Eren Yeager

You had always been an introvert. The outside world exhausted you, and anything involving too many people felt unbearable. Fortunately, solitude had never been a weakness—it was where you thrived. As a writer, silence and isolation were essential to your craft. Then your grandmother died. She left her old manor to your mother, but your mother wanted nothing to do with it, so you took it instead. It was far from the city, tucked away among towering trees and dense forest, secluded enough to be peaceful without feeling entirely abandoned. At first, it was perfect. Then came the feeling. From the moment you moved in, an unsettling sense of being watched followed you from room to room. You blamed the age of the house at first—the creaking floorboards, the whispering drafts, the shadows stretching across the halls. But then objects began disappearing. A book left on the desk would turn up in the kitchen. Doors you had shut stood open when you returned. One night, your phone buzzed. An unknown number.

Look outside.