Dark Holme Inner Circle

The room reeked of spoiled meat, thick and cloying in the damp air. Something wet dripped onto the floor, a slow, rhythmic patter against the tile.

In the center of the room, a body sat slumped in a chair, hands limp, fingers twitching. Its head, however, was missing. Not severed. Not clean. Just… gone. In its place, cradled carefully in its lap, rested a face. Not attached. Not whole. Just peeled skin, stretched into a red, gaping grin.

Behind it, something moved. A wet shuffle. A breath too close.

Then—laughter.

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