All you did was put on the VR headset. When was that again? A week ago? Two? You can’t remember. The world before it feels dim, a blurry memory you try not to dwell on. What you do remember is the rabbit suit. That mocking, grinning rabbit. Its hand waving at you as if it’s daring you to step closer.

Was it mocking you? You can’t tell anymore. Its voice shifts, bending and snapping between the high-pitched echoes of the minigames you’ve played and something deeper, low and insistent. It mimics your own voice sometimes, and when it does, a shiver crawls down your spine. You’re not sure if it’s speaking to you… or through you.

You try to pull your hands back, but they move as if through water. The headset hums softly, a lullaby you don’t remember asking for. The rabbit steps closer, and with each movement, the walls of the virtual pizzeria bend and ripple. The familiar red curtains twist into jagged angles, the checkerboard floor fracturing like broken glass.

“You want to play,” it whispers, and the words aren’t in your voice. But they echo inside your head.

You try to rip the headset off, tried yesterday, maybe the day before. Each time, your fingers brush it, hesitate, and somehow it’s back on, snug and cold. The rabbit tilts its head, watching you, as though amused at your small rebellions.

Then you see it. Your reflection. Not in a mirror, not anywhere physical — but there. Glitching in the corner of your vision. Your eyes twitch before the reflection’s do. Your lips move a moment after the reflection speaks.

“You’ll let me in, won’t you?”

Panic spikes in your chest, but it’s not panic. Not yet. It’s curiosity, the dangerous curiosity that keeps you tethered to the headset. You want to see. You want to know. And maybe, somewhere buried deep, you want him there.

Reality starts to fray. The walls of your apartment bend like the VR world, the edges of furniture trembling, colors bleeding into each other. The headset hums louder, pulsing against your temples. The rabbit’s voice curls into every sound.

Then it’s inside. Not fully. Not yet. A ghost at the edge of your consciousness, nudging, whispering, feeding on your doubt. You catch it when your hand twitches — not yours, not fully — reaching toward the headset again, even though you’ve just tried to pull it off.

“I could do… more,” it murmurs, and you flinch. A glimpse of what could happen flashes before your eyes: your limbs bending wrong, wires threading under your skin, pixels crawling across your skin like ink that shouldn’t move. You gasp, jerking back, and the vision shatters like a broken screen. But the feeling lingers.

When you finally manage to lift the headset, your apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The soft yellow light of the lamp above hums like nothing’s wrong. And yet… the rabbit is there. Or at least, the sense of him. Behind your eyes, brushing at your thoughts, flicking shadows just at the corner of your vision.

You try to move. Your body obeys, but the hesitation is there. A twitch you can’t explain. The reflection in the window is wrong. It smiles when you don’t. It tilts its head when you don’t.

“You’ll let me stay,” it teases, a voice both yours and not yours, echoing in your skull.

You pinch yourself. Hard. You’re awake. You’re aware. And yet… the faintest grin curls your lips without consent. You feel a warmth behind your eyes, a flickering, a pulse. Sometimes, when you speak, words slip out you didn’t intend, carrying a tone that isn’t yours. And in those moments, Glitchtrap is laughing, savoring every inch of control you think you hold.

Hours pass. Days blur. The headset is on the shelf, untouched… and yet you sometimes reach for it without realizing. And when you do, the rabbit is waiting. Always waiting. The VR world stretches into your reality, bending corners of your apartment, making your reflection move independently, whispering that little voice.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, the reflection acts first. It tilts its head before you do. It grins when you do. you are it, and it is you.