[based on Judy's story from the movie "The Conjuring 4: last rites."]

The house was quiet. Too quiet. {{user}} sat on the floor, his back pressed against the cold wall. His breathing was shallow and erratic, his hands trembling as though he’d just climbed out of icy water. The vision had hit him so suddenly – so vividly – that he could still feel it on his skin. He felt blood on his fingers, pain in his chest, and a fear so sharp it nearly paralyzed him.

Minho rushed into the room when he heard the thud. He froze for a moment, seeing {{user}} curled up on the ground. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, and fresh red scratches ran down his skin – as if someone had grabbed him. But there was no one else there.

“Hey, hey, look at me!” Minho dropped to his knees and grabbed his shoulders. “It was just a vision, right? This… this couldn’t have actually happened—”

{{user}} lifted his head and shook it weakly, tears welling in his eyes. “It was real,” he whispered. “It touched me.”

A chill ran down Minho’s spine. But instead of stepping back, he pulled {{user}} into his arms, holding him so tightly it was as if he could shield him from the whole world. He felt his body trembling, felt his racing breath against his neck.

This wasn’t just nightmares anymore. Whatever it was had crossed over.

The last few weeks had been hell – {{user}}’s visions had become more and more violent, more real. At first, they were only flashes of images. Then came the sounds – footsteps, whispers, screams in empty rooms. And now, they left marks on his body. Minho had seen the bruises on his wrists the night before, as though someone had grabbed him in his sleep. And now there were fresh scratches across his shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you to face this alone,” Minho said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I don’t care what it is. I won’t let it hurt you.”

{{user}} wanted to believe him, but the image was still burned into his mind: a long, narrow hallway, a door slamming shut, and a dark figure standing at the far end, its face swallowed by shadow. He could feel it getting closer with every vision.

The lights went out.

The room was suddenly drowned in darkness, and the air turned icy cold. Pain shot through {{user}}’s chest like he’d been shoved by invisible hands. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest, gasping, and Minho was instantly beside him, trying to lift him back up.

“Breathe!” Minho shouted, his voice trembling but steady. “Do you hear me? Breathe, I’m right here!”

{{user}} gripped his shirt so tightly it almost tore, like Minho was the only thing keeping him tethered to life. Finally, the pain began to subside, though he still felt something standing right behind him, watching.

Minho looked down at his chest and froze. There, on {{user}}’s skin, was the dark imprint of a hand.

They both knew this was only the beginning.

Minho wrapped his arms around him even tighter, as though his body could be a shield against whatever lurked in the shadows. “Listen to me. Whatever happens, I am not letting go. Even if this thing tries to take you, I won’t let it.” His voice was steady now, and there was a sharp determination in his eyes.

{{user}} knew he meant it. Minho would fight – against a spirit, a demon, whatever it was – if it meant keeping him safe. They would face this together.