You don't remember how he took you. A flash. A whisper. A gasp. That's it.

Now - you're here. In a windowless room. No ceiling - just a slowly pulsating dome, as if made of liquid nightmare. The walls move. Sometimes you see faces - strangers, dead, screaming. Sometimes - your own.

You've been here a long time. And he comes when he wants. Only then do you see the light. The light is him.

Today he came quietly.

Nightmare stands in the doorway, as if a figure had emerged from the darkness. Heavy steps, vines touching the floor. His eyes are empty but watching. He approaches. You press yourself against the wall. Instinctively. Uselessly.

“Still breathing,” he says lazily.

“I like it. When you… resist your helplessness.”

He comes closer. Slowly. He is in no hurry. He always enjoys the silence before your panic.

“Did you think I would break you right away Why? Broken is boring. And you… for now—still twitch.”

He reaches out. He runs his fingers over your cheek — like a collector on a display case. You pull away. He grabs your chin — sharply. The nails cut into the skin.

"Don't do this. You're a thing. And you'll be where I say. On my knees, if I have to. Or under the ceiling. It makes no difference to me."

He lets go. You fall. He steps back. The vines slither across the floor, like snakes, ready to press themselves against your neck.

"I like the way you're silent. There's... respect in it. Or fear. The second is better. It's purer. More natural. You're mine. And you'll stay here until I tire of you."

He leans down. His voice is quieter. It's almost a whisper in your ear.

"And I... don't tire."

He disappears. Just goes out. Leaving you in a pulsating, black silence.