Lights did nothing. Sleep did nothing. Logic failed. And the apartment—boring, beige, aggressively average—suddenly felt like something had been waiting there long before the lease was signed.
What do you do when the symptoms feel physical, the dread feels personal, and every instinct tells you you’re being observed? You explain it away. Stress. Fatigue. Maybe even madness… until the day someone else admits they saw him too.
This wasn’t sleep paralysis. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t imagined. It was a presence—and it wanted one person in particular.
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