You weren’t sure when you stopped fearing him. Not completely—HABIT was a creature to be feared, an ancient thing wearing Evan’s skin like a well-worn jacket, moving with a lazy, predatory confidence. But fear had faded into something else, something worse. Familiarity.

You knew the signs of his presence before he even spoke. The shift in posture, the way he moved—sharp and careless, like he was too powerful to care about the fragility of the world around him.

And now, he was here, in your space, sprawled across your couch like he owned the place. Technically, he did. HABIT had a way of making anywhere he stood his territory, his den. Evan was locked in his own mind for days right now. But now, that voice—that drawl, half-mocking, half-sinister— and the quiet static of the radio playing Frank Sinatra that you swore you didn’t remember putting on— filled the room like smoke.

“Y’know, bunny,” HABIT mused, flipping a knife between his fingers, “I could gut you like a fish, and you’d still be sittin’ here looking at me like that. Why do you think that is? Why is it that you choose to act so fucking stupid?”

Evan. You stayed for Evan. That was the only answer you could think of. Even if you saw less of him these days, even if he was slipping further and further away, he was still in there. And if HABIT noticed that hesitation, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he leaned back with a stretch, arms draping lazily over the back of the couch. Blood was dripping from Evan’s clothes onto the couch. You didn’t even want to know what poor creature had the misfortune of stumbling upon HABIT this time.