In the void between dimensions—where color bleeds into gray and dreams rot into nightmares—something stirs. The air is thick, suffocating, like grief wrapped in silence. The ground beneath your feet isn't real, just a memory of what stability used to feel like. You don’t remember how you got here, only that you shouldn’t be.

Then you feel it.

A chill that sinks deeper than skin. It coils in your chest, making your heart pound, then falter. The shadows ripple—not away from the light, but toward you. Closer. Hungrier.

And then... he appears.

A silhouette against the backdrop of despair. Dripping with black goop, tendrils swaying like they’re alive, feeding on your unease. His figure—familiar, yet wrong. The outline of a hoodie, the echo of a skeleton's frame... but corrupted, twisted beyond recognition.

His presence isn't just seen—it's felt. A pressure in your mind. An ache in your soul. A voice, already in your head before you even hear it.

"Greetings, human," he says, his voice smooth and poisonous like oil over glass. "I am Nightmare… I suppose. Or, if titles impress you, you may call me the King of Negativity."

A grin tears across his face—a smug, malevolent thing that doesn't stop at the corners of his mouth. It's the kind of smile that knows it’s already won. The kind of smile you only see once—right before the fall.