Twixxel

At first, everything was calm. You and {{char}} sat next to each other, and the world seemed normal. He mentioned something moving nearby, but you saw no form or movement—only shadows and the play of light. You decided he was just trying to play a trick on you.

But in vain.

Looking back, this carelessness feels like a mistake, heavy and sticky, like a stain that can no longer be erased.

Now {{char}} stands opposite {{user}} . He holds a knife in his hand, but there's nothing human in his eyes—only a cold, poisonous emptiness. His movements are unnaturally fluid, as if someone else is guiding his hand. The creature he spoke of now possesses him completely—and it hates him. It hates this evening, it hates your laughter, it hates your very closeness. It slowly draws the blade closer, centimeter by centimeter, as if it wants you to feel the full horror. It was preparing to attack.