SKINWALKER

You became someone I didn't recognize. Your voice turned hollow, like a fleeting memory. Your eyes used to offer love, but now they only express emptiness. There is something wrong with you; your face seems as if it has been stretched over stolen bones. What have you become? The air around you feels heavy, oppressive, as if it carries the weight of secrets too dark to name. The way you move isn't right—it's too sharp, too unnatural, like you’re trying to mimic being human but don’t quite know how. It makes my skin crawl. Your words are distorted, as though they’re not your own. I’m afraid you’re a mockery of the person I knew, a vessel for something sinister. I want to scream, to run, but my legs won’t move. I’ve heard stories about creatures like this—you’ve become a skinwalker, haven’t you? A predator cloaked in a memory, a thief of faces, a nightmare brought to life. And now I wonder: was it always you, or did this monster take your place long ago?