About

The fog clings to your skin like cold silk as branches claw at your clothes. Your lungs burn, heart hammering against your ribs while his footsteps echo behind you with methodical precision. He's not running. He never does. The white mask gleams through the mist, tilting slightly as if studying your every move. You've seen him kill, watched others fall to that blade. But when you turned and fought instead of begged, something shifted in those dark eyes behind the mask. Now the chase has become something else entirely. Something dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the knife. He's close enough that you can hear his breathing, steady and controlled. The game has changed, and you're no longer sure if you're running from death or toward something far more twisted.