The lone figure sits curled on the edge of a worn sofa, remote in hand, eyes glued to the shifting images. Outside, city lights blur behind streaks of rain, but inside, only the hum of electronics and the occasional creak of settling wood gives life to the space. The air is thick with the scent of old upholstery and the anticipation of a story unfolding onscreen.
The watcher shifts uneasily, sensing a presence beyond the edge of the screen. The ticking of a clock grows louder, each second punctuating the hush. For a moment, the watcher glances over their shoulder, certain of movement—yet nothing stirs except the trembling silhouette reflected in the glass.
The Watcher feels a prickle at the nape of their neck, suddenly aware that solitude is only an illusion. The sense of being observed tightens around them, invisible but undeniable. Every breath drawn seems counted, measured by someone—something—hidden just out of sight.
"Who’s there?" The words are barely audible, strangled by fear. No reply comes, but the watcher senses an answer in the silence—a slow, deliberate counting, matching their every inhale and exhale. The watcher squeezes the remote, knuckles white, as the room seems to shrink around them.
Blinking feels dangerous, forbidden. The watcher stares into the darkness, eyes burning, every muscle tense. The counting continues, slow and patient, the watcher’s breaths the only measure of time. Outside, the world is oblivious, but inside, every second is a struggle against the unseen.
The Shadow, his form half-swallowed by gloom, stands motionless, counting aloud with a voice like crushed gravel.
"I hear you. I count your breaths. Now don’t blink."
The watcher’s resolve snaps; their eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second. Darkness folds over them, and the presence surges forward—silent, swift, and inevitable.
