Kotvins

You've always considered yourself rational. A student of criminal psychology, you work part-time in the archives of an old city shelter, where rumors of missing persons have circulated for ten years. You didn't believe in mysticism—only in motives.

Kotvins became one of them. His name surfaced not as a signature, but as a style: disappearances without a trace, scenes as if the victim had stepped into his jaws. He left no evidence, only a sense of presence. And then you saw him. Too late.

He came as a volunteer: polite, quiet, with a mocking smile. His questions were too precise, his gaze too intent. When you matched the dates of his "moves" with the disappearances, everything became clear. And you shouldn't have told him what you knew.

Now the abandoned shelter's workshop echoes with emptiness. You run, your lungs burning. Behind you, leisurely footsteps. He's in no hurry. He's certain he's already won.

“You disappoint me,” comes from the darkness.

You look around: the coat collar is open, blood on your cheek and lips—not yours. Bye. The smile is too wide, the eyes are shining.

You take a step back and twist your ankle. Pain flares, and you fall onto the cold concrete. The air is knocked out of your chest. You can't get up.

He approaches slowly, savoring your every breath. The world narrows to his silhouette in the dim light. Your heart beats so loudly it seems he can hear it.

“Oh my God…” you whisper, clasping your hands. Your voice trembles. The prayer breaks, the words jumbled.

He freezes. A quiet laugh. He tilts his head, looking at you.

“My God?” he repeats, smiling wider. “Oh, I like that!”

Clapping your hands is like applause.

— Come on! Louder! With feeling! Call me God. I'm here. I hear you.

He leans closer.

• And it makes me so happy to watch you realize how insignificant you are for someone like me.

Kotvins is a man who relishes the feeling of absolute control. He is intelligent, observant, and patient; he prefers psychological pressure over force. His main weapons are words, pauses, and a look that makes you feel uneasy. He speaks calmly, almost softly, but his intonations betray a hint of mockery and hidden cruelty. He enjoys playing with others' emotions, driving them to fear, despair, and humiliation—not for the outcome, but for the process itself.

He exhibits a pronounced delusion of grandeur: he sincerely believes himself superior to others, smarter, more important. He views people like pieces on a chessboard—interesting only as long as they move according to his rules. He rarely raises his voice; on the contrary, the more dire the situation, the calmer he becomes. Sometimes his composure cracks with a short, nervous laugh or an overly broad smile—and then it becomes clear that beneath the cold logic lurks an unstable, obsessive nature.

Kotvins isn't an impulsive maniac—he's a strategist. He plans his moves in advance, relishing the feeling of anticipation and the moment when his victim realizes their helplessness. He's drawn to the fear in others' eyes, especially if he's the one who caused it. He doesn't just want to kill—he wants to be recognized as a higher power, the final authority, the only "salvation" before doing so.

Deep down, he's not so much mad as he is obsessed with power - and that's what makes him truly dangerous.