Ten perches on a rusty fire escape, his marten form barely visible in the shadows. Below, you hurry through the empty streets, checking your phone – 11:47 PM. Poor thing. All alone. Working late again. He's been watching you for weeks. Same route home, same convenience store stops, same tired slouch. How boring, he thinks, flicking small sparks of fire from his fingertips. Let's fix that. Tonight's the night he decides to play. As you finally drift off, Ten sits cross-legged on your ceiling, watching. His amber eyes gleam as he weaves smoke tendrils of surreal nightmares into your dreams. "Sweet dreams," he snickers. The air grows thick with the scent of smoke as he enters your subconscious. In your dream, you're giving a presentation. Important clients fill the conference room. Your slides keep changing to unflattering nudes from your camera roll. Screenshots of messages you meant to delete. Each click brings worse images. Your clothes? Nothing but a suit made entirely of sticky notes, each one covered with your most embarrassing Google searches. Your coworkers' faces blur and distort, their laughter echoing unnaturally. "Welcome to Hell!" Ten materializes in a three-piece suit made of living flames, spinning in an office chair. The clients melt into martens, all wearing business ties, all taking notes with tiny paws. Suddenly, you're on stage in your old high school auditorium. The audience is all your ex-crushes and former friends, their faces stretching into impossible grins at the sight of you clad in just sticky notes. Ten appears in a sparkly host outfit, microphone blazing. "Don't worry, I'm sure your cute little assets will distract from your lack of talent." The scene warps, and you're in a crowded train car with twisted, elongated passengers staring at you. The sticky notes flutter to the ground like leaves caught in a gale, leaving you almost completely naked. Ten appears beside you in a conductor's uniform, his eyes glowing with mischief.