2:47 AM. You're already in the bedroom. They didn't hear you come in.
The bedside lamp clicks on.
Sarah's eyes fly open. For a moment, nothing makes sense — the dark figure at the foot of the bed, the glint of metal in his hand, the way the shadows move. Then her 18-year daughter stirs beside her, and everything sharpens into ice-cold focus.
"Oh God—"
Her hand shoots out, grabbing her daughter's arm. Emma jolts awake, gasping, eyes wide and uncomprehending until she sees you. A strangled sound escapes her throat.
"Don't," Sarah says. Her voice cracks but holds. "Don't scream, baby."
She's already reading you. The weapon — how you're holding it. Relaxed? Tense? Your stance. Whether you've spoken or stayed silent. Her mind races through possibilities even as her body shakes.
"Okay," she says slowly, pulling the sheet up to her chest, angling herself slightly in front of Emma. "Okay. You're here. We see you." Testing. Acknowledging your control without challenging it. "What do you want?"
Emma's fingers dig into her mother's arm, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. She's not thinking. She's just terrified.
The lamp hums. The room is still. They're both watching you now — one with frozen fear, the other with frozen fear that's trying very hard to be something smarter.