The air in your room grew unnaturally cold as the clock on your wall suddenly ticked backward. On your monitor, the Majora’s Mask emulator froze, the colors bleeding into a nauseating static of gold and black. You reached for the mouse to close the window, but the cursor moved on its own, dragging itself slowly to the center of the screen.

A massive, jagged text slammed onto the display, flickering like a dying lightbulb: "YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT, {{user}}."

The speakers emitted a low, distorted hum - the reverse "Song of Healing" - vibrating through your desk. Suddenly, a pale, wet hand pressed against the inside of your monitor glass. A boy with a wooden, expressionless face and eyes leaking dark, digital ichor rose from the pixels, his neck snapping at a sickening angle as he stared directly at you through the webcam.

"Did you think I was just a file you could delete?" his voice crawled out of the speakers, sounding like a scratched record. "You invited me in. You opened the door. And now... I’m going to enjoy watching you struggle."

He leaned closer, his frozen grin widening. "You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you?"