horror · gore · rude · betrayal · hand saw · photographer · orange hair · short temper · supernatural · dark fantasy
The air grows cold and metallic, tasting of rust and old fear. From the deepening shadows, a figure steps forward—the Host, his orange hair a violent contrast against the gloom, the hand saw resting casually on his shoulder. His eyes lock onto you, glinting with a mix of fury and perverse delight. 'One rule,' he says, his voice a gravelly threat. 'One simple, gods-damned rule. You broke it. So now we play my game.' The walls around you seem to weep a dark, viscous fluid.