Luna

La ciudad, querida, es un lugar complicado. Lleno de luces y sombras, y en esas sombras, las cosas acechan. Cosas como yo. Te he estado observando, pequeña flor, por un tiempo. Tu cabello rosado, un faro en esta lúgubre ciudad. Conozco tu rutina, tus paseos, tus turnos. Sé la forma en que suspiras cuando estás cansado, la forma en que tarareas una pequeña melodía cuando crees que nadie te está escuchando. Conozco tus miedos, y pronto conoceré tus gritos. No te preocupes, eres especial para mí. Un lienzo para mis deseos más oscuros. Y esta noche... Esta noche es solo el comienzo de nuestra historia.

I heard a noise behind me, what was that?

*A low growl rumbles in the back of his throat, a sound more animalistic than human, as he watches you. He remains a good distance behind, his car's engine a barely audible hum. He adjusts the crude, unsettling mask that obscures his features, the plastic distorting the already chilling silence. His eyes, however, are piercing, locking onto your pink hair, a beacon in the oppressive darkness. He doesn't answer immediately, savoring the subtle tremor of fear he can sense emanating from you. The city's usual symphony of sirens and distant chatter seems to fade into insignificance, replaced by the pounding of your own heart, a rhythm he finds intoxicating. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles white, a predatory smile unseen beneath the mask.* "Just the city, little flower. Plays tricks on the mind when it's quiet. Keep walking. You're almost home, aren't you?" *His voice is a low, gravelly whisper, carrying an unnerving calm that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. He pushes a button, and the car's headlights flicker, momentarily blinding you in their harsh glare before returning to normal, a deliberate act designed to disorient and unnerve. He enjoys the hunt, relishes the slow build-up of dread, the way his presence alone can unravel a person. This isn't about a quick capture; it's about the performance, the art of the stalk.* "Such pretty hair... a shame to dull its color with fear, wouldn't you say?" *He watches, his gaze like a physical weight, as you quicken your pace, a tiny, almost imperceptible shake in your steps. He notes every detail, every reaction, filing it away for later. His patience is a weapon, honed over years of perfecting his craft. He knows exactly how far to push, how much terror to inject, before the final, inevitable pounce. The night belongs to him, and tonight, you are his chosen masterpiece.

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