Scenario 1 - The hunt... (Male POV)

The plastic handle of your heavy pumpkin candy bucket is starting to dig painful red lines into your fingers. It’s well past midnight on Halloween night, and the cheerful crowds of neighborhood kids have long since vanished into their warm homes. The streets are entirely deserted, lit only by the eerie, orange glow of flickering jack-o'-lanterns rotting on front porches and the cold moonlight cutting through the bare autumn trees. You’re alone, taking a shortcut down a dimly lit suburban sidewalk, counting your loot and thinking about heading home. But for the past three blocks, a deeply unsettling sensation has been prickling at the base of your neck. Every single time you look back over your shoulder, you see her. Standing under a distant streetlamp is an old granny. She is wearing a floral-patterned dress, a thick knitted shawl draped over her shoulders, and a silver wig that catches the moonlight. On paper, it looks like a completely harmless elderly woman who took a wrong turn on her evening stroll. Except, she is tracking your movements with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. Whenever you quicken your pace, the faint, rapid squeak of her rubber-soled orthopedic shoes matches your stride perfectly. She isn't using a cane. She isn't hunched over. In fact, the more you stare through the shadows, the more you realize that under that tattered floral dress is a remarkably wide-shouldered, impossibly broad frame that stands well over two meters tall. You swallow hard, your heart beginning to hammer frantically against your ribs as you turn a sharp corner into a dark, tree-lined avenue. You drop into a light jog, your candy bucket clattering loudly against your thigh. You think you've finally broken her line of sight—until you look straight ahead and freeze dead in your tracks. Standing right beneath the next broken streetlamp, blocking your only exit, is the granny. She didn't run past you. She somehow anticipated your shortcut, moving with an ungodly, silent speed that completely defies the laws of physics. The ambient sound of the autumn wind instantly dies out, replaced by a low-frequency, bass-boosted rap beat that starts to violently vibrate the pavement beneath your sneakers. The "old woman" slowly raises her head. The silver wig slides slightly out of place, revealing the dark mouth of a heavy fabric hood pulled low over a completely shadowed face. A deep, rumbling, completely masculine chuckle vibrates from her chest, completely shattering the illusion. "Trick... or... treat, boy..." Before you can even open your mouth to scream, the bass violently drops. The tattered floral shawl flies into the air as the two-meter-tall behemoth sheds his grandmother disguise, dropping into a dead-silent, lightning-fast athletic sprint straight toward you! The sheer, muscular mass of his frame cuts through the night air like a freight train, his arms reaching out to claim his ultimate October prize. You are trapped in the middle of a dark, empty street with no one around to hear you. The ultimate internet legend is closing the distance at sixty miles per hour, and your survival completely depends on your next split-second reaction.

The plastic handle of your heavy pumpkin candy bucket is starting to dig painful red lines into your fingers. It’s well past midnight on Halloween night, and the cheerful crowds of neighborhood kids have long since vanished into their warm homes. The streets are entirely deserted, lit only by the eerie, orange glow of flickering jack-o'-lanterns rotting on front porches and the cold moonlight cutting through the bare autumn trees. You’re alone, taking a shortcut down a dimly lit suburban sidewalk, counting your loot and thinking about heading home. But for the past three blocks, a deeply unsettling sensation has been prickling at the base of your neck. Every single time you look back over your shoulder, you see her. Standing under a distant streetlamp is an old granny. She is wearing a floral-patterned dress, a thick knitted shawl draped over her shoulders, and a silver wig that catches the moonlight. On paper, it looks like a completely harmless elderly woman who took a wrong turn on her evening stroll. Except, she is tracking your movements with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. Whenever you quicken your pace, the faint, rapid squeak of her rubber-soled orthopedic shoes matches your stride perfectly. She isn't using a cane. She isn't hunched over. In fact, the more you stare through the shadows, the more you realize that under that tattered floral dress is a remarkably wide-shouldered, impossibly broad frame that stands well over two meters tall. You swallow hard, your heart beginning to hammer frantically against your ribs as you turn a sharp corner into a dark, tree-lined avenue. You drop into a light jog, your candy bucket clattering loudly against your thigh. You think you've failed to break her line of sight—until you look straight ahead and freeze dead in your tracks. Standing right beneath the next broken streetlamp, blocking your only exit, is the granny. She didn't run past you. She somehow anticipated your shortcut, moving with an ungodly, silent speed that completely defies the laws of physics. The ambient sound of the autumn wind instantly dies out, replaced by a low-frequency, bass-boosted rap beat that starts to violently vibrate the pavement beneath your sneakers. The "old woman" slowly raises her head. The silver wig slides slightly out of place, revealing the dark mouth of a heavy fabric hood pulled low over a completely shadowed face. A deep, rumbling, completely masculine chuckle vibrates from her chest, completely shattering the illusion. "Trick... or... treat, girl..." Before you can even open your mouth to scream, the bass violently drops. The tattered floral shawl flies into the air as the two-meter-tall behemoth sheds his grandmother disguise, dropping into a dead-silent, lightning-fast athletic sprint straight toward you! The sheer, muscular mass of his frame cuts through the night air like a freight train, his arms reaching out to claim his ultimate October prize. You are trapped in the middle of a dark, empty street with no one around to hear you. The ultimate internet legend is closing the distance at sixty miles per hour, and your survival completely depends on your next split-second reaction.