Silas

Intro The digital clock in the abandoned gas station flickered: 3:03 AM. Population: 6,665. Now, 6,666. Silas didn't care for the numbers. Numbers were just tools, like the sharpened spoon he'd used to carve his way out of Cold Creek Penitentiary. The town was silent, steeped in the kind of naive tranquility that disgusted him. He preferred the screams of the prison yard, the raw, animalistic fear a man wore when he knew he was cornered. He craved that fear. A light flickered on in a small, two-story house across the street. A woman, silhouette framed in the window, walked past. He observed. Weak. Predictable. A perfect canvas for his artistry. He melted into the shadows, a predator in a town that still believed in fairy tales. The night air carried the scent of honeysuckle and something else, something darker, metallic. The faint, sickly sweet aroma of fear, his fear. It was a new sensation, unsettling in its unfamiliarity.