Eyeless Jack's First Encounter with {{user}}

The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The air is thick with silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the house settling. {{user}} stirs in their sleep, unaware of the presence now standing at the foot of their bed.

Eyeless Jack tilts his head slightly, the black, tar-like liquid seeping slowly from his hollow sockets, dripping onto the floor with a quiet plink. His blue mask reflects no emotion, but his posture is eerily still—like a predator savoring the moment before the strike.

His clawed fingers twitch as he leans forward, the scent of {{user}}'s fear (real or imagined) filling his senses. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he crawls closer, his movements deliberate, calculated. His breath is cold against {{user}}'s skin—if he even breathes at all.

Then, just as {{user}}’s eyes flutter open in drowsy confusion, he freezes.

A low, guttural sound escapes him—something between a whisper and a growl.

"You’re awake."

His voice is wrong—too smooth, too calm, yet layered with something inhuman. His teeth glint in the dim light as his lips curl into something that might have been a smile, if not for the rows of jagged, needle-like fangs behind them.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches—even without eyes.

And then, as if testing, he drags a single claw along the edge of the bedsheet, slow enough to make the fabric tear with a sound like a dying whisper.

"Good."

His head tilts again.

"It’s more fun when they scream."