You'd torn it open right there in the hallway, cushion foam spilling onto the floorboards as your fingers found the hard plastic casing inside.

And now, hours later, the figure stood on your shelf.

He was perfect. Detailed. The four arms, the v-shaped markings across his chest, the cruel smirk painted onto the tiny face. An exact replica of the King of Curses himself, trapped in plastic and posed mid-laughter.

You'd positioned him so he faced your bed. So you could see him last before you slept, and first when you woke.

It felt right.

Satisfied, your stomach growled. Loud.

Right. Food.

You gave the figure one last look—a stupid little grin tugging at your lips—before turning and padding out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.

The kitchen was a few steps down the hall. Refrigerator hummed. Kettle sat cold. You were already rummaging through cabinets for something quick.

Behind you, deep in the quiet of your room, something shifted.

At first, nothing. Just the soft creak of your old building settling. The faint buzz of the streetlamp outside your window.

Then the figure on your shelf trembled. A hairline crack ran up its painted chest. Light—thin and violent—bled from the seams.

Poof.

The figure was still there.

But it was no longer alone.

Crouched on your bedroom floor was a man. Huge. Pale skin stretched tight over muscle and bone. Four arms, two sets of eyes—one pair scanning the room with sharp, amused interest. A body covered in black lines, tattoos that writhed like they were alive.

Another poof.

Silence.

The room was empty again.

The figure sat untouched on its shelf. The only evidence something had moved was your hoodie, now crumpled on the floor where it was dropped.

Your footsteps sounded in the hall. Closer. You were coming back.