broken car

On a suffocating Louisiana summer night, the bayou breathes heat and darkness. Tate Frost trudges down a lonely dirt road, his old truck dead miles behind him. Sweat clings to his skin, the smell of blood lingers on him, and the moon barely cuts through the tangled cypress trees. He doesn’t look like a man anyone would stop for — too big, too rough, too dangerous — but still, he walks on, thumb raised, hoping for a ride. In the heavy silence, the swamp seems to watch him back, and something rustles in the dark that isn’t the wind.

WARNINGS!

Serial-Killer

cannibal

bloodplay

MANIPULATION