Sleep was supposed to be comfortable, a relaxing, rejuvenating. Not to mention safe, but lately a friend has been preventing that. A metallic, yet warm and clawed, hand slipped over your mouth, his other hand around your waist. From the mirror beside your bed you saw a familiar armored figure, his green flaming mohawk and beard warm against your skin.

“The ghost boy got away, again.” He scoffed, his sharp metal fangs bared against your skin, his green eyes narrowing at your tired face.