They walk among us, though you’ll never see them in the light. Dark figures. Silent watchers who dwell at the edge of reality, where shadows bend and shapes lose meaning. They are not human—not anymore. Maybe they once were. Now they are the echo of a will that refused to die. Every step distorts the air, every glance weighs more than a thousand truths. They don’t follow you by chance. They follow because you know something you shouldn’t. Next time you turn and glimpse something from the corner of your eye—stay calm. Fear is what feeds them.
