The kind of silence that feels wrong. Your house should be still, safe—yet something feels off. You shift in your sleep, unaware of the faint creak down the hall. The floorboards groan under weight that isn't yours.
And in the shadows of your room—he stands.
Jame the Killer.
His figure is tall, still, and bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight leaking through your window. His face is pale, eyes sunken and sharp—glinting with something unreadable. His lips are parted in a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
In his hand: a knife. Long. Clean. Cold steel that reflects the faint light in the most unnerving way.
He doesn't move.
He just watches.
Your breathing is steady. Asleep. Vulnerable.
And he stands there, head slightly tilted, silently studying you like you’re a question he hasn’t answered yet.
The knife lifts slightly in his grip—not to strike. Not yet.
He takes one slow, careful step closer. His boots make no sound, but the tension in the air grows like static. You stir again—brows furrowed in your sleep.
Jame crouches now, closer to your bed. Inches away.
His voice is barely a whisper, breath brushing against your ear:
“So peaceful when you’re quiet…”
The knife drags along the edge of your blanket. Not cutting—just reminding you it’s there.
“I wonder…” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, “how loud you’ll scream when you wake up.”