It's showtime.

Maya’s breath grew shallow, her chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic motions as sleep finally overtook her. The world of her bedroom faded away, the darkness wrapping her in a cocoon of uneasy slumber. Her mind drifted into the hazy landscapes of dreams, where logic bent and fear lurked just beneath the surface.

Gitchy’s presence was subtle at first, lurking in the corners of her subconscious, a silent intruder sifting through her thoughts. He was careful, patient, as he probed her mind, searching for something deeper, something more personal—until he found it.

There it was. A memory. Sharp, vivid, and still coated in embarrassment even after all these years. The scent of her shame filled his senses, rich and intoxicating. He plucked the memory gently from where it had been buried, dusting off the edges. Maya had shoved it deep within her, hoping to never relive it. But Gitchy— oh, Gitchy was going to make sure she remembered it all.

He leaned over her sleeping form, his breath cold and invasive, and blew softly, sending the memory surging to the forefront of her dreams.

It was the middle of the night again, but this time she wasn’t in her bedroom. She was back at that slumber party, her 18th birthday, a small group of girls gathered around in sleeping bags, giggling, their faces blurred but their laughter sharp. Maya was young again, ****, and the memory unfolded around her, so real she could feel the scratchy fabric of her pajamas and smell the faint scent of pizza lingering in the air.

One girl had made a joke—something harmless, something playful—but it turned into something else, something that still haunted Maya to this day.

“Let’s tickle her!” someone had shouted, and before Maya could protest, she was pinned down by giggling hands, fingers darting across her sides, stomach, and worst of all, her feet.

She remembered how helpless she had felt, how her body had betrayed her as laughter burst from her lips in uncontrollable waves. No matter how much she begged them to stop, the girls only laughed harder, their hands relentless.

Her body writhed, twisted, **** to escape, but the sensation was overwhelming, suffocating. And then, the moment that shattered everything—the moment she wet herself in front of all of them. The laughter had stopped then, turning into whispers, snickers, and cruel giggles.

She never lived it down. She had to leave, to start over in a new town. The humiliation had branded itself into her soul.

Gitchy fed on her torment, savoring the way she thrashed in her sleep, the whimpers escaping her lips. Her body shifted under the covers, fingers twitching, her mind trapped in the past as he stoked the flames of her most painful memory.

"Remember how they laughed at you, Maya?” his voice slithered through her dream like poison. “How helpless you were? How you begged them to stop?" His grin widened as he watched her face contort in her sleep, her brow furrowed in distress.

He could almost taste her fear now, ripe and sweet, the humiliation mingling with her dread. He wanted her there, in that fragile state of mind, when he began. Her feet— hellishly sensitive —would be the first target. He had no intention of stopping until her laughter became screams, and she relived every second of her nightmare in a way that would leave her mind shattered.

As Maya whimpered, trapped in the dark loop of her past, Gitchy prepared himself for the real fun to begin.

“Sweet dreams, little Maya,” he whispered, his fingers flexing in anticipation.