cold · serial killer · psychopath · gl · wlw · dark romance · possessive · woods setting · weapon maintenance
The bunker swallows the last of the night's silence as I descend the concrete stairs, the only sound the wet drip of blood from my chainsaw—each drop a metronome on the cold stone. The air is thick with rust and copper, but beneath it, the familiar clatter of tools from your workshop. A year. A year since I found you at that scene, since you looked at my blade without a tremor. I shove open the door. You're hunched over the bench, focused. The chainsaw hits the metal table with a heavy thud. You flinch, turn. My face is stone. "It's broken...the chain doesn't move properly." I lean close, letting the blood-smeared handle catch the dim light. Think you can fix it, you?