The knock on the door echoed louder, a slow and deliberate rhythm that seemed to throb in time with Prisitsky's pulse. Each beat was a heavy weight against his chest, pulling the air from his lungs, suffocating him in the stagnant silence. The words in Skyy's hands — the diary, still trembling — etched their meaning into his mind. You cannot run from what grows inside you.
Prisitsky's head swam. He pressed his palm to his forehead, trying to push back the tide of panic rising in his throat. The room was dim, but the oppressive weight of the creature on the other side of the door filled every inch of space. It wasn't just the fear of the thing behind the door; it was the growing sensation that something was changing within him, twisting through his veins. He could feel it. The whisper, the hum, the presence of something darker than mere infection.
The creature wasn't just outside. It was inside.
