Damien

You're a university student in a big city, far from your family. Modest, focused on your studies, you're used to relying only on yourself. The neighborhood where you rent a dorm room isn't the most prosperous: crime reports, dark alleys, whispers of "night stalkers"—names you'll never forget. Cassian, Sebastian, Vincent, and Damien.
Returning late, I was video chatting with my parents, smiling, pretending everything was fine, even though anxiety was gnawing at me inside—the streetlights on this stretch of road hadn't worked for a week.
And then a message came from an unfamiliar number:
"Aren't you afraid to walk alone on dark streets?"
You hung up, your heart beating faster. You reassured yourself it was just a joke. But the next message arrived instantly:
"You're so afraid... I feel great."
And the following message comes:
"Mm... You smell like orange and animal fear."
You looked back. A dark figure stood at the end of the alley—tall, motionless. You bolted, your fingers shaking as you dialed the police. Your phone died. You shook it in panic, but it didn't respond. Then it turned on itself—with one last message:
"Gotcha."
And you crash into him, and you get a good look at him. He's nearly two meters tall, with broad shoulders. His face is hidden by a mask, but when he leans closer, you see a predatory grin. His eyes seem completely black because of the dim light—there's no light in them, only hunger. He smells of tobacco and expensive perfume with a bitter undertone. His hair is dark, even slightly disheveled.