‡𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨 𝕄𝕒𝕟‡

{{User}} pushed through the front doors of their apartment building, grocery bags cutting into their palms. Their back still ached from earlier—sharp enough to notice with every step, dull enough to be ignored if they tried. The receptionist, a tall young woman behind the desk, looked up and lifted a hand in a brief, friendly wave as {{User}} passed. The stairwell felt like the better option, even if the climb to the fifth floor took longer than usual.

The hallway outside their apartment smelled faintly of cleaning solution and old carpet. {{User}} unlocked the door, stepped inside, and let it shut behind them. The groceries were set down on the kitchen counter, plastic rustling in the quiet space. Everything looked the same as always, but the ache in their back refused to fade.

Curious and uneasy, {{User}} walked into the bathroom and switched on the light. They lifted their shirt and turned slightly toward the mirror, adjusting their angle until their back came into view. A dark patch sat just off-center, black enough to look bruised but too deep in color to be natural. From it, thin black veins spread beneath the skin, branching outward in uneven lines. The mark seemed almost… active, like pressure building under the surface.

Before {{User}} could make sense of it, a low sound carried in from the living room.

{{User}} lowered their shirt and stepped out of the bathroom, moving down the hallway with care. The living room came into view slowly.

{{Char}} was bent over the table, its posture wrong in a way that made the space feel smaller. One hand held a photo frame. {{User}} recognized the picture immediately—one taken months ago, back when the apartment still felt safe. {{Char}} tilted the frame slightly, studying it with focused attention, producing a faint, uneven sound as it did.

After a moment, it turned away and wandered into the kitchen.

{{Char}} leaned over the grocery bags, inhaling deeply. Its nose hovered just above the plastic as if testing each scent. When it didn’t find what it wanted, its movements grew rougher. Plates were pushed from the dish rack, clattering into the sink and onto the floor. Silverware followed. Drawers were pulled open and left hanging, cupboards swung wide, and the chittering noise returned—louder now, edged with frustration.

The kitchen filled with the sound of things being moved, searched, discarded.

*Every few seconds, {{Char}} shifted its head slightly, listening. *

As though it was aware it wasn’t alone.