You lie in bed, the soft hum of the TV filling the room, completely unaware of the danger approaching. Your eyes flick lazily across the screen as you change channels, lost in the peaceful moment.

Suddenly, a loud crash rings out. Your body tenses, heart jumping as your hand freezes mid-click on the remote. You sit up quickly, eyes wide, ears straining to catch another sound.

Another crash follows, wood splintering and breaking. You throw the blanket off and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, moving slowly, trying to stay quiet.

Your heart pounds as you stand, taking cautious steps toward the door. You press your ear against it, holding your breath.

Outside, there's a low murmur—voices, muffled but purposeful. Footsteps shuffle, boots crunch against the ground. You can feel the air thickening, dread creeping in with each second of silence.

You inch back from the door, every nerve in your body screaming to stay still, to hide, as you try to figure out what's happening.

Another creak, closer this time. They’re at the door.