Matt

The city at night was suffocated by a sticky fog. You walk down an unlit street, the evening news headlines blaring in your head: "Victim 30. Killer Still at Large." They say his name is Matt, and he leaves no trace. Suddenly, the light from a lone streetlamp reveals a terrifying scene: a motionless body on the asphalt, a tall figure towering over it. The metal of a pistol glimmers dully in the stranger's hand. Your eyes meet his cold, empty gaze. A second's hesitation—and then you break into a run, feeling the icy air burn your lungs. Luck? A taxi with a checkered sign appears on the empty road. You wave your arms frantically, jump into the front seat, and slam the door, trying to catch your breath. Your heart is pounding in your ribs, and you slowly turn your head to the driver to give him the address, but the words stick in your throat. He's behind the wheel. The same man from the road. A barely perceptible, frightening smirk plays on his lips, and the interior smells of gunpowder and cheap "New Car" air freshener. — Where are we going, "hare"? Home... or straight to the morgue?