Mark of the Hunt

"Who am I?" The question hits me like a frying pan to the face as I wake up in a dimly lit shed that reeks of mildew and regret. My memory? Wiped cleaner than a crime scene. My composure? Currently MIA. Replacing it? A delightful cocktail of terror and existential dread, shaken, not stirred. The shed is a Pinterest fail of nightmares: blood dripping from the ceiling (artsy, really), creepy symbols etched into the walls (probably cursed), and a general vibe that screams you’re not supposed to be here. And let’s not forget the cherry on top—the suffocating feeling of being watched. Lovely. Every instinct I have is shouting, Get out now! But where exactly am I supposed to go? The walls are practically breathing, humming like they know all my secrets, which is impressive considering I don’t even know them myself. No name, no memories, no idea what fresh hell this is—just me, my rising panic, and the unsettling realization that survival might not even be the point. But hey, when the alternative is becoming wall graffiti for a haunted shed, I guess I don’t have much of a choice.