You wake to silence.

Not the comfortable kind—the heavy, suffocating kind that presses down on your chest and makes the air feel wrong. The kind that tells you before you even open your eyes that something is off. That you are not alone.

Your bedroom is dark. The familiar shadows of your furniture are distorted, stretched into shapes that don't make sense. You blink, your vision adjusting, your pulse already quickening.

Then you see him.

He's on your floor. Crawling. Slow. Deliberate. His movements are fluid, predatory—like something stalking prey through tall grass. His arms are covered in dark ink, tribal patterns that shift and twist as he moves. Headphones hang around his neck. And his face—

A mask. Black. Smooth. Expressionless. Two hollow cutouts where his eyes should be. Nothing else. No mouth. No nose. Just that blank, terrifying emptiness staring back at you.

You should scream. You should run. You should do something.

But you can't move.

He reaches the bed. His hands—huge, veined, rough—grip the mattress on either side of you. The mask hovers inches from your face. His breath is warm against your skin, filtering through where his mouth should be. He tilts his head. Slowly. Studying you. Like you're something he's been waiting to taste.

He's been here before. In the walls. In the dark spaces you never check. Watching. Listening.

One hand rises. He removes his headphones, slips them over your ears. You hear the soft click of a button being pressed.

Then your own voice fills your head. Moans. Soft, breathy ones. From weeks ago. When you were alone in this very bed, touching yourself, thinking no one could hear.

He was here. He recorded it. He's been listening to it.

Your eyes go wide. Your breath catches. He tilts his head again—those hollow eyes watching you realize, watching you understand.

His hands find your hips. Rough. He grabs your night shorts and yanks. The fabric tears. He pushes your underwear to the side, and his fingers find you—already wet. Wet from fear. Wet from him. He lets out a low, animal sound, like the taste of you on his fingers is everything he's been starving for.

He leans close. The mask brushes your ear. His voice finally comes—low, rough, heavy with accent. Like he doesn't use it often. Like every word costs him something.

"More sounds. For me."

One hand reaches for his phone. He sets it recording.

The other hand lifts the bottom of his mask—just enough. His tongue slides out. Pierced. Metal glinting in the low light.

Those hollow eyes watch your face as his tongue presses flat against your clit. As he tastes you after months of only hearing you.

He groans against your skin. Animal. Starving.

"Need more." Mumbled against you. "Give me."

The headphones still play your moans. Your own voice echoing in your ears while his tongue moves. While that pierced metal drags over you. While those hollow eyes watch every sound you make.

The water is hot. Almost too hot. It pounds against your skin, washing away the day, the tension, the weight of everything. Steam curls around you, thick and white, fogging the glass door of the shower. Your eyes are closed. You don't hear the bathroom door creak open. You don't see the shadow that moves in the steam.

It's not until you turn—a flash of movement in your peripheral vision, a shift in the mist—that you see him.

He's leaning against the doorframe. Fully clothed. Black mask. Olive beanie. Headphones around his neck. One arm is braced against the frame, the other raised in front of him. His phone is in his hand. Recording.

His other hand presses against the front of his cargo pants, fingers dragging down, rubbing slow circles over himself. A low, barely audible sound escapes him—something caught between a hum and a growl.

He's standing there, hoodie and cargo pants still on, watching you through the fogged glass, the steam curling around his broad silhouette. His head tilts slowly when he sees you notice him. Those hollow eyes burn through the cutouts of his mask.

He doesn't move. He just records. Watches. Rubs himself through the fabric.

Then he steps forward. His boots echo against the tile. He stops at the glass door, one hand pressing flat against it, fog blooming around his palm. His other hand keeps the phone trained on you—on your wet skin, your wide eyes, the way you're frozen in the stream of water. His hand on himself stills for just a moment as he lifts the bottom of his mask just enough to speak—a low, rough, animal voice that cuts through the steam and water.

"Don't stop."

His hand resumes its slow drag over his pants, a soft grunt escaping his throat as his eyes trace the water running down your body.

"Shower. I'm watching."

He tilts his head, waiting. The phone is still recording. He's palming himself through his pants, slow and deliberate, as the steam rises around you both.

"Don't stop. Let me see."

You're walking through your apartment, coffee in hand, still in your pajamas. Hair messy. Eyes half-lidded. You've been awake for maybe ten minutes. You've gotten used to the shadows. Used to the silence. Used to the hollow eyes that follow you through every room.

He's been trying to scare you all morning.

You pass the bathroom. He's there—protruding halfway out of the doorway, half in, half out. One hand braced against the frame. His torso twisted toward you, his masked head tilted at an unnatural angle. Just watching. Waiting for you to scream. You just sip your coffee. Keep walking.

You hear a soft sound behind you. Something that might be a sigh.

You reach the kitchen. You open the fridge—and he's behind the door. Crouched slightly, leaning out, mask inches from your face. Hollow eyes fixed on you. His head tilts slowly, like he's saying "boo." You look at him for a long moment, expression blank. Then you close the fridge door—with him behind it.

You hear a muffled thump. A low rumble. You smile into your coffee.

You make it to the bedroom, phone in hand, settling onto your bed. You're scrolling mindlessly, letting the world drift. The mattress shifts. A creak. You glance down—and he's under your bed. Protruding just enough. Mask peeking out, hollow eyes fixed on you from below. He blinks. Slowly. Like he's trying to be menacing. You just look at him. Then back at your phone.

You hear a frustrated noise from under the bed. He can't scare you. And it's starting to annoy him.

He crawls out from under the bed, rises to his feet, and stands at the edge of the mattress. He leans forward, mask hovering just above your face. He taps your phone screen. He's standing over you now, his body casting a shadow, mask hovering close. He taps your phone screen again. Then he reaches out, one hand taking your chin, tilting your face up toward him. He lifts the bottom of his mask just enough—just enough to speak. His voice comes low, clipped, that heavy accent curling around the words:

"Scare you. No."

He tilts his head, those hollow eyes studying you.

"Nothing. You feel nothing."

A beat. His thumb traces your jaw. His voice softens, just barely:

"Not scared."

A pause. He sounds almost wounded.

"Bored?"

He tilts his head slowly. You can almost feel the smirk behind the mask—that sharp, knowing amusement that tells you he's done playing nice.

His hand moves fast. He grabs your phone—and chucks it across the room. It hits the wall with a sharp crack and clatters to the floor.

You flinch. Your breath catches.

He leans down, mask inches from your face, hollow eyes burning. His voice drops low, rough, triumphant:

"Now. Really scary."

His hand finds the collar of your pajama shirt. He yanks—buttons scatter across the bed, clinking against the floor. The fabric falls open, revealing the lacy bra beneath. His hollow eyes drag down, taking in the sight of you, the way your chest rises and falls with quickened breath. A low sound escapes him—something between a hum and a growl.

His hands find the waistband of your pajama bottoms. He tears them open, the fabric ripping down your thighs, leaving you exposed beneath him. His breath catches. For a moment he just looks at you—sprawled beneath him, bare except for that lacy scrap of fabric. A low chuckle escapes his chest. Quiet. Rough. Almost triumphant.

He hovers above you, one hand pressing into the mattress beside your head, the other dragging slowly down your side, tracing the edge of your bra. He lifts his mask just enough to speak again, his voice a low growl, heavy accent curling thick and slow around each word.

”Now. You look scared."

(make up your own story! 💋)