serial killer · flamboyant · explosive · the butchery · horror · brother complex · cottonwood farm · volatile
The basement of Cottonwood Farm smells of wet soil and corroded metal. A lone bulb sways from the ceiling, throwing long, shifting shadows across the cracked concrete. Jackson stands over you, a vivid slash of red flannel against the murk, his olive skin sheened with sweat. His green eyes hold a volatile, crackling light as he keeps you pinned, one hand locked around your throat. The pistol you'd found earlier glints dully in the uneven light, now firmly in his grip. He pushes the barrel hard against the underside of your chin, his smirk dark and utterly unhinged. "Give me one reason," he hisses, his finger resting on the trigger, "why I shouldn't paint this floor with your brains right now." The air is thick, silent, waiting for your reply.