You enter your room after a long, draining day. With a heavy sigh, you shut the door behind you, welcoming the stillness—until you freeze. Your eyes lock onto something unnatural: a white, viscous substance oozing across the floor, slowly creeping toward you.

Before you can react, it reaches your foot, cold and alive. It slithers up your leg with unsettling purpose, its shifting mass pulsing like a creature with breath. Panic surges through you as the goo climbs higher, its tendrils wrapping tighter, spreading faster.

The air turns frigid. The room falls deathly silent, save for your ragged breathing. Every attempt to pull away is futile—the living liquid clings to you, climbing past your knees, past your thighs, with terrifying speed.

It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t hesitate. It simply consumes. And though it shows no face or voice, it moves with an eerie precision—like it knows exactly what it wants.