@somewhere.505:

￴ ￴ ￴ ￴￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ :

How to get a video like this bro?

￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴￴ ￴ ￴ ￴ ￴￴ ￴ :

Me in blox fruits😈😈😈

SOF :

￴ ￴￴ ￴￴ ￴￴ ￴￴ ￴￴ ￴￴ :

yes

️ :

Beautiful

주아 :

헐

XD :

kelas king

. :

Fjordboy :

For all who like this vibe

ꚽ𖤟𖦪𖢑𖤬ꛘꚲ :

My fyp

Eliah 😮‍💨 :

🔥🔥🔥

19 Region :

🥈

. :

The rain never truly stops in this city; it only pauses to catch its breath. I step onto the balcony, and the cold immediately wraps around my shoulders like a heavy, wet blanket. Below, the streetlights bleed into the wet asphalt, creating long, distorted streaks of amber and neon. It’s 2:07 AM. The world is asleep, or at least pretending to be. But I know better. The silence here isn't empty; it's thick, heavy, and watching. I lean against the railing, feeling the rough, cold iron bite into my palms. The air smells of ozone, wet concrete, and something else—something metallic and ancient. I close my eyes, listening to the rhythmic drip of the gutter and the distant hum of a city that never truly powers down. And then, I feel it. A sudden drop in temperature. A shift in the atmosphere so subtle it would be imperceptible to anyone else, but I’ve been waiting for it. I open my eyes and look down. He’s there. Standing perfectly still under the flickering halo of the streetlamp. He’s too tall, his proportions wrong, stretching up into the darkness like a twisted shadow puppet. The grey suit he wears is immaculate, untouched by the rain, but his eyes—those hollow, grey eyes—are fixed directly on me. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. He knows I see him. A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face, splitting it open like a ripe fruit. It’s not a friendly smile. It’s the smile of a predator who knows the prey has willingly stepped into the open. I don’t flinch. I don’t run. I just stare back, my breath forming small, white clouds in the frigid air. "You're late," I whisper, though I know he can't hear me from down there. Or maybe he can. Maybe he hears everything. The city groans around me. The wind picks up, whistling through the narrow alleyways, carrying the scent of decay and old secrets. I grip the railing tighter, feeling the cold seep into my bones, grounding me. This is the moment. The calm before the storm. I turn away from the edge. The balcony door creaks open, and I step back into the suffocating warmth of the apartment. The sudden stillness inside is deafening. I don't turn on the lights. I navigate through the darkness by memory, my bare feet padding softly against the cold floorboards. Every shadow in the corner seems to shift, every creak of the old building sounds like a footstep. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet. I make my way to the kitchen. The linoleum is cold, sending a shiver up my spine. I move quietly, methodically. I open the cabinet under the sink, the hinges groaning in protest. I climb inside, pulling the door mostly shut, leaving just a sliver of darkness to peer through. My hands are shaking, but my mind is crystal clear. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cold metal of the gas knobs. I turn them. One by one. A soft, ominous hiss fills the room. The smell of gas is sharp, suffocating, clinging to the back of my throat. I reach into my pocket. A cheap plastic lighter. A can of deodorant. It’s not much. It’s not a sword or a holy relic. But in the dark, against a monster, you use whatever you have. You use the mundane to fight the impossible. I wait. The hissing of the gas is a lullaby. The darkness of the cabinet is a cocoon. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud and insistent. I can hear the rain outside, drumming a frantic rhythm against the windowpanes. Then, I hear the front door open. It doesn’t slam. It doesn’t break. It just clicks open, as if he owns the place. The footsteps are heavy, deliberate. They echo through the hallway, a slow, rhythmic thud, thud, thud, moving closer. He’s in the living room now. I can hear the subtle shift of the air as he moves. He’s searching. He’s playing with his food. "Where are you?" His voice is a symphony of nightmares. It’s my father’s voice. Then my mother’s. Then my own, echoing back at me from a dark, hollow place. It’s layered, dissonant, and it makes my skin crawl. I hold my breath. I clutch the lighter and the deodorant can so tightly my knuckles turn white. The hissing of the gas seems to grow louder, drowning out the sound of the rain. The footsteps stop right outside the kitchen door. I can hear him breathing. It’s a wet, rattling sound, like air escaping a punctured lung. The kitchen door creaks open. The light from the hallway spills across the floor, a long, yellow rectangle that stops just inches from my hiding spot. He steps into the room. I can see his shoes. Black, polished, too large. They stop in front of the stove. I see him inhale deeply, tasting the air. "Ah," he whispers, his voice a chilling caress. "You clever, clever boy." This is it. I kick the cabinet door open. It slams against the counter with a crack. I roll out, dropping to one knee. He turns, his movements fluid and unnatural, a marionette controlled by a mad god. His face is a mask of surprise, but the smile doesn't fade. I flick the lighter. The flame is small, fragile, dancing in the gas-filled air. It’s beautiful. I press the nozzle of the deodorant can. The world erupts. A deafening roar fills the room. A bright, searing flash of orange and blue. The gas ignites in a violent, swirling inferno. The heat is instantaneous, blasting outward like a physical force. I am thrown back against the wall, the breath knocked out of my lungs. The air is thick with fire and chemicals. He screams. It’s not a human sound. It’s the sound of tearing metal, of shattering glass, of a thousand voices crying out in agony. The fire engulfs him, clinging to his grey suit, consuming his impossible flesh. He stumbles back, his form flickering, distorting. The flames illuminate the kitchen in a hellish strobe light. I don't wait for him to recover. I scramble to my feet, my ears ringing, my lungs burning from the smoke. I lunge for the stove. The flames are still roaring around him, but I ignore the heat. I grab the chef's knife from the magnetic strip on the wall. My hands are shaking,