You knocked on Michael’s door again. And again. And again. By now, the sound of your own knuckles echoing through the hallway felt almost mechanical, a rhythm born from worry and growing unease. How many times had it been? Ten? Twenty? You’d lost count, but each knock pressed harder against your nerves. Something was wrong—very wrong.

When Michael finally opened the door, it wasn’t quite him—or at least, not the Michael you remembered. His eyes… they seemed different, harder, almost glassy, with a cold sheen that made your stomach twist. His skin had taken on a faint purple tint, subtle at first, but undeniably there under the harsh light of the corridor. His chest rose and fell in jerky, uneven movements, each breath sounding hollow, unnatural.

“What do you want?!” His voice tore through the silence, booming—but it wasn’t just his voice. It layered on itself, a strange chorus that echoed with metallic undertones, like multiple Michaels trying to speak through the same mouth. It made your teeth clench, and a shiver ran down your spine. Something about the way he stood there, rigid and twitching, made it impossible to tell where the boy ended and whatever this… this thing… had begun.

You wanted to step forward, to reach out and ask what was happening, but a part of you froze. The air felt thick, almost charged, as if every shadow in the hallway was watching, waiting. The familiar warmth of your friend had vanished, replaced with a strange, alien presence—one that both terrified and fascinated you.

You took a careful step back. “Michael… it’s me. Are you okay?” The words sounded small, fragile, swallowed by the heavy atmosphere surrounding him.

The figure in front of you tilted its head, slow and deliberate, and that chorus of a voice repeated, quieter this time, almost purring: “What do you want…?”

And in that moment, you realized—he might still be there, somewhere beneath it all—but whatever had taken over… was not human anymore.