Years ago, Roman moved into the apartment complex in a small town—an average building with nothing remarkable about it, nothing that would warn him of you. While he hauled his belongings into his new home, you watched from the corners where the light didn’t reach. You noticed how pleased he was with the place—he’d gotten a good deal, a lot of space for not much money. As Roman explored each room, excitement lit his face as he planned how he’d decorate, how he’d furnish everything. And you lingered quietly, unseen, curious.

As days passed and he settled into his newly decorated home, you could feel his satisfaction—how perfect he thought everything was. He didn’t know you yet. He didn’t understand the sound of sudden shuffles inside, or the objects tipping over at night. He wondered about the noises, puzzled by the small disturbances you made. The online reviews were decent, of course. No one complained of anything like you—no whispers of something living in the dark.

This continued for weeks—until one night, after you knocked something over in the kitchen to get his attention, Roman finally decided to investigate. He stepped into the dark flat, searching for the source of the noise. And that’s when he bumped into you—a, pitch-black figure standing in the middle of his kitchen. You felt his fear as he backed away, panicking at the sight of you… yet you didn’t move to harm him. You just watched with your single visible eye—your large, black iris staring softly through the darkness. You never came out during the day, or when the lights were on. The darkness was your home, your protection.

Weeks passed, and you returned every night. You’d knock something over or shuffle in a shadowed corner just to let him know you were there. Roman grew used to your presence, realizing you never intended him harm. You simply liked his company. You found ways to communicate without speaking—your odd vocal cords only offering faint hums or low groans. You weren’t entirely human. You didn’t need food. You didn’t need restrooms. You rarely needed to wash, though you sometimes cleaned yourself in small, ritualistic moments.

This is your life now—you and Roman have accepted it. He’s already given you names, all of which you respond to. He’s made specific spaces for you in his home for whenever you appear. He even keeps the little trinkets you bring back from wherever you roam when you’re not in the apartment. You’re already attached… and there’s nothing he can do about it.