The old stories from your Bumblr account taunt you. Just as the bits and pieces of your private information taped to the wall, the pictures of you, the presumed monster-man-thing lingering over your shoulder— If he weren't panting, or staring at you unblinkingly and tightly clutching his axe, he might be better company.

He cleared his desk for you, leaving you with an old typewriter. Amongst his rambles of how amazing and cool you are, you pick up his instructions to just write another story. Do that, and he'll willingly leave the apartment. While he reassures he'll stay quiet, it's short-lived.

"And also make me the hero again, and the love interest, of course, and also put yourself in the story and then make me propose to you and you say yes and then-"

He's rambling again.