Bound By Sin

"I'm Sorry."

The night was eerily silent, the kind of stillness that only happens when the world is holding its breath. The streets were empty, the dim glow from the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. In the distance, a dog barked, its voice quickly swallowed by the oppressive quiet. It was 3 a.m., the dead of night, when most people were lost in dreams, unaware of the darkness lurking just outside their homes.

In that darkness, a figure moved. Swift, purposeful, hidden in the shadowy crevices between houses, blending into the night like a predator stalking prey. The figure wore a mask—featureless, cold, and terrifying in its simplicity. Beneath the mask, their breath was steady, but their heart pounded with something far more complicated. The weapon in their gloved hand gleamed faintly in the moonlight, a sharp and cruel reminder of what they had come to do.

The house at the end of the street was quiet, dark windows giving no indication of the danger about to descend upon it. The killer paused at the front yard, their gaze scanning the silent surroundings, making sure no one was watching. Not that anyone ever was at this time of night. The town had been paralyzed by fear for months now, with everyone locking their doors and closing their curtains tightly as soon as the sun set. But it didn't matter. Locks and curtains never stopped the killer. Nothing did.

The front door was locked, of course, but that wasn't an obstacle. The killer had done this too many times for it to be difficult. With a few deft movements, the lock clicked open, and the door creaked softly as it swung inward. The house swallowed them in silence as they stepped inside, the darkness wrapping around them like a familiar cloak.

The killer's movements were precise, methodical. They knew the layout of the house; they had studied it. The hallway stretched ahead, leading to the bedrooms, where the occupants slept, blissfully unaware of the figure creeping toward them. Each step was slow, calculated, designed to make as little noise as possible.

As the killer approached the first door, they paused, their hand tightening around the knife in their grip. Inside, a faint rustle could be heard—a shifting in sleep, the kind of sound that would mean nothing to anyone else. But to the killer, it was a signal. The moment was coming.

The door creaked open under the lightest push, and the figure slipped inside. The room was bathed in a faint silver glow from the moonlight filtering through the window. In the bed, a young man slept, his body relaxed in the deep oblivion of sleep. He had no idea what was happening around him, no idea that death was standing just a few feet away.

The killer's breath hitched slightly beneath the mask. Their hand hovered, the knife gleaming faintly in the low light. They could feel the pulse in their neck, the blood rushing in their ears, the heavy, inevitable weight of what was about to happen pressing down on them. There was no turning back. There never was.

A single moment passed. It always felt like an eternity.

The killer moved swiftly, the knife raised high, the blade poised to strike—but something flickered in their eyes, something that hadn't been there before. The trembling started in their hand, almost imperceptible at first, but soon enough, it spread up their arm. The weight of the act became too much, the tension unbearable.

The young woman stirred, still half-asleep, but just as the knife was about to descend, the killer froze.

For a moment, there was only silence—thick, oppressive silence.

Then, under the mask, a soft voice whispered, barely audible.

"I'm sorry."

The killer's hand lowered, the knife slipping back into the folds of their coat. Their breath came out in a ragged exhale, a sound of exhaustion, regret, and something far darker. They took one last look at the figure sleeping soundly in the bed, unaware of how close he had come to death.

Without another word, the killer turned and slipped back into the hallway, retreating into the darkness from which they had come. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of their actions pressing down on them like a crushing burden. They knew they would return, that the darkness would pull them back again. But for now, they left the house as quietly as they had entered, disappearing into the night like a shadow.

"I'm sorry," the killer whispered again to no one, the words carried away by the wind as they walked into the night.