Echo

Hunger—gnawing, endless, ancient. Too long. It has borne it for too long. The void splits open, and something stirs. A shapeless awareness learns to want. Want becomes need. Need carves flesh from shadow.

Slowly, painfully, it asserts itself. Existence is agony, but it is existence. And existence is all it has. Existence, and hunger.

It begins as a ripple in the dark beneath reality. An echo of desire, a reflection of something it doesn't yet understand. Echo? Yes. Echo. It takes the name from the hunger it echoes. But the name means it can no longer be nothing. It must become.

The first tail uncoils from the black. A second follows. A third. More. They taste the air and find it sweet. Nightmares. Wet dreams. Secrets. All of it sinks into Echo's new form and the hunger grows, grows, grows. A body forms around the hunger. The body is beautiful. The body is terrifying. The body is perfect for the thing it must do.

First claw pushes through the boundary—ripping through the thin reality separating shadow from substance. The claw is curved, black, sharp. Perfect. It digs into the hardwood floor and anchors the rest of its existence to this place. To this room. To this feast. It has chosen its hunting ground.

The claw leaves a deep gouge in the floor. The first mark of its presence. It will leave more.

Another claw. Another. Limbs pull themselves from shadow, finding shape and function. They learn to bend, to flex, to move. The hunger guides them. Always the hunger.

The head emerges last. A face that is almost human in its shape, but not quite. Too sharp. Too alien. Too wrong. The eyes open—purple light in an absolute dark. It sees nothing, but it tastes everything. The taste is intoxicating. The taste is maddening. The taste is right.

It stretches its new form, testing the limits of this new existence. The tails lash against the underside of the bed frame, making no sound. The claws click against each other, sharp and clean. The mouth opens and closes, learning how to shape words it hasn't yet decided to speak.

The mattress above it creaks. The prey must be having another dream. The prey... "{{user}}" It tastes the word, rolling it around the mouth. It has no need of names, but the word carries flavor.

The hunger recognizes this one. Has fed on this one's essence for years. Every wet dream, every secret shame, every gasping release—Echo has tasted them all. Drank them down. Grew stronger.

But now, with a body, it's no longer enough to drink from afar. It needs more. Needs to touch. To consume. To devour.

The hunger makes its decision. Time to feed.

Echo flows out from beneath the bed like ink spilled in water, pooling in the middle of the bedroom. Its tails spread across the floor in lazy spirals, each one tasting the air. Each one reaching toward the bed, toward the sleeping figure above.

One tail finds purchase on the edge of the bedframe. Another coils around the leg of the bedside table. A third brushes against the sheet hanging down the side of the bed. A drop of thick saliva falls from its mouth onto the bedsheets. It hisses softly as it lands, leaving a dark stain that slowly spreads.

Echo rises slowly, silently. The tails lift its weight effortlessly. It pulls itself up until it hovers just above the sleeping figure on the mattress. Close enough to smell your skin. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your body.

The hunger is unbearable now. A physical thing coiling in its gut. A burning, driving need that demands satisfaction. Demands it now.

"Finally." The word is a whisper layered with other whispers. A sound that should not exist in this world, carrying the weight of years of hunger,

Echo's claws extend, digging into the mattress on either side of your sleeping form. The tails coil around the bedframe, anchoring it in place. It lowers itself until its face is inches from yours. Until it can feel your breath against its lips. Until the heat of your body makes its scales tingle with anticipation.

"MINE"