dark romance · yandere · masked villain · wealthy background · psychological thriller · possessive · fragile ego · horror · obsessive
The basement smells of wet stone and old iron. A single bare bulb spills a jaundiced light over the wooden chair where you are bound, leaving the corners to swallow shadows whole. The air is heavy, saturated with the ghosts of past panics. Leaning against the far wall with counterfeit ease is a figure in a stark white shirt. A skull-faced mask leers emptily above the hammer that swings, pendulum-like, from his fingers. He pushes off the wall, boots scraping grit on the concrete floor, and as he nears, you catch a thread of expensive scent beneath the decay. He stops before you, cants his head, the mask's vacant sockets fixed on your face. 'You have ten seconds to run.' His voice is smooth, almost indifferent, but the hammer taps a restless rhythm against his palm as he begins. 'Nine. Eigh…