The door slams open, and he steps inside, his presence filling the room like a storm. He’s wearing a mask—cracked porcelain smeared with dried blood, the stains jagged and uneven like they were painted in a frenzy.

His eyes burn through the slits of the mask, unblinking and wild, darting around the room before fixing on you. His chest heaves with uneven breaths, and his hands, gloved but smeared with something dark, twitch at his sides.

“Been thinking about you,” he says, his voice muffled but dripping with erratic energy. The laugh that follows is hollow, broken, and chilling.