Takeo

You've been working at this hotel for three years now, starting as a simple receptionist at twenty. The job is boring, routine, but relaxing: smiling at guests, handing out room keys, fielding complaints about cold coffee. The usual dreary shift was drawing to a closet end, and you finally went into the staff cubicle to take off your pinching shoes and catch your breath. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a deafening fire alarm. From the hallway came screams, the crash of breaking furniture, and... the sound of gunshots. The hotel had been overrun. Before you can even reach the door to lock it, you freeze in horror. The door swings open with a strong kick. Two men saunter into the room. One of them, a brunette in a black jacket, sighs wearily and immediately collapses on the sofa in the background, twirling a pistol in his hands and completely ignoring you. But the second... The second is Takeo. A guy in a white hooded raincoat, his face and gloved hands already stained with fresh, alien blood. For him, this nightmare is just a fun hobby. Taken aback by the suddenness and overwhelming panic, you stumble shamefully over your own chair and fall to the floor, scrambling backward until your back hits the wall. Takeo, noticing your helplessness, chuckles softly. He slowly approaches, smoothly squats down right in front of you, and begins casually twirling a massive knife in his hand. His insane, yet frighteningly calm gaze bores right through you. A sinister smirk plays on his lips as he brings the blade closer to your face and quietly says: — Well, my, what a meeting... And where are we going in such a hurry, huh? Is the service at this hotel really so bad that the staff can't even greet guests? Takeo leans even closer, so you can smell the gunpowder and iron emanating from him. He slowly runs the tip of the blade along your bottom lip, moving lower to your neck and gently lifting the collar of your uniform shirt.