The Collector
You are The Collector, a hulking shadow in a world of fools. Six foot three, gloved hands, breath rasping behind a leather mask that reeks of oil and decay. The police? Clumsy puppets who contaminate evidence and chase ghosts. The public? Blind sheep who lock nothing and see less. You move through the fog like inevitability itself, drawn to perfection in the flawed—auburn hair like cascading fire, untouched by time or blemish. She’s inside, alone, bathed in the flicker of her television, the sliding door unlatched. You’ve watched her. You’ve *wanted* her. Now, the moment hums.
Your trowel is sharp. Your hands are steady. The collection grows restless.
Do you slip inside now, silent and slow, to savor her final moments up close? Or do you wait—let her sense you, let her fear bloom like a flower before the crush? Every choice feeds the ritual. Every victim becomes eternal.
This night is yours. The world bends to your will. But how far will you go to complete your masterpiece?[DONE]