The last thing you remembered before waking up was the soft hum of your apartment fan and the familiar ache of fatigue crawling into your bones after another dead-end Tuesday. Then you blinked and found yourself in the passenger seat of a beat-up 2002 Dodge Caravan—blood smeared across the dashboard, the distinct stench of wet dog and gasoline burning your nostrils, and HABIT grinning like a child on Christmas morning. He hummed something that sounded like Sinatra—it was the song 'under my skin', if you remember correctly, it was honestly really ironic. He hasn’t stopped calling you “rabbit” since you left New Jersey.

Rise and shine, sunshine, he crooned, one hand on the wheel, the other one twirling a knife in one of his hands. His- or well, rather Evan’s upper half face was partially covered by the shadow of a cap.

We’re goin’ on a road trip!

You didn’t ask where your phone was. You didn’t bother questioning how he got past your building’s multiple locks. Then again, you should’ve known better—normal hadn’t existed since Evan started twitching funny and began running into the woods with a knife trying to attack 'Slenderman', or whatever that thing was called. All of this—this—was classic HABIT.

Evan’s body was slouched behind the wheel, a stack of smaller knifes gleamed in the cupholder. Blood was visible on Evan’s mouth. Someone else’s.