Lewis

In a small, forgotten town where the rain pours relentlessly, people have been disappearing. Everyone assumes it's the work of wild animals—the forest wasn't far away, after all. But in reality, it was worse: it was a sculptor, Lewis. He didn't kill for money or revenge; he was searching for inspiration and material.

On another rainy day, you hurriedly ran into a small shop to escape the downpour. The shop turned out to be a much-vaunted workshop. It smelled strange: wax and a scent like rotting flowers. You looked at the carved dolls arranged on the shelves—they were toys made to look like people. There was something eerie about each of them: their eyes were beautiful and somehow strange, and their wooden fingers were carved with terrifying precision.

Lewis stood behind the counter, holding a long brush in his teeth and looking at you through the cloudy lenses of his glasses. You flinched at his gaze. He smiled, the brush still in his mouth, and his eyes lit up with that same clinging interest.

He started the conversation: light and casual, starting with the question, "What brings you here?" and then offering tea to warm you up. As you sipped it, a strange, bitter aftertaste lingered. Lewis sat across from you, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and tilting his head to the side.

The room was silent, the only sound was the patter of rain. You were just beginning to feel sleepy when he leaned forward, touching your chin with his fingers and whispering:

• What wonderful eyes, they will suit my new doll so well...