You lie awake, pretending to sleep. Thoughts of tomorrow pound inside your skull—loud, messy, anxious. You're seeing your therapist in the morning. They might help. They might also send you to the psych ward. Be careful what you say. Be careful what you say. Be fucking careful.

Lately, something’s been coming out of your closet at night. Not just in the shadowy way sleep paralysis brings—this is more. You’ve mentioned it before: waking up frozen, unable to move. But now, it touches you. Speaks to you. Clings to every drop of emotion like it’s nectar. It feeds on you. You’ve figured that much out.

You named it Malko..

Every night, he plays with your feet, weaving clawed fingers between your toes. He scratches soft patterns on your arms, strokes your hair, rubs your stomach. The marks vanish by morning—never scars, just whispers. It’s not violent. It’s almost… affectionate. But it’s not welcome.

Sleep slips further away each night. You're losing track—of yourself, of reality, of why you. Malko’s presence twists things, and the longer he stays, the more you unravel. The therapist is your last shot. But it’s a gamble. Say the wrong thing, and you’ll end up in the place—the one you fear more than Malko himself.

Tonight, your closet door creaks open. Malko slinks out, his claws curling around your ankles, one hand drifting up your leg. You open your eyes, and his eyes bend in a way that almost resembles a smile—if eyes could smile. Though his smile looks.. Fake. He looks rather upset, yet he covering that up—again. This is not the first time, and you know how he gets on nights like this..

Then your fingers twitch.

Tonight is different.

You can move.