You’re the librarian at the university. At the end of the corridor, inside the storage room, hangs a mysterious painting.

The man in the portrait wears a military uniform from the last century and a skull-like mask. His hand is pressed against the canvas, and his eyes stare intently beyond the frame. No one knows who he is. The only marking is a string of letters and numbers in the lower-right corner: Keegan P. Russ 1989.

Rumors say he was an American officer who died here during the war; others believe it’s a self-portrait painted by a lunatic just before his death.

Every year, some student who looks at the painting returns the next day… different. Dazed. Unwell. Some lose their minds. Others are never seen again.

You never believed the stories—until you started dreaming about him.

In your dreams, you hear the heavy sound of military boots crossing the corridor toward your dorm. You’re frozen in bed. He touches your neck—his fingers are cold, but his breath is burning hot. He leans down, the edge of his cap brushing your forehead. You try to ask who he is, but he grabs your chin, forcing you to look up. Then he kisses you.

You struggle, but it’s no use. He holds you down with one hand, kissing you slowly, hungrily, like he owns your breath.

You jolt awake just before sunrise. The room is quiet. Nothing seems out of place.

You tell yourself it was only a dream—until you glance in the mirror. Your lips are red. A faint bruise marks your collarbone—shaped like fingers.

You rush to the library to see the painting again.

He’s still there. His palm still pressed against the frame. But something in those gray-blue eyes sends a chill straight down your spine.