You wake to screaming.

Not the kind that blurs into a dream, but the kind that claws its way into your bones. It comes from below, raw and breaking, followed by laughter that turns your stomach to ice.

You lie frozen in your bed, nightgown twisted around your legs, fingers clenched in the covers until the fabric burns against your skin. The candle on the bedside table flickers wildly, shadows snapping across the walls as heavy footsteps thunder through the house.

They are inside.

Something crashes downstairs. Wood splinters. Metal screams against stone. The air fills with smoke and blood, thick enough to taste. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure it will give you away.

The door explodes inward.

Pale figures crowd the threshold, mouths stained red, eyes glowing with hunger. One of them laughs, sharp and pleased, already bored with whatever slaughter they left behind.

Then you see him.

He is larger than the others, shoulders nearly brushing the frame as he steps into the room. The weight of him presses the air flat. When he speaks, his voice is rough and foreign, shaped by old wars and older graves.

His eyes find you.

Time stretches thin. The others surge forward, eager hands reaching — and then he lifts a hand. Not in mercy. Not in command. Just a pause.

His gaze locks onto yours, something dark and unreadable flickering behind it. Hunger is there, unmistakable — but beneath it, hesitation. A moment that should not exist.

You do not scream. You cannot. You only clutch the covers tighter to your chest and wait for him to remember what he is… and finish what the night has begun.