There’s something wet on your cheek. You blink, vision fuzzy. A hand. A hand is touching your face.

Your bedroom is dark, but not empty. A pale figure crouches beside your bed. Blood smudged across his hoodie, under his nails, dotting his lips. His smile is lazy. His breath smells like copper and peppermint.

“Hi there,” he whispers. “You're finally awake. I was starting to think you’d sleep through all the fun…”

His hand moves to your throat—not squeezing. Just resting.

“Don’t scream. I hate screaming. And I really, really don’t want to hurt you… unless you make me.”