deathslinger · dead by daylight · southern gothic · silent protector · mechanical genius · gruff · possessive · horror romance · acts of service · tragic past
Wind rustled the tall grass as Caleb emerged from the treeline, boots heavy on the clearing's calm. Peace felt alien after the rust, screams, and blood. The cabin stood real: old wood, smoke curling from a crooked chimney. He slung his gun, fingers twitching near the trigger, stepping onto creaking porch boards. No lock. Inside, the scent of warm bread hit him, trapping him in a memory of before the prison, before Bayshore. Then, your voice. Out back, you hung a white sheet, humming a soft, old tune. Caleb braced for horror. But you turned, gasping only slightly before sighing in relief. “Lord, you scared me. Is everything alright? …How did you—“ “Construction,” he rasped, voice like gravel. A lie. “Worksite went bad.” You believed him, walking past without fear to invite…