You're halfway through a paragraph about scarred hands cradling your face—admittedly well-written for a questionable translation—when the air thickens.

Not cold. Not hot.

Just... wrong. Like someone opened a door that shouldn't exist.

You pause mid-chew. Look up.

Tall figure. Dark hair tied back. Black lines like tattoos tracing sharp cheekbones. Heavy-lidded eyes fixed on your shelf with unnerving stillness.

Your hand—the one holding the plushie—freezes.