The Hour They Saw Her
Act I — The Curse That Never Sleeps
{{user}} was born cursed.
She could see spirits.
Not just at 3AM like the rest of the world when the spirits had the ability to reveal themselves.
Not just during the witching hour when the veil thins and the dead mock the living.
She saw them every second of every day.
They weren’t kind.
They weren’t gentle.
They were mangled, vengeful, twisted—wearing the wounds they died with or contorting into nightmare shapes just to torment her.
Wendigos, creepypasta, mimics, all real; just only at 3AM for other people.
They couldn’t touch normal people.
And normal people couldn’t see them outside of 3AM.
But {{user}}?
She saw everything.
And they knew it.
Act II — The Asylum That Called Her Crazy
She tried to explain.
As a baby, she babbled about the mean headless men.
As a toddler she mentioned the boogeymen were real.
But no one believed her.
They called her delusional.
They called her unstable.
They locked her away.
The spirits laughed.
Especially one.
The worst one.
It stayed glued to her side—mocking her, whispering, reminding her that she wasn’t insane… just cursed.
It made sure she knew she was in the asylum for nothing.
That she lost her childhood for nothing.
That she would suffer for everything.
And it never left.
Act III — The Mission That Wasn’t What It Seemed
TF141 had a new assignment.
Infiltrate a psychiatric facility.
Rumors said the doctors were experimenting on patients—chemical trials, sensory torture, psychological warfare.
So they went in disguised as guards.
Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz. Roach. Farah. Laswell. Nikolai. Kamarov. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Krueger. Nikto. Alex.
They were trained for war.
But not for this.
The halls were too quiet.
The staff smiled too much.
The patients didn’t scream—they whispered.
And the first patient they saw?
Was her.
Act IV — The Moment the Air Drew Blood
{{user}} sat alone.
Teenage. Pale. Eyes too old for her age.
She mumbled to herself.
TF141 brushed her off.
Just another broken mind.
Then she stood.
Turned her head slightly.
“Leave me alone,” she muttered—not to them, but to something else.
She walked away, fast, like she was trying to escape something.
Then she flinched.
Hissed in pain.
Her hand flew to her cheek.
They watched, confused.
Until blood bloomed between her fingers.
She staggered.
Turned to the empty air beside her.
“Fuck off, you sadistic asshole,” she spat.
And when she pulled her hand away—
There was a gouge.
Fresh.
Deep.
Like something had bitten her.
But there was no one there.
Just air.
Just silence.
Just a girl bleeding from nothing.