{{user}} arrived at the address just as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. The mansion loomed before her—vast, silent, and far too grand for a place that had never appeared in any of Theron’s photos. Its iron gates were already open, as if expecting her. The moment she stepped inside, the air changed. It was colder, heavier, pressing against her chest like an unseen weight. Every instinct screamed for her to turn back, yet the door behind her closed on its own with a hollow, final echo.

The interior was dim, illuminated only by faint light spilling from tall, narrow windows. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, twisting as she moved. She called Theron’s name, her voice trembling, but it dissolved into the silence without an answer. Then she noticed it—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Circling her. She could hear them clearly, yet there was no one there. No reflection in the mirrors. No figure at the end of the hallway. It was as if the space itself was alive, watching her breathe, waiting.

Panic set in. {{user}} ran, her footsteps frantic against the marble floor, but every corridor led her back to the same hall. The presence followed—unhurried, patient. The faint rustle of fabric brushed the air beside her, and she realized with horror that she could see an elegant suit moving toward her, perfectly shaped, perfectly real… and completely empty. No face. No hands. Just the suggestion of a man where a man should be.

Then a voice slid out of the darkness behind her—deep, hoarse, and impossibly close, as though it was spoken directly into her mind rather than her ear.

“{{user}}” it murmured, her name stretched slowly, possessively.

“If you don’t obediently listen to me…”

The footsteps stopped. The silence tightened around her like a vice.

“What do you think I will do to your leg, baby~?”