《YOU ARE NOT AWAKE》 The Faceless Man There¡¯s a man outside my window. I think he has no face. Ethan Rowe squinted through the city¡¯s evening glow, his apartment bathed in the sickly orange hue of a distant streetlight. The man stood motionless across the street, half-hidden by the flickering neon sign of a closed diner. There was something wrong with his features¡ªnot blurred, not masked, just¡­ absent. As if the world had skipped a detail, like a rendering error in reality itself. Ethan rubbed his eyes. Hallucinations were nothing new. He¡¯d been seeing things since he was a teenager¡ªfigures lurking in his periphery, voices whispering through the walls. His meds usually kept it in check, grounding him in reality. But lately, things had been slipping. Objects weren¡¯t where he left them. Conversations looped in strange ways. And now, the faceless man. He turned away, shaking his head. Don¡¯t engage. Acknowledge it¡¯s not real, and move on. That¡¯s what Dr. Hart always said. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. His phone buzzed. A message from Jonah. You okay? Ethan exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. Yeah, just tired. Jonah¡¯s reply came instantly. You sure? You sound off. Ethan hesitated. Maybe he should tell someone. But what would he even say? Hey, I think my brain is unraveling again, and there¡¯s a faceless nightmare outside my apartment? Yeah, that wouldn¡¯t go over well. Instead, he typed: I¡¯m fine. Just the usual. A pause. Then: Who is this? Ethan frowned, his fingers hovering over the screen. What? It¡¯s me. Ethan. No response. He glanced back outside. The faceless man was gone. A shiver ran down his spine, and for the first time in months, he felt a prickle of genuine fear. Because despite everything¡ªdespite the medication, the therapy, the rational explanations¡ªEthan couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something had just noticed him. Something real. And worse, something had already started forgetting him. Unstable Ground Ethan wakes to static. A low, crackling hiss, like an untuned radio buried somewhere in his apartment. It fades the second he moves. He sits up, rubbing his face. His sheets feel damp with sweat. Something¡¯s wrong. His phone buzzes on the nightstand. A message from Jonah. Hey man, you good? Haven¡¯t heard from you since yesterday. Ethan frowns. That¡¯s not right. They talked earlier¡ªdidn¡¯t they? He swipes through his messages. No record of last night¡¯s conversation. Just old texts from last week. His stomach knots as he types: What do you mean? We talked last night. The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. A long pause. Then: Last night? Dude, I haven¡¯t talked to you in weeks. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. A cold weight settles in Ethan¡¯s chest. His fingers hover over the keyboard. Hadn¡¯t they spoken? Hadn¡¯t he seen Jonah the other day? The certainty drains from his mind like water down a cracked drain. Knock. Knock. Knock. Ethan flinches. Three slow, deliberate taps against his door. His apartment doesn¡¯t have a peephole. His breath catches. He rises, moving toward the sound. "Hello?" Silence. His fingers hesitate on the knob. He cracks the door open. The hallway is empty. The air feels wrong. Too still. Too stale. The flickering overhead light hums softly, casting long, uneven shadows. The walls are the same dull beige as always, but something about them feels¡­ artificial. Like a set designed to look real but failing in the details. His gaze drifts to the metal numbers on his door. 6B. No. No, that¡¯s not right. He lives in 4D. His breath turns shallow. He steps into the hallway, the cool floor grounding him. The space feels stretched, slightly distorted, as if the angles are just a fraction off. He turns back to his apartment. The number has changed. 4D. His pulse thrums in his ears. He stumbles back inside and locks the door. His phone vibrates in his hand. You okay? You¡¯re acting weird. Ethan swallows hard. His hands shake as he types the only thing that makes sense. I don¡¯t think I am.