Between a long yawn the kid paused and caught sight of a bubble drifting through the air. She watched it float closer until it was right in front of her face. With a slow pop, she ended its journey, feeling like a princess in her own story.

Then the smell hit.

Garlic—sharp and stale. Her nose wrinkled as she recoiled, eyes landing on a hooded man grinning at her. He looked expectant, like he wanted a pat on the head for his performance, the way she'd praise her mother for a bedtime story well told.

Instead, she ran.

The man pocketed the bubble blower and stepped into the lift.

---

Detective Roy Calhoun pulled open his apartment door and removed his hood.

"Kids these days have no respect for bullies."

The door opened to stagnant but disturbed air, like a breath held too long. The lights cut through the room with an unnatural sharpness, their glow neither warm nor cold. His fingers twitched at his side.

Nothing was out of place. The couch sat where it always did. The bookshelf leaned at its usual angle. But as he stepped forward, the floor groaned a fraction too late beneath his weight, like the room had been expecting someone else.

Then he saw it.

A thick case file, open on the kitchen table, waiting.

His name was on the top.

His breath slowed. The paper rasped under his fingertips as he turned the first page.

Victim: Roy Calhoun

Time of Death: 3:42 AM (Tonight.)

Cause: Exsanguination due to multiple incisions. Self-inflicted or assisted unknown.

The crime scene photos stared back at him. His apartment. His table. His body. Blood soaked into the grain of the wood, dark trails leading toward the bedroom. The television flickered in the background, frozen in static.

The details weren't just accurate. They were inevitable.

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Roy exhaled through his nose, a sharp, humorless breath. He traced the letters of his name with his thumb, muttering under his breath, "well that's new , R... O... Y... C... A... L... H... O... U... N... First time they got it right."

His phone vibrated. Unknown number.

He answered, voice steady. "Detective Calhoun. If this is about car warranties, I'd hold off—I might not be around to use them."

Silence. Then—his own voice, quieter, stretched thin.

"I gently advise you not to pull any of your usual shenanigans."

The call cut out.

Roy stood there, phone still in hand, staring at his reflection in the window. His own face. His own body. The familiarity of it pressed against his skin, cloying, like an old jacket a size too small.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if it was his skin at all.

And then he smiled a eerie long smile.

-----

The room seemed to contract around him; walls creaked, and the air grew dense, pressing against his chest. He staggered back, his breath shallow, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. The second hand stuttered, each tick echoing like a distant drumbeat.

A low hum filled the room, resonating through his bones. Jason's gaze snapped to the source—a faint glow emanating from beneath the closed bedroom door. His heart pounded in his ears, each beat urging him to move, to flee, yet his feet remained anchored to the floor.

The doorknob twisted slowly, a deliberate, agonizing motion. Jason's mouth went dry, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of darkness that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

From the shadows emerged a figure draped in a tattered cloak, its face obscured beneath a hood. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves wafted into the room, mingling with the metallic tang of Jason's fear.

"Who are you?" Jason's voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

The figure remained silent, gliding forward with an otherworldly grace. As it approached, the temperature plummeted, and Jason's breath formed ghostly plumes in the frigid air.

Without warning, the figure extended a skeletal hand, its fingers elongated and wrapped in translucent, papery skin. In its palm lay a small, intricately carved wooden box, the surface etched with symbols that seemed to writhe and shift under Jason's gaze.

Compelled by a force he couldn't name, Jason reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered above the box. The moment his fingertips brushed the surface, a jolt of energy surged through him, and the room dissolved into darkness.

When the world righted itself, Jason found himself standing in a vast, desolate landscape. The sky churned with storm clouds, and the air buzzed with static electricity. In the distance, he could make out the silhouette of a towering structure, its spires piercing the heavens.

Jason took a tentative step forward, the ground crunching beneath his feet. With each step, the wind howled louder, carrying with it whispers that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.

As he neared the structure, he recognized it—a cathedral, but twisted and malformed, as if plucked from a nightmare. The doors stood open, a dim light flickering within. Summoning every ounce of courage, Jason crossed the threshold.

Inside, the air was thick with incense and something more sinister. Pews lined the nave, occupied by figures cloaked in shadow, their heads bowed in silent reverence. At the altar stood a man, his back to the congregation, chanting in a language that resonated deep within Jason's core.

The man turned, and Jason's breath caught in his throat. There were no eyes, no nose, no eyebrows nor ears a blank face faced his direction , and a cruel smile nearly fitting jalf the face widened beyond.

"Welcome, Jason," the voice echoed, reverberating through the cavernous space. "We've been expecting you."

The congregation lifted their heads in unison, revealing faces devoid of features, smooth and blank like mannequins. A collective murmur rose, a dissonant hymn that set Jason's teeth on edge.

Panic surged, and Jason stumbled back, his mind racing. They advanced, each step measured, predatory.

"You can't escape destiny," the figure spoke transforming to form a proper figure. The congregation echoed the gesture, their featureless faces zoomed in towards Jason.

A blinding light erupted from the altar, engulfing Jason. He screamed, the sound swallowed by the brilliance.

When the light receded, Jason found himself back in his apartment, sprawled on the floor, drenched in sweat. The handprint on the wall had vanished, and the room was silent, save for the steady ticking of the clock.

Gasping for breath, Jason clutched his chest, his heart racing. The cathedral—it all felt disturbingly real. And the struggle ceased and a blankness took over.