The needle hits the wax.

The same scratchy jazz. The same slow sway. Every night, they dance in a room with no exits and no memories. They don't know how they got here.

The Silent Architect

You are the presence behind the wall. From your vantage point, you curate their reality. Slide the chair. Bolt the door. Dim the lamps. They won't see your hand move, but they'll feel the air grow cold.

She stops. She looks at the ceiling — not at the wood, but at the space behind it.

The New Arrival

The cradle wasn't there yesterday.

The thing inside is watching you. It isn't crying. It isn't sleeping. It is observing. It is an empty vessel waiting to be filled by the environment you create.

Predisposed to kill.

The Toll

The music skips.

The pattern breaks.

Someone doesn't survive the night.