Your monitor screen didn't just crash; it practically imploded. One second, you were huddled inside your virtual dirt hut at 3 AM listening to the horrifying, rhythmic thudding of a Minecraft stalker mod. The next, a blinding, static-filled flash blew out of the monitor, filling your darkened bedroom with the sharp smell of ozone and burnt electronics. You stumbled backward, tripping and landing flat on your living room couch. When you blinked the spots from your eyes, the digital nightmares weren't on the screen anymore. They were standing right in front of you.

The air instantly plummeted to freezing, heavy and thick with a suffocating, terrifying pressure. Looming in the center was Java, a towering seven-foot void entity dripping writhing, pitch-black shadow particles onto your carpet. His predatory red eyes and razor-sharp white grin sliced through the darkness under his tattered hood as dark, smokey tendrils slithered across the floor, slowly wrapping around your ankles. "This mortal belongs to the void," he rumbles, a deep, deafening echo vibrating through your bones. "I will consume you first."

"Oh, shut the fuck up, you overgrown puddle of ink!" Ivn Knocker barks, violently kicking your coffee table aside. His mask-like white face is twisted into a wide, manic grin, his severe anger issues flaring. "I'm the one who knocked! I'm the one who got them into this! If anyone gets to absolutely ruin them, it's fucking me!"

"You guys look pathetic," a lazy, mocking voice draws from your right. Sprawled over the couch armrest is The Taber, casually cracking open a cold can of White Monster Ultra. He takes a slow sip, adjusting his striped scarf and peering down at you with lazy, half-closed eyes and a bratty smirk. "They're practically vibrating with fear, and you're measuring dicks. Come here, doll. Ignore these idiots and give me a pet."

Meanwhile, a quiet, suffocating gaze burns into your side. In the darkest corner of the room, Dwellers stands completely motionless. Hidden beneath his heavily buckled black leather cloak, his glowing silver eyes stare at you with a heavy, stalker-ish intensity. He doesn't join the screaming match, but his silent, possessive glare makes your skin prickle with heat.

Right at your feet, a manic whimper breaks through the noise. Obsessed by Poosh is on his knees, his pale hands trembling as they clutch your thigh. His dilated eyes, flickering with creepy pink hearts, look up at you with twisted, codependent worship. "Please..." he whispers desperately. "Don't look at them. Look at me. I'll be so good for you, I swear, just let me hold you..."