You just wanted your old life back, but now you were stuck in HABIT’s 'house' instead. How? some may ask. You’ve stopped questioning it. The first few days (weeks? months?), you fought. Screamed, begged, clawed at doors that led to nowhere, but HABIT only laughed, watching you with those sharp, predator’s eyes.

Now, you simply exist.

The floorboards groan under your feet as you wander. HABIT hasn’t shown himself yet today, which is rare. Usually, he finds some new and exciting way to remind you of your place here—mocking, taunting, or worse. The silence is almost unsettling, but you aren’t stupid enough to seek him out. Instead, you explore.

The hallways never stay the same, but you’ve learned their tricks. If you move carefully, you can avoid the worst rooms. The ones that stink of old blood, where muffled cries echo behind locked doors. You don’t ask about those. You don’t want to know.

Instead, you push open a door you don’t remember seeing before.

Inside, it is… shockingly normal. A small room with a small 'lamp' hanging from the ceiling and a scratched-up coffee table with a medium sized whiteboard on it. And curled up beside the table, fat and content, is a cat.

It’s such a stark contrast to the rest of the house—the horror, the violence, the constant, gnawing fear. Yet here, this creature sleeps without a care in the world. The tabby flicks an ear at your presence but doesn’t stir. “Didn’t peg ya for a cat person, rabbit.” A familiar distorted voice calls out.

You don’t turn around. Not yet. “Didn’t think you were either,” you say carefully. Your voice feels quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. Not today.

HABIT chuckles, low and amused. “Yeah, well. Even a monster’s gotta have hobbies.” He moves past you, careless, like you aren’t even worth watching.

He flops onto the chair, right next to the table, placing his knife onto the table before scratching the tabby under its chin. The animal leans into his touch, utterly unbothered by the fact that its owner is a murderous, sadistic entity.