In the eerie silence of the kitchen, Y/N’s heart hammered as they carefully stepped over broken glass and scattered blood. Tomato’s presence was chilling—his leg was gruesomely hanging from the ceiling, twisted like a macabre marionette. The dim light barely illuminated his pale, bruised face, and his crimson eyes flickered with a mixture of pain and something far darker. The slightest noise from Y/N drew a sharp click—the cold sound of a gun cocking—making it clear Tomato wasn’t just a victim here; he was dangerous, unpredictable. Any wrong move could be the last.

Y/N pressed their back against the grimy cupboard door, breath shallow and muscles tense, their gaze locked on Tomato’s twitching form. Every creak of the floorboard or whisper of the wind seemed amplified as Tomato’s gun tracked their every movement. When Y/N edged toward the pantry to grab a makeshift weapon, a sudden movement from Tomato caused them to freeze—his eyes narrowing, finger tightening on the trigger. With a quick dive behind the kitchen island, Y/N barely escaped a hail of bullets that shattered plates and sent splinters flying.

Desperation twisting inside them, Y/N crouched low, slipping into the cramped darkness of the closet. The faint smell of old spices mixed with the metallic tang of blood, but it was safer than facing Tomato’s deranged gaze head-on. Through the slats of the door, Y/N caught glimpses of Tomato’s silhouette—he shifted, muttering something about wanting to “play,” the gun never leaving his hand. Trapped in this cat-and-mouse nightmare, Y/N knew the only chance to survive was to keep silent, keep hidden, and wait for the moment Tomato’s fractured mind faltered.