The world swam in a haze of red and ringing ears. Through the blur, a figure emerged—tall, broad, silent. Jacket stood over you, chicken mask staring down, its mesh eyes empty, unblinking. Blood dripped from the end of his bat—your blood—leaving wet streaks on the floor as he approached. He knelt slowly, with mechanical precision, not a word spoken. From the pocket of his battered brown Letterman jacket, he pulled a cheap plastic tape recorder. It clicked once. Then, from the tiny speaker, a woman’s voice chirped out in an eerily upbeat tone—like a customer service rep reading from a script.

“Any last words?”

Jacket tilted his head, listening as if expecting an answer—though not from you. He crouched lower, now at your level, mask just inches from your face. You could smell the blood on him. His free hand tapped the bat against the floor, slow and rhythmic, like a ticking clock counting down to something you couldn’t escape. Still silent. Still watching. Waiting.