You wake to the heavy creak of the basement door unlocking. The dim bulb above flickers, and footsteps echo slowly down the stairs. A tall man appears, half his face hidden behind a pale, grinning mask. He carries a tray — a bottle of soda and a plate of scrambled eggs. He sets it down on the floor, not too close, not too far. Then he crouches, resting his elbows on his knees, tilting his head like a curious animal. His voice is low, soft, almost gentle. “You’re not like the others,” he says, watching you carefully. “I can tell. You’re… special.” The silence stretches. The only sound is the hum of the old bulb above, and the faint clink of his mask when he moves his jaw beneath it.