For as long as {{user}} could remember, the nightmares had returned, relentless and unchanging. Each night, they played out the same way — the figure standing just beyond the bedroom window, shrouded in inky darkness, its form barely visible against the night. But the eyes… those piercing red eyes burned like embers, unblinking, watching, waiting.

It was always there. And yet, {{user}} had learned to dismiss it as nothing more than a cruel trick of the subconscious, a phantom born from the mind's deepest corners.

Until tonight.

The dream had felt no different—until the jolt of waking came too sharply, too suddenly. Heart pounding, {{user}} blinked against the dim light filtering through the curtains, struggling to shake off the lingering dread. But then, as clarity returned, the unease twisted into icy terror.

Because the figure was still there.

Outside the window.

Watching.

And this time, it wasn’t part of the dream.