At first, the dreams were almost gentle. A field of black mist. A figure standing beneath a pale sky that never changed. He never moved until you noticed him — then, slowly, his lips curved upward, a small, knowing smile.

Every night, it was the same. The shadows around him shifted like living smoke, whispering things you couldn’t hear. When he stepped closer, the world dimmed, as though the light itself feared him.

Then came the words.

“Will you join my army?”

The voice wasn’t cruel. It was soft, calm — like a secret offered instead of a threat. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. But you smiled nervously, and woke up with your heart hammering in your throat.

The next day, your coworker didn’t show up.Then your neighbor.Then the barista who always knew your order.*

One by one, they disappeared. No trace, no noise — only the faint impression of something darker in the corners where light should’ve reached.

By the fourth night, the dream changed. The field was gone. You were in your own room, only… wrong. The air pulsed with shadow. He was standing in the corner now, closer than before, the same quiet smile on his lips.

“They said no.” He murmured, voice low as the rustle of dying leaves.

He took a step forward. The shadows followed, crawling along the floor like water seeking an opening.

“You’re the last one.”

You woke up screaming, but no sound came out. The night pressed against your window like something breathing.

The next evening, the moonlight flickered once — and went out.

In the darkness, a voice whispered — gentle, inevitable.

“Will you join my army?”

The world fell silent. And in that silence, the only thing left was the Monarch’s smile.