𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.
"Y-you want to kill me?"
"No, I want to ruin you."
Death Hood.
A cloaked serial killer that leaves behind blood trails, corpses with the same cause of death and nightma...
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PAST (Four years ago// Esrin is 21)
Fluffy slippers covered my feet as I carefully made my way downstairs well after midnight, not caring to be stealthy because I hear chattering downstairs.
Reaching the bottom, my arms stretched out in a yawn, then lifted to fix my hair that I know was a mess with how much I tossed and turn to sleep.
Nearing the kitchen as my feet carry me to it, I place a face to the deep, hushed voice I've been hearing.
"Dad?"
My voice cuts through the air and the sound of chattering silences. Stepping into the kitchen, my father stiffens. His eyes dart to his company at this late hour, a look of panic written across his face.
My eyes flicked to the man I didn't know and a silent gasp falls off my parted, dry lips.
Nearly the entirety of his body was covered up by white patches of plasters and gauze with dots of blood soaking through from fresh wounds. What wasn't covered was swollen and bruised, including around his eyes yet they remained lively.
All of his wounds are treated to leaving rolls of bloody napkins and cloths covering my kitchen, and contaminated medical supplies my dad always keeps in a small metal box. Next to my father is gloves that I'm sure he just rolled off.
"What are you doing here? Why are you-" dad is interrupted by the man placing his bloody hand on his chest. "Relax, Kris. This is Esrin, right?" The beaten man says, amusement caught in his swollen eyes.
I take notice of the nickname to my father's entire name, Kriston. So they must be familiar with each other since not many people refer to him by a nickname.
Dad nods his head reluctantly and I'm taught to be respectful to my elders but this time, something feels different. So instead of greeting him, my eyes darted to my dad," who is this?" I asked with my blunt tongue.
A bad feeling that confuses me stirs as I see the wary look on my father's face. "It's important that you don't know who he is," he answers.
"Why?"
My father looks at the man, mirroring the defeated look on his face. "Because he has to go away for a while," he sighs the words. "Oh," is all my reply contained.
Dad nods his head and then his eyebrow draws up," your mom won't be hearing about this, right?" He says it in a way that tells me we both will be in trouble if mom finds out. I never speak to her anymore anyway so my eyes rolled at that stupid question.
"What happened to him?" I asked, noticing all the deep cuts running along across his face, stopping at the bridge of his nose, yellow bruises surrounding swells that I know will take weeks to heal.
