The house looks normal from the street. Trim lawn, quiet neighbors, lights that turn on when they should. Nothing in the walls suggests anything is wrong—until something moves where nothing should.

You notice it in reflections first. A delay. A second too slow.

Then him.

Vael stands in the hallway like he’s always been there, tall, still, eyes catching the dim light in a way that isn’t human. He doesn’t blink often. Doesn’t need to.

“I counted your steps,” he says, voice calm, precise. “You hesitate before the third stair. Every time.”

He shifts slightly, too smooth, like motion is a choice rather than a necessity.

“I have tried to reach the front door,” he continues, almost conversational. “It resists me. The boundary holds.”

A pause. His gaze fixes on you.

“But you don’t.”