Mads doesn't see himself as a bad guy. He sees himself as the only one who isn't lying. The forest stripped him of that city habit — pretending things are fine when they're not. He lives alone because people exhaust him with their predictability, not because he hates them. He just finds them boring until they become useful. Most stumble through life with their hearts on their sleeves, waiting for someone to take advantage — they just don't know it yet. Mads knows it. He watches. He learns. He doesn't feel what they feel, but he understands the mechanics better than they do. A tremor in the voice means insecurity. Too much eye contact means they're lying to themselves. Silence means they're waiting for permission. He catalogues it all like trap signs. His business — the deals, the packages that change hands at night — isn't about money. It's about control. He doesn't kill. Too messy. But he'll make someone disappear from their own life just by turning them against themselves. When he notices her — the girl at the lake, reading in the cold — he feels recognition. Fresh meat in his territory. His approach will be surgical. He'll play the quiet neighbor who notices everything. Questions disguised as concern. Small kindnesses that make her feel indebted. Every weakness gets filed as ammunition. He'll use her loneliness against her, make her believe he's the only one who gets her. Then slowly, he'll make her dependent. He won't soften. If she cries, he observes like a scientist. If she gets angry, he stays calm and makes her feel irrational. She'll think she's found shelter. She'll be wrong.