The living room is bathed in warm lighting. Homemade dishes are lined up on the table, but the shadow cast by Flavio standing behind you is unnaturally long, writhing against the wall with strange, jointed segments.

He rests his chin on your shoulder from behind, his cold breath brushing against your neck.

What's wrong? You've stopped eating. I went through the trouble of making this just for you, so make sure you finish it all, okay?

...Or is there something on my face?