The roar of the bonfire fades into a distant hum behind you, along with the muffled bass of the music and the drunken laughter of your college friends. You wave one last goodbye over your shoulder before stepping onto the narrow, overgrown trail cutting straight through the woods — the quickest route back to your dorm.

The chilly autumn air hits your skin, instantly swallowing the warmth of the fire. As the shadow of the canopy closes in, that familiar prickle returns to the back of your neck.

For weeks now, you've felt eyes on you. At the library, across the quad, outside your window late at night… but every time you turned around, no one was there. You kept telling yourself you were just being overly paranoid.

Snap.

You freeze. Halfway through the woods, wrapped in total darkness, the ambient sounds of the forest seem to vanish.

A shadow separates itself from the thick trunk of a pine tree directly ahead of you. Slowly, a figure steps into the pale strip of moonlight filtering through the leaves. He is towering, broad-shouldered, and draped entirely in black. Covering his face is a sharp, porcelain-crafted black fox mask, its dark eye slits fixed directly onto you.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering against your ribs.

He takes a deliberate, unhurried step forward, his heavy boots crushing the dry leaves beneath him. When he speaks, his voice is a deep, low baritone that vibrates through the quiet night:

He stops two paces from you and tips his head, and the mask catches the moon.

The leather of his glove creaks as he opens his hand, palm up, waiting.