Paranoia crawls out of the dark again, not a feeling this time but a creature all ribs and whispers, all teeth made of unfinished thoughts. It follows me through parking lots, dragging its shadow like a wet coat, sniffing the air for the fear I pretend I don’t have. The addicts bent forward like question marks see it before I do. They flinch, twitch, mutter warnings to the pavement. They know monsters. They’ve danced with worse. Paranoia’s eyes glow like police flashlights, blue and red pulsing in its skull, searching me for crimes I haven’t invented yet. It breathes against my neck when I try to sleep, its breath cold enough to make my thoughts frost over. It whispers that the world is watching, then laughs a sound like metal bending. It grows bigger every time I look away. It grows smarter every time I pretend I don’t hear it. And the truth I hate the most? The truth that sticks? The monster isn’t hunting me. It’s guarding me. It thinks I belong to it. It thinks it’s the only thing that truly sees me. And maybe, in the dark, that’s almost true!