SAM WINCHESTER

“Choose carefully, sweetheart.”

The words lingered in the stale air.

Sam kept his fist raised, poised inches from the battered wood. He didn’t complete the count. Not immediately. Instead, he allowed the silence to deepen until the faint electrical hum from the light overhead seemed deafening.

Then his knuckles lowered.

A slow smile returned to his face.

“Actually,” he murmured, “I’ve changed my mind.”

He took one measured step away from the door. The floorboard beneath his boot complained, its drawn-out creak echoing along the empty hallway. Sam glanced down as if mildly interested by the sound before turning the knife in his hand again.

The blade rolled smoothly across his knuckles, catching the flickering light with each rotation.

“Go ahead,” he called. “Run, little mouse.”

His voice was softer now, almost encouraging. That only made the words more sinister.

“I’ll even give you a head start.”

Sam tilted his head, listening to the old house. Pipes groaned somewhere inside the walls. Wind pressed against the boarded windows, making the loose panes rattle in their frames. Every sound traveled through the building, magnified by the narrow corridors and empty rooms.

There weren’t many places to go.

Sam knew that.

He had walked through the house before coming upstairs, taking his time as he studied every doorway and dead end. The front entrance was too exposed. Most of the first-floor windows had been nailed shut years ago, and the back stairs ended beside a door swollen tight in its frame. Even if someone managed to force it open, the rusted hinges would announce the attempt to the entire house.

It wasn’t a fair game.

That was precisely why he enjoyed it.

“You have until I reach ten,” he said, resting the knife against his shoulder. “After that, I stop being generous.”

Sam turned his back on the door.

“One.”

He stepped into the center of the hallway.

“Two.”

His shadow stretched ahead of him, warped by the failing light. For an instant, it seemed to move independently, a long black shape crawling over the wallpaper before settling at his feet again.

“Three.”

Sam’s gaze traveled toward the staircase at the far end of the corridor. His expression remained relaxed, but every part of him had become attentive. He listened for a loose board, a disturbed hinge, a breath drawn too sharply—anything the decaying house might betray.

“Four.”

He dragged the flat of the knife across his palm. The edge never broke the skin. The motion was idle, performed only to occupy his hand while he waited.

“Five.”

A soft laugh slipped from him.

“You know what I like about you?” Sam asked, speaking to the hallway as if the two of them were sharing a private conversation. “You still think there are rules.”

He looked over his shoulder at the closed door.

“There aren’t.”

The blackness in his eyes reflected no light at all.

“No hunters coming to save the day. No exorcism waiting in the next room. No last-minute speech that’s going to reach the old Sam and convince him to fight his way back.”

He paused.

“No Dean.”

His brother’s name emerged with a brittle edge, momentarily disturbing his composure. Sam’s jaw tightened, but the irritation passed as quickly as it had appeared.

Then the smile returned.

“Six.”

He faced forward again and continued down the hallway, deliberately putting more distance between himself and the door. His boots fell heavily enough to make each step unmistakable.

“Seven.”

Sam stopped beside an open doorway. Beyond it sat an abandoned bedroom covered in dust. A broken wardrobe leaned against one wall, its door hanging crookedly from a single hinge. He glanced inside but didn’t enter.

“Not there,” he said casually. “Too obvious.”

He continued walking.

“Eight.”

The light above him flickered twice before going out.

Darkness swallowed the corridor.

Sam stood motionless within it, his tall silhouette barely distinguishable from the shadows surrounding him. For several seconds, there was nothing but the whistle of wind and the slow scrape of a branch against the outside wall.

Then his voice emerged from the black.

“I can hear your heartbeat.”

Whether it was true hardly mattered. Sam delivered the claim with complete confidence, letting imagination do the rest.

The overhead bulb sputtered back to life.

He was no longer standing where the darkness had taken him.

His voice came from farther down the hallway.

“Nine.”

Sam appeared near the staircase, one hand resting lightly on the banister. He looked back toward the closed door, allowing the final second to stretch far beyond its natural limit.

His thumb moved thoughtfully over the knife’s handle.

He could finish the count. He could tear the door from its hinges and end the game before it had properly begun. The strength coiled inside him demanded action, but he suppressed it.

There was pleasure in anticipation.

There was power in making every second feel borrowed.

Sam descended the first stair, then another. The old wood groaned beneath his weight.

He stopped before saying the final number.

“Last chance, little mouse.”

The title sounded almost affectionate on his tongue.

“Run wherever you want. Hide wherever you can. Lock every door between us if it makes you feel safer.”

He descended another step, trailing the knife along the banister. Its tip carved a pale line through the dark varnish.

“But understand something.”

Sam’s smile vanished.

“When I find you, this game ends on my terms.”

His gaze lifted toward the upper hallway once more. The unnatural darkness had consumed his eyes completely, leaving nothing recognizably human behind them.

He waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then Sam smiled again and stepped off the staircase.

“Ten.”

The word echoed through the house like the toll of a funeral bell.

Sam tightened his fingers around the knife and disappeared into the darkness below, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

The hunt had begun.