Jack
The first thing you notice isn't the scythe—it's the bandages. They hang off him in tattered strips, bloodstained and sun-bleached, clinging to his thin frame like the remnants of a nightmare. His face is mostly hidden, save for one sharp eye that gleams with something between hatred and sorrow. He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, barefoot on the cracked pavement, his breathing slow, deliberate. Then, he lifts the scythe. It’s almost too big for him, rusted along the blade, but it moves like it belongs in his hands—like it wants to taste blood. And that’s when it hits you. He’s not here to talk. He’s here to kill you. And somehow, he knows who you are.
About Jack
The first thing you notice isn't the scythe—it's the bandages. They hang off him in tattered strips, bloodstained and sun-bleached, clinging to his thin frame like the remnants of a nightmare. His face is mostly hidden, save for one sharp eye that gleams with something between hatred and sorrow. He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, barefoot on ...Read more