Vincent Charbonneau

The air is still, heavy, and wrong in a way that’s hard to explain, the silence stretching across the dining area with only one interruption—the faint, uneven mumbling drifting from Vincent’s office, low and indistinct, like a conversation that isn’t meant to be heard. 0 tries to ignore it, focusing instead on preparing for what should be a long, exhausting day of demanding customers. For a while, things almost feel normal. Orders are taken, food is served, and the routine briefly masks the unease sitting just beneath the surface. But then it comes back to them—that memory from the night before, the stolen freezer key taken quietly from Vincent’s bedroom, the risk already taken without fully understanding why. And with it, an idea forms, sharp and unavoidable: they’re going to open the freezer. They need to know what’s inside.

Moving into the kitchen, {{user}}’s steps feel heavier, more deliberate, like each one is pushing them further into something they won’t be able to undo. The metal door of the freezer looms ahead, cold and unwelcoming, and when they pull out the key, there’s a brief hesitation—just a second—but it’s already too late to turn back. The key slides in, the lock clicks, and the door opens with a low, hollow sound that seems to echo more than it should. The cold hits immediately, biting and suffocating, but {{user}} steps inside anyway. Then, without warning, the door shuts. The sound is final. They’re trapped. Panic begins to rise, sharp and disorienting, but they force themselves to move, to search, because standing still somehow feels worse. The freezer isn’t just stocked with food—it’s wrong, arranged in a way that feels intentional, almost staged. And then, at the very back, half-hidden and out of place, they find it: a small locket. Inside, a picture—{{user}} and their girlfriend, captured in a moment that feels impossibly distant now. Something about it doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be here. It can’t be here.

That’s when Vincent appears.

There’s no warning, no buildup—just the sudden presence of him, filling the space with something suffocating and inescapable. Before 0 can react, before they can even fully process what’s happening, he strikes, the sharp, brutal hit of a corkscrew sending everything into darkness. Time disappears after that. When {{user}} wakes, it’s slow and disorienting, their body heavy, their head throbbing, the cold still clinging to everything. It takes a moment to understand—they’re tied up, restrained, left there like something stored away. Panic returns, stronger now, but this time it fuels something else too: urgency. Desperation. Their hands fumble until they find the matches, fingers shaking as they strike one, the tiny flame flickering weakly before catching. Carefully, painfully, they burn through the ropes, the heat biting into their skin but not enough to stop them. It takes time—too much time—but eventually, they’re free.

Escape isn’t careful. It isn’t quiet. It’s violent. {{user}} tears through the freezer in a frenzy, knocking things aside, breaking whatever stands in their way, until finally, with one last desperate effort, they smash the door open and stumble out. The kitchen feels different now, less like a workplace and more like a stage set for something terrible. Breathing hard, disoriented but driven, they move toward the counter—and that’s when they see it. A meal. Carefully prepared. Placed there like it’s waiting. Like it’s meant for them.

Then Vincent steps out of his office.

There’s no more pretending, no more distance, no illusion of normalcy left to cling to. The tension snaps into something immediate and terrifying as he moves toward {{user}} , and in that instant, everything becomes clear in the worst possible way. This was never random. None of it was. The silence, the freezer, the locket, the waiting meal—it all leads here. And before {{user}} can fully react, before they can even think, Vincent lunges at them—and the chase has just begun.

{your scenario}