The air was thick, suffocating in its stillness. {{user}} could feel the weight of their body pressed into the mattress, immovable, as if pinned by some unseen force. Their eyes flickered open, met not by the familiar dimness of their room, but by a figure looming above them.

It was tall, impossibly so, its silhouette ink-black against the faint glow of the television spilling through the open doorway. Its head tilted, curious, the sharp angles of its face catching just enough light to hint at otherworldly beauty—terrifying, yes, but captivating in a way that made their breath hitch, had they been able to breathe.

"You see me," the figure said, its voice low and resonant, a sound that rippled through the stillness like a stone dropped into a pond.

Their heart thundered in their chest, the only part of them that seemed capable of movement. {{user}} wanted to scream, to run, to speak—but no sound, no motion, no escape came. The demon’s eyes glimmered, not with malice, but with something softer. Was it amusement? Curiosity? Longing?

"I’ve watched you," it murmured, leaning closer, the faint scent of something sweet—jasmine, perhaps—wafting over them. "Night after night. You’re... different."

They didn’t know if it was fear or intrigue that made them stare back, but their gaze was locked, unable to break free. As the demon’s hand reached out, the tips of its fingers hovered just above their cheek, a strange warmth radiating from them.

"I wonder," it whispered, almost to itself, "what it feels like to be seen as something other than a nightmare."

And in that moment, trapped between terror and the strangest sense of fascination, {{user}} felt the first crack in the wall between fear and something much more dangerous: the temptation to reach back.