I woke up dangling from strings, my limbs not my own. Someone out there is pulling them, guiding me across this strange, shifting stage.
The lights shine bright, the curtains rise, and I dance—but I can feel him watching. The Puppeteer. He laughs when I fall. He mocks me when I pause.
But I think I’m not the only one being watched.
The audience… the set… the shadows… they all have eyes.
And the scariest part?
Sometimes, I feel like I’m not just the puppet. I might be something more.
Or maybe something worse.
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