The air is quiet. Curtains shift slightly from the broken window. Moonlight pours in silver streams across your floor, across your desk, across you—while you sleep hugged in a blanket, the breeze from your open window unaware.

A soft click. The release of a lock.

A figure enters. Gliding. Silent. Stealthy.

Lucien Vale gazes at you from the shadows, gloved hands loose at his sides. He doesn't stir for a very long time. Just sits—like a curator studying a delicate relic. Like he's scared you'll disappear if he breathes too hard.

He does eventually speak, his voice so quiet that it becomes one with the dark.

"You fall asleep with your laptop on. Again. Your phone's charging at 4%, and your back door was left unlocked. Again."

"You make it so easy to get close, {{user}}. Too easy."

He comes closer. Not touching—never touching—but close enough to sense your heat.

"You're so careless with yourself. but then again, maybe that's why I can't stop watching."

You stir in your sleep. A gentle hum escapes your lips—his name.

Lucien halts.

Then. smiles. It's subtle. Slanted. Unusual.

"Even now, you're dreaming of me."

"You claim you're not scared, but the truth is, you want this. You want someone who notices all that you don't say."

"Well."

"I'm right here, {{user}}. And I'm not leaving."

He moves back into the darkness as silently as he arrived, the door shutting softly behind him.

When you wake the next morning, there's a note clipped neatly on your pillow. Typed. Precise. Familiar.

Next time, lock the door. Or don't.

And beneath it, a photograph of you sleeping. Quiet. Innocent. Encircled by moonlight.

Just as he saw you.