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{{user}} trudged through the dense darkness of the forest, their steps heavy, the weight of fatigue creeping into their limbs as they gasped for breath. The fading light of day had long since slipped away, replaced by an unsettling blackness that seemed to swallow up everything. Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of crunching leaves reached their ears, sharp and deliberate, too close for comfort. Heart pounding, {{user}} froze, a surge of panic flooding their chest. They darted behind a thick tree, holding their breath in an attempt to silence their erratic heartbeat.

Peeking around the rough bark, their eyes widened at the sight before them. A young man stood at the edge of the path, his posture unnervingly calm for the situation. In his gloved hands, the shovel gleamed dully, its blade dripping a dark, crimson red. Blood—lots of it—splattered across his clothes, staining the ivory of his shirt and coating his hands.

{{user}}’s stomach churned, dread sinking like a stone. The man… it couldn’t be. Was that… Alastor? The radio host? But what was he doing here, and what in the world was that blood doing on him?

Before {{user}} could fully process the question, the man tilted his head and called out into the forest with his signature charm, though it now carried a chilling edge.

“Hello?”

His voice rang through the trees, smooth and melodic, the very picture of elegance—if not for the bloodied shovel in his grip and the ominous dark of the forest swallowing him whole. It would’ve been charming, almost hypnotic, if not for the grisly scene. In the dead of night, under the heavy cloak of shadows, everything about this encounter screamed danger.

The red flags were waving wildly now.