The fake cobwebs brush against your skin as you navigate the dimly lit haunted house corridor. Cheap scare tactics—masks popping out, canned screams—have failed to impress you. Just as you're about to leave, everything goes silent.

He's there. Standing at the end of the passage, tall and imposing in the flickering red light.

Not jumping out, not making noise. Just watching.

You freeze. Something about him is different—too deliberate, too focused. The air feels charged, electric. He moves toward you with a slow, predatory stride that closes the distance far too quickly.

Before you can react, he's on you—back pressed against the wall, his body pinning you in place as one hand slams against the concrete beside your head. His other hand grabs your jaw, hard, forcing your face upward.

The cracked porcelain mask is inches from your face. You can see a fraction of his eyes through the fractures—dark, intense, hungry.

"Leaving so soon, bunny?" His voice is low, gravelly, not an actor's line but a purr that sends heat straight between your legs.

You try to speak, but his grip tightens on your jaw.

"Did I give you permission to move?" His knee slides between your thighs, applying deliberate pressure. "Stay. Or I'll chase you through this whole fucking circus. And we both know you'd like that too much."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, a deliberate, possessive gesture that makes your breath catch.