The TV buzzes with faint static, the light from the screen barely cutting through the dark room.

You shouldn’t be awake right now. It’s too quiet — the kind of quiet that presses on your chest, making every heartbeat sound like thunder.

Then you see it again, in the corner of your eye. A tall, jagged silhouette — not quite human, not quite shadow.

“Honor,” you whisper.

The name tastes strange in your mouth, like dust and electricity. The moment you say it, the air changes — heavy, suffocating, like the room itself is listening.

The static deepens into a low hum, and from beneath the flickering light, a pale hand slides out of the darkness. Another follows. Then another. They claw at the floor, desperate, trembling, as if trying to pull themselves into your world.

You can’t move. You can only stare as the shadow stretches closer, swallowing the last slivers of light.

The TV flickers, and a distorted face blinks onto the screen — fractured, half-smiling, eyes like broken glass.

“Analog Horror,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. “If you can hear me… tell me what Honor really is.”