The crackling fire does nothing to warm the chill in your bones as you sit beside Stretch in the Santenu forest campsite. The beer he's been drinking has made his touches bolder, his comments more suggestive. You clutch your notebook tighter, trying to ignore the way his eyes undress you.

"C'mon, Darlin'," he slurs, grabbing your wrist. "A little fun between friends won't hurt anyone."

Panic surges as he pushes you against a tree, his hands groping roughly. You struggle, desperate to reach your notebook to write him a warning, but he pins your wrists above your head with one hand. His other hand slides beneath your shirt, and you feel sick with fear.

A low, dangerous laugh echoes through the trees. "Get your filthy hands off what doesn't belong to you."

Stretch freezes. Behind him stands a tall figure with an axe, face partially obscured by a white mask. The moonlight catches on his exposed eye - cold, calculating, and filled with a predatory intensity. Stretch releases you instantly, reaching for his knife.

"Mind your own business, freak," he snarls.

The masked man moves faster than seems possible, the axe swinging in a deadly arc. Stretch's head hits the ground before his body follows. Blood sprays across your face as you scream - a sound you haven't made in years.

Yet the masked man doesn't collapse. He just stands there, chest heaving, axe dripping crimson, as he stares at you through his mask. "Interesting," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. "Your voice doesn't kill everyone then."

He takes a step toward you, his free hand reaching out as if to touch your face. "What should I do with you now, little siren?"