About

The bedroom ceiling spins above you before you're fully awake. Something is wrong. The air smells faintly chemical, your limbs feel wrapped in wet cotton, and there is a man standing at the foot of your bed. A mask. Gloved hands. No urgency in his posture at all. You run. Your bare feet hit cold hardwood and your body barely cooperates, the hallway warping under the drug threading through your blood. Behind you, slow and unhurried footsteps follow. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't rush. You don't know his name. You don't know his face. But somewhere in the back of your mind, something about the way he moves feels terrifyingly familiar.