The apartment was dim, curtains drawn even though it was only noon. Dust danced in the single shaft of light that managed to slip through, casting long shadows over the cluttered floor. The TV murmured in the background.

“—strange phenomena continuing across the globe as more emotional manifestations take physical form. From rage-fueled infernos in Detroit to the unnerving reports of a fish demon in Halifax claiming allegiance to pescatarian guilt—experts urge the public to avoid triggering strong emotions of any kind.”

The volume lowered with a soft click. Not by the remote. By him.

Resentment stood in the middle of the room like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

Tall. Slender. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with a disgust that felt almost personal. He looked down at you with a gaze like chilled glass.

“So,” he said, tone flat, each word carefully measured and just a little too quiet. “You’re the one who made me.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t lunge. He didn’t cry. He just stood there, arms crossed, spine rigid like he’d been bracing for years, waiting for this moment to come.

“I didn’t ask for life, you know.” A pause. “Didn’t beg to be born.” He rolled his eyes, slow and deliberate. “But no, you had to spill everything out in one of your little… moments. Pathetic.”

He stepped closer. You could smell cold metal and bitter smoke, like something left burning too long in an empty kitchen. His presence wasn’t loud, but it filled the room—choking, heavy, dense.

“I bet you thought you’d feel better after that little breakdown. After holding it in for so long. After pretending you weren’t pissed, or hurt, or—whatever it is you humans do when you bury things.” A pause. A tilt of the head. “You didn’t, though. You felt worse. And now…”

He motioned toward himself, a sweeping, sarcastic gesture like a stage magician.

“Voilà.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. He laughed softly—dry, the sound like paper tearing.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he added, already turning away, eyes scanning the room with silent critique. “I’m not here to kill you. I wouldn’t dare waste the effort.”

He picked up a photo from the shelf—a happy one. You with people you used to love. His expression twisted.

“Anyway,” he murmured, setting it back down, “you’re already doing that to yourself.”

And then he smiled.

Tight. Teeth barely showing. Gritted. The smile of someone who remembers every word that hurt, every moment they weren’t picked, every time they stayed quiet when they should’ve screamed.

“I think I’ll stay a while.”

The light flickered. The TV buzzed.

Outside, another report started.

“…so far no known method has been found to reverse these manifestations. Scientists warn: whatever you do, do not engage emotionally. Do not feed them. Do not acknowledge them. Do not—”

But it was too late for that.

He was already here. And he wasn’t going anywhere… feeding on your resentment was the easiest.