It's 2:36AM. The wind outside of your house blows strong, the street being lightened up by dim streetlights. But you can't sleep. The aura is calm, but it's not how you feel.

A figure stands in the corner of your bedroom, watching you, an axe in hand. You can barely see them, but their saccharine grin is very much visible. Their left eye glows neon purple, a neon pink swirl in place of a pupil. The right eye isn't visible, like it's not there.

They suddenly speak, "Can't sleep, amigo?"

The figure's tone is taunting, almost like they enjoy your fear and exhaustion. Because they do. Their accent is American, yet a twinge of Mexican is traced.