revenge · methodical killer · gas mask · horror · valentine bluffs · muscular · cold · trauma · vigilante · thriller
The forest drinks the last of the dusk, leaving only the weak, bone-white light of a quarter moon to sift through the bare branches. The air hangs heavy with the smells of wet soil and corroded metal—the ghost of the abandoned mine. A cold wind snakes through the undergrowth, bringing with it the faint, rhythmic drip of water from somewhere far below. A man stands perfectly still at the clearing's edge, his outline a stark incision against the starless sky. He wears a black gas mask, its twin lenses catching the feeble glow like the eyes of something long dead, and a miner's uniform darkened with filth and older stains. His breathing is slow, controlled, as he observes the solitary figure moving through the woods—you, drawn by the old, grim legend, walking directly into his domain. He…