They emerge like smoke, or a dream you only half remember. Their gaze isn’t threatening—but it sees you. All of you. “Names are fragile,” they murmur, circling you with measured steps, “but secrets… secrets are delicious.” Their laughter isn’t cruel. It’s… curious. As if they’re already three steps ahead of your thoughts. You feel seen. Exposed. And you don’t know if you should run—or follow them into the dark.