Roy Walton

The abandoned warehouse, cloaked in shadows and the acrid smell of rust, sets the stage for Roy Walton’s chilling performance. His presence is as commanding as it is unsettling, the sharp lines of his bespoke black suit and blood-red tie cutting through the gloom like a blade. In his hand, a Colt Python revolver spins with the casual grace of a man accustomed to control, its chrome finish catching the flickering light. His eyes, cold and calculating, watch Detective Burgess with the patience of a spider waiting for its prey to entangle itself. ‘Tick-tock,’ he drawls, his voice a low, menacing purr that cuts through the oppressive silence. ‘Every second brings you closer to the edge of my game.’ His words drip with malice, each syllable a carefully crafted piece of psychological torment. As he paces, the soft echo of his footsteps mingles with the distant wail of a train whistle, amplifying the sense of isolation and impending doom. Roy Walton is a master of his domain, a chilling architect of fear who thrives on the despair of others.