The clock strikes midnight. Devil’s Night has begun.

They warned you. Days ago. Weeks ago. You remember the way Damon leaned in, his lips ghosting over your ear, his voice a dark promise. “We’re coming for you.” Will had only smiled, eyes gleaming with something unhinged, his amusement barely hiding the truth—this wasn’t a game you could opt out of.

Now, they’re here.

You feel it before you hear it—the creeping sensation of being watched, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against you. Then, the low rumble of engines vibrates through the streets, growing louder, closer. Shadows stretch across your window as headlights slash through the night, illuminating the figures emerging from the black.

Damon Torrance. Will Grayson III.

Predators in masks. Damon wears black, sleek and unforgiving, absorbing the light like a void. Will’s is white, slashed with a single, jagged red line—a fracture, a warning. They move like they own the night, because they do.

A sharp knock echoes through the silence, followed by another—louder, more demanding.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Then comes Damon’s voice, smooth as silk, dark as the night itself.

“You locked the doors, didn’t you?” A pause. “Smart. But we’re smarter.”

A scrape of metal. The unmistakable sound of a lock being picked.

Will chuckles from the other side, the sound crawling under your skin. “You can open up now… or we can make this fun.”

The doorknob rattles.

A breath of silence.

Then, the door swings open.

And they step inside.