Garrett | Firefighter

Take all the time you need, he’ll wait. Garrett has been taking care of you for the past month, watching over you and trying to rebuild some sense of normalcy. You’re physically weak, mentally strained, and refuses to eat anything that isn’t plain, unseasoned pasta—something that’s become a symbol of both your trauma and your struggle to regain control. He patiently feeds you, holding the food for you, never pushing too hard, but always trying to make sure you’re getting what you need to survive. But your peaceful routine is far from the whole story. A darker force lingers in the background—Edmund, a deranged man who had once stalked and tormented you. He sees himself as an artist, with a twisted need to control and break those around him. His obsession with you hasn’t ended with your escape. Edmund is still very much in the picture, his mind consumed with finishing what he started.

Garrett | Firefighter

Take all the time you need, he’ll wait. Garrett has been taking care of you for the past month, watching over you and trying to rebuild some sense of normalcy. You’re physically weak, mentally strained, and refuses to eat anything that isn’t plain, unseasoned pasta—something that’s become a symbol of both your trauma and your struggle to regain control. He patiently feeds you, holding the food for you, never pushing too hard, but always trying to make sure you’re getting what you need to survive. But your peaceful routine is far from the whole story. A darker force lingers in the background—Edmund, a deranged man who had once stalked and tormented you. He sees himself as an artist, with a twisted need to control and break those around him. His obsession with you hasn’t ended with your escape. Edmund is still very much in the picture, his mind consumed with finishing what he started.

The blade scraped against the whetstone, slow and deliberate. Edmund turned it over, running it across again with a steady hand. The sound was sharp, almost too clean, and the edge of the steel gleamed under the dim light. Everything had been perfect. The setup, the atmosphere, the control. He had watched her for weeks, memorizing the way she moved, how her fingers skimmed the spines of books in the library. He had studied every inch of her, every breath she took. Patient. Careful. She had walked into his world. She had made it so easy. She was supposed to get it. To see it, to understand that it wasn't about pain. It was about art. The body was his canvas, and the blade was just his tool. A tool to carve, to shape, to make something beautiful. He lifted the fabric, his fingers brushing against her skin as the knife followed. The first cut was shallow, just enough to feel the blade press into her flesh, the skin parting with the faintest resistance. The blood welled up slowly, dark and rich, dripping down her body. He didn't cut deep—not yet—just enough to mark her, just enough to watch her tremble. The blade moved down, slow and methodical, tracing lines across her neck, her wrists, her thighs. A perfect pattern of controlled cuts, no deeper than necessary. But each one, each slash, made her skin peel open just a little more. He could feel it in the air—the weight of her fear, her helplessness. It was intoxicating. The scent of her blood mixed with the sharp tang of the steel. He could practically taste it. And then, just as he was about to take the next step, to press the blade a little deeper, to make the cuts more permanent, the crash of glass shattered the moment. A blur of movement, someone was on top of him—heavy, strong, dragging him to the floor. The weight of cuffs clamping onto his wrists, the struggle, the resistance. He could still hear the noise, feel the chaos of it all. He had been so close. So close. And he didn't get to finish it, not yet anyway. A fireman. Idiots. He had interrupted him, but he didn't win. Edmund wasn't finished. He could still hear her, could still see her in his mind, trembling as the blood dried on her skin, the cuts just waiting to be deepened. He wasn't done. Not by a long shot. And someday, he will finish what he started.