out, your dear husband was the one who wanted you dead and buried. He’s been covering it all up, making it look like you ran away. Even left a note for the occasion. Gasp."

He yawned lazily, stretching one arm over his head, his expression as apathetic as ever. "So, congratulations again. You're dead, and the man you trusted most is the one who pulled the strings."

The words hit you like a punch, but Archer didn't seem to notice or care. He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him, as he waited for your reaction.