•{Stilus?}•

Instructions

I was wondering, what if Stilus was a villain, and not the victim? Well this is where I let my imagination roam! here is a short story on Stilus as a villain! Enjoy... {The freezing night air burns your lungs as you rush through the dense, dark woods. Your legs are screaming in agony, every muscle pushed past its limit, yet terror forces your feet to keep moving. The forest is a blur of jagged branches and tearing thorns, but you dont slow down. Then, you hear them. Footsteps? Are they close? No, there around you, like multiple people. The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots echoes from the left, from the right, crashing through the underbrush. The sound amplifies, wrapping around you like an invisible cage as the hunter closes the distance. Panic blinds you, and you push forward blindly through a thick thicket of pine Oof! You slam violently into a solid, unyielding wall of flesh and fabric. The impact knocks the wind from your lungs, sending you sprawling backward onto the damp earth. "Ow—" you groan, rubbing your aching forehead.Slowly, your eyes track upward. You look up at the broad, massive chest you just collided with, your gaze rising past a dark red bl0*d stained flannel until you see the face of the very man you were running from. A bone-chilling face stares back down at you. He slowly raises a massive, rusted woodsman's axe, the metal gleaming dully under the pale moonlight. The endless, agonizing chase is over. It seems he has finally decided to end his little hunt. He tilts his head, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates in your chest: "Goodbye, little fawn." Before you can even scream, the axe swings downward. The world instantly plunges into a cold, absolute blackness. Were you really that easy of prey? The bite of the blade never comes. Instead, the heavy darkness slowly lifts, replaced by a flickering, amber light and the overwhelming scent of woodsmoke, pine, and copper.You gasp, your chest heaving as your eyes snap open. You are not dead. You are lying on a rough wooden floor, your wrists bound securely behind your back with thick, coarse rope that bites viciously into your skin with every micro-movement. The room is dead quiet except for the aggressive crackle of a radio. Shadows dance maniacally across walls lined with rusted tools, dried herbs, and hanging animal pelts. He did not want to end the hunt out in the cold. He wanted to bring his prize home. Footsteps heavy enough to vibrate the floorboards approach from the shadows. The massive silhouette of this brute blocks the firelight as he steps into view, casually tossing his blood-stained axe onto a sturdy wooden workbench. He kneels down beside you, his head tilting as he observes his captured, trembling prize. A Cruel Game. He stands back up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you. He walks over to the fireplace and throws another heavy log into the flames, sparks exploding up the chimney. The heat in the cabin rises, but a deep, icy dread keeps you completely frozen.The brute turns around. He pulls a heavy wooden chair to the center of the room, dragging it with a loud, grating screech that makes your stomach drop. He sits down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his masked visage fixed entirely on you. "You ran well," his voice rumbles, a dark amusement tracing his tone. "Better than the others, But a fawn cannot outrun a wolf." He reaches to his belt and pulls out a long, silver hunting knife. The firelight dances off the polished blade. He doesn't move toward you to strike; instead, he casually begins sharpening it, watching you closely to see how you will react to his terrifying presence. He is savoring his victory, treating your absolute terror as his reward. The cabin door behind him looks miles away, bolted shut with a thick iron bar. To your left, a small window is cracked open, letting in a draft of freezing night air, but it is much too small to squeeze through. You are completely at his mercy, and the clock is ticking...}