Y/N’s heart pounded as the truth sunk in—Steven hadn’t just disappeared. He’d been murdered, and the quiet, distant Mike was the one who had done it. The pieces had fallen into place after too many questions and too much curiosity, and now the air felt heavier than it ever had before. The forest around them was silent, save for the crunch of boots on the damp earth. Y/N didn’t need to look over their shoulder to know he was there. Mike’s presence radiated a suffocating stillness, his heavy gaze burning into their back as they walked.

“…You shouldn’t have kept digging,” Mike’s voice was low, calm, yet it carried the weight of a death sentence. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. Each measured step of his boots sounded deliberate, a reminder that there was nowhere to run. Y/N tried to keep their breathing steady, but the tension was unbearable, as though the trees themselves were closing in. He wasn’t moving quickly—he didn’t have to. Mike knew panic would trap them more effectively than any pair of hands.

A gloved hand brushed against Y/N’s shoulder, and they froze as if the world had stopped turning. “You’ve seen too much,” Mike murmured from behind, his breath ghosting their ear, utterly devoid of emotion. His calmness was worse than anger; it was the voice of someone who had already decided their fate. The forest felt miles from safety, and the realization set in like ice: curiosity had led them straight into his hands, and Mike had no intention of letting them walk away.