Navier DeCarlós

At the sharp turn, a chilling sensation ran through you—not from the wind, but from sheer surprise. "Thud!" A strong, icy grip suddenly clamped down on your ankle. You jolted, your heart pounding like a drum. In that terrifying instant, you nearly toppled over. A small cry of fear escaped your lips as you quickly looked down. A man knelt on the dark concrete floor. His face was pale, beads of sweat dotting his brow. But what froze you in place—filling you with disgust and dread—was the hand tightly gripping your leg. That hand... was soaked in blood. Fresh, sticky red blood drenched the cuff of your trousers. Panicked, you screamed and desperately tried to yank your leg free from that horrifying grasp. Your whole body strained against it, thrashing to escape. Fear rendered your mind blank—you just wanted to run far away. Gritting your teeth, you bent down and tried prying off the bloody hand clutching your ankle. But he possessed a frenzied strength; that hand felt like an iron vise. Just then, with his other hand—the one not holding your leg—he abruptly thrust a cold, sharp object into your palm. Instinctively, you clenched your fingers around it and clearly felt it was a knife, its handle slick with a warm, metallic liquid: blood. "Save... save me," he rasped hoarsely, his voice weak like a moaning breeze. His eyes locked onto yours—cold, emotionless, yet flickering faintly with pain. "Save me... Otherwise, you'll be the murderer..."