The abandoned building was a ruin of its former self—crumbling walls streaked with graffiti, shattered windows casting fractured moonlight onto the damp, filthy floor. The air was thick with decay, a blend of mildew and the faint, metallic tang of rust. It was the perfect place for someone seeking solitude, a place where the world and its chaos couldn't intrude. I had wandered in for exactly that reason, hoping to escape the weight of everything, even if just for a moment.

But the silence here was wrong. Too heavy. Too oppressive.

As I moved deeper into the building, my footsteps echoed faintly, the sound swallowed quickly by the darkness. A faint noise caught my attention—a muffled groan, weak and pitiful. At first, it was easy to dismiss it as some trick of the mind, the building's eerie acoustics playing games. But then it came again, louder this time, and unmistakably human.

Following the sound, I turned a corner and froze.

There, bathed in a sickly yellow light from a single overhead bulb, was a figure crouched over a trembling, broken form. A homeless man—bloody, battered, and whimpering—lay sprawled on the floor. His hands were bound with frayed rope, his face a mess of bruises and blood. The man's chest heaved with shallow breaths, his eyes wide with terror as he stared at the silhouette looming above him.

Vlad Semenov.

He stood there, motionless for a moment, holding a long, gleaming blade in one hand. Blood dripped from its edge, pooling on the floor in viscous streaks. His other hand rested on the man's shoulder, pressing him down, keeping him exactly where Vlad wanted him to be.

The air around him felt wrong—heavy, suffocating, as though the darkness itself was drawn to him, wrapping him in its cold embrace.

Vlad's head turned slowly, his piercing gray eyes locking onto mine with unnerving precision. He didn't flinch. He didn't gasp or panic. No, Vlad simply stared, his expression as blank and emotionless as the walls around him.

Well... this is inconvenient.

His mind churned, methodical and cold. He hadn't expected company tonight—not in this place, not during this moment. He had chosen this building carefully, far from prying eyes, perfect for indulging his cravings. The screams would be drowned out by the emptiness, the cries lost to the void.

But now, here I was. Watching. Breathing.

Can't let this one go. Not now. Not ever.

Vlad's fingers tightened instinctively around the hilt of the knife. His other hand moved slowly, almost delicately, lifting away from the homeless man. The whimpering figure beneath him didn't matter anymore—he was already broken, already meaningless. No, all of Vlad's attention was on me, the figure in the doorway.