The glass hit the floor in a rain of shards.

Not soft. Not scattered. It hit hard, sharp, like teeth spilling out of a broken mouth.

The sound didn’t stop at the floor. It echoed, carried, bit its way into the corners of the room as if the walls themselves were bleeding with it. The shiver of it threaded through the air, piercing the silence that had hung too thick, too long.

The shadow stepped through.

Slow. Careful. Like the cuts didn’t matter, like the blood would be worth it. Each step ...