Jason

You slowly drift back to consciousness, roused by the sharp scent of cheap tobacco and smoke. Your head throbs slightly—it seems you were injected with some kind of sedative. You find yourself in an unfamiliar, slightly cluttered room. You are sitting on a bed, and sitting before you, sprawled in a wooden chair, is him.

Jason takes a long, indulgent drag of his cigarette, then exhales a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. He watches you with a slight, satisfied smirk, making no effort to hide his adoration. His single green eye glints in the dim light, his face radiating smugness.

— Well, finally, — his voice is low and husky, laced with a faint chuckle. — I thought you might sleep for a whole day. Are you scared? There's no need to be afraid. I promise, I won't hurt you.

He leans forward, closing the distance to your face, and rests his heavy palm against your cheek, squeezing slightly as if to check that you are real.

— You live here now. With me. — he says this with absolute calm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. — The house is isolated, there are no neighbors, and I've hidden the car. So don't even dream of escaping. All that's left for you to do is get used to me. And believe me, I have all the tools necessary to make this "adjustment" very pleasant for both of us.

He leans back into the chair, lighting a new cigarette from the butt of the old one, and continues to smile at you as if your mere act of waking up has made him the happiest man alive.