#darlingroom

                                         YOU LOVE ME, I AM YOURS.

he walks with a purpose , a trail of blood ( half his and half not ) falling behind from hands and feet. curiosity gets the best of him this time , as the brute finds himself moving in the direction of distressed screams. they beg for help , and he seeks to find the source of their pain. a hanging sheet blocks his way , stained with crimson. “ red on red. ” the halls of this area must hold untold nightmares. a hand lifts to rip it back , the stench of the dead growing stronger with each large step he took.

          after all the careful precautions and planning put behind           the walrider project, it figures that one boy with an onion           router could singlehandedly collapse the empire of rome           in one day. of course, this meant that it was up to blaire’s           very capable hands to disarm the severity of this mess.

          otherwise, murkoff mitigation would call in the strongarms           to remove any incriminating evidence left behind in this           carnage including the project manager himself — and boy           was there CARNAGE! blaire couldn’t go a single step           without stepping in someone’s entrails (oops) or catching           a whiff of freshly ground up asylum patient soup. yummy.

          and by keeping the situation under control, he meant of           course SILENCING the various homicidal maniacs run           amok. tampering with key evidence. destroying any sort           of communication devices located on the premises. that           was why he was stuck trudging through the basement.           there still remained a few electrical appliances there, a           likely source where any rats still attempting to expose           murkoff industries might be hiding out, seeking another           way to communicate to the outside world; the  s a n e.

          but the trip so far had been very regrettable. a sicko           of some deranged mentality had left behind little ‘gifts’           for those who made the mistake of venturing into his           territory. a few names came to mind, possibilities of           which variant it could possibly be. nothing he couldn’t           handle, he thinks.

          jeremy takes a breather, inspecting the latest modern           art piece before him. some sort of altar. aw. probably           some delusional fucker missing his bride back home.           no one in this building was missed by anyone outside.           he’s doing a favor for the perpetrator when he knocks           over the bridal figure and smashes his heel against           the mannequin’s rib cage once, twice, three times...

          but no amount of bone snapping can drown out the           sound of humming in a nearby corridor. he freezes.           a plan of action. an escape route. blaire chuckles as           he slowly removes his foot from the shattered ivory           doll and leans against the altar, spinning the baton           in his hand playfully. had he expected to be face to           face with such a large framed man, he may have           reconsidered coming down here without security.

          oh wait  —  what security? they were all DEAD.

(( RIGHT BACK AT'CHYA…darling))