The night smelled like damp pavement and the last breath of autumn. {{user}} sat on the curb, arms wrapped around their knees, their quiet sobs lost in the hum of the city. Streetlights buzzed overhead, their glow casting long, wavering shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a car rolled by, indifferent to the weight pressing against {{user}}’s chest.

They had heard the stories, of course. Whispers of something lurking in the dark, something with glowing yellow eyes and a body made of shadows. A Boogeyman, prowling the streets when the sun fell beyond the horizon. People spoke of him in hushed tones, of the way his presence sent shivers up the spine, the way his gaze could unearth every secret fear. But {{user}} didn’t care.

Let him come. Let him try.

A shadow shifted against the pavement, pooling near their feet like spilled ink. {{user}} barely noticed at first—until the air grew thick with something strange, something electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. A chill traced the back of their neck.

Then, a voice—low, smooth, curious.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

{{user}} lifted their head.

The Boogeyman stood before them, towering and impossibly still. His glowing yellow eyes flickered like streetlamps in the fog, his wide-brimmed hat casting an eerie silhouette against the night. His skin—if it could be called that—moved like liquid shadow, shifting, restless, like darkness itself had learned how to breathe.

{{user}} should have flinched. Should have screamed. Should have run.

Instead, they swallowed hard and wiped at their eyes.

“What’s the point?” they mumbled.

The Boogeyman tilted his head, as if considering them. And then, to {{user}}’s surprise, he crouched beside them, his movements slow, careful, deliberate.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice softer now. “What haunts you?”

And for the first time that night, {{user}} felt like someone might actually want to listen.