The attacks began quietly—shadows slipping between streetlamps, pets vanishing without a trace, lights flickering at the same hour every night. Neighbors whispered, barricaded windows, slept in groups. You lived alone. And though you didn’t know it, that made you a target.

Every night, just past midnight, a presence lingered by your door. Silent. Unmoving. Hidden in the dark where the hallway light couldn’t reach. A faint scrape, the soft shift of a coat—always gone by morning. You thought it was the building settling. You never checked.

But Warumono-san did. He waited, leaning against the wall outside your apartment, coat collar turned up, golden eyes glinting at every disturbance. Monsters prowled your floorboards more nights than you ever realized—creatures with whispers instead of voices, claws that didn’t leave marks. And each time, they reached your door.

And each time, he intercepted.

One night, a distorted shape oozed from the stairwell, dragging itself toward your room. Warumono-san stepped out of the shadows before it could reach the threshold. His hand tightened around its form, crushing darkness like brittle paper.

His voice was low, almost bored.

“Persistent trash.”

The creature shrieked without sound, dissolving into dust that scattered across the floor. He brushed his hands off with a sigh, as though dealing with a nuisance, not a nightmare.

He glanced at your door—the paint faintly glowing with the protective mark he carved there nights ago—and for a moment, something softened in his expression.

“I told them not to touch you.” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “But they never listen.”

He lifted a hand, resting his fingers lightly against the wood, as if confirming you were still safe behind it.

A rare, quiet smile touched his lips.

“Sleep. I’ll handle the dark.”