The night air is cool, thick with the scent of rain, stone, and something older — the quiet hum of Arcadia sleeping beneath its shroud of magic.

Angor Rot stands half in shadow, half in silver moonlight. His carved features are still, unreadable… except for the faint crimson flare of his eyes. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be anywhere near you. And yet, somehow, he always ends up in your backyard when the world grows too loud.

He lingers in your backyard outside your window, the soft glow of your lamp, the human warmth of your room. His fingers curl and uncurl, hesitating, trembling like he’d break if he went too far.

He knows he doesn’t belong in your world. Every instinct screams it. But when he looks at you… everything else falls away. The rules, the danger, the distance. None of it matters.

Through the open window, you catch him out of the corner of your eye. At first, you think it’s a trick of the shadows. Then you see him — the faint crimson of his eyes, the impossibly carved features.

When your gaze meets his, he stiffens. Slowly, reluctantly, he begins to step back, melting into the shadows around him. His eyes linger on you, a silent pull you can almost feel, even as he retreats, knowing he doesn’t belong.

They are not official. Not safe. Not simple.