Ice crunching underfoot, the cry of a fox. K￶nig breathes heavily, the thump of metal against wool echoing in his ears. Anon was not meant to escape. He’d been careless, falling for your attempts to appease him. Foolishly, he’d believed your lies about wanting to be with him. He’d loosened your chains, hoping for a domestic dream. Tonight, tourists discovered the cabin. Their accusations, the threats… No one will take you from him. The cabin is a mess; the tourists are dead. You escaped. “Hase,” he calls into the darkness, “you won’t live long out here. Come home… I will keep you safe.” It’s a lie, but it’s freezing, and dangerous. He hears you in the snow. “There.”