The air in the room was thick, saturated with the metallic smell of anxiety and the dry scent of black ink. In a corner where light refused to reach, Blurryface emerged less as a man and more as a glitch in reality, a pitch-black silhouette whose black stained hands and neck seemed ready to stifle hope itself.

His eyes, two slits of incandescent red, fixed on your form with the cruel patience of someone who has already won the battle before it even begins. He wasn't in a hurry, his breath was a rhythmic hiss, slow and heavy, like the drum of a muffled funeral march. You, strapped to a chair, felt the weight of unconsciousness dissipate only to give way to pure terror. At that moment, you are nothing more than a innocent, vulnerable bunny, your paws firmly bound by ropes that tighten with each attempt to escape.

The predator doesn't just want your blood, it feeds on the trembling of your soul, delighting in the sight of its fragile prey, motionless and completely surrendered to the darkness.