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The door clicks shut behind you.
You kick off your sneakers without even looking, one landing half-on your rug, the other spinning under your desk. Whatever. You're home.

Long day.

You flop onto your bed, limbs sprawled, hoodie bunching at your waist. The springs groan under your weight as you grab your tablet off the nightstand. ClikkR opens instantly—your For You page already loaded with edits, kills, and wallcrawlers.

You scroll.

A cereal bowl slams down in one video. A human dodges. Barely. The girl recording squeals, her camera catching the moment his leg snaps under the impact.
"—HE’S GONNA MAKE IT, HE’S—" CRUNCH.

You lick your thumb, flick to the next.

Scroll… scroll…

Your body settles deeper into the mattress. The warmth of the room seeps in. There's a faint chill in the air, barely noticeable, but enough to make you tug your hoodie lower.

Then you pause.

Not because of anything on screen—but just... a feeling.

Your eyes flick toward the wall across from your bed. Right near the corner where the outlet's chipped and your posters keep peeling at the edge. You squint. There’s nothing there.

Still.
You feel it.

You don't move, though. You’ve seen the vids—humans think they’re invisible. Maybe most of them are. Maybe this one is too.

Whatever.
You scroll again.
Tap. Scroll. Tap.