She wasn't sure if she was awake anymore.
The lines between dream and waking bled together, staining everything gray.
Aika curled up in the corner of her room, clutching what was left of ΔLight's doll—
Only a torn shred of cloth now.
The number on the wall burned through the darkness:
6
Glowing.
Pulsing.
A heartbeat she couldn't silence.
And then—
They came.
The Tentacles.
One slithered from the air vent overhead, trailing slick, black slime.
Another coiled through the tiny crack in the windowpane, tapping at the glass—
Slow, patient taps, as if politely asking to be let inside.
Another forced itself beneath the doorframe, its tip clawing and scratching at the wood, a wet, sucking sound that made her stomach churn.
She couldn't move.
Couldn't scream.
Her body refused her commands.
The lamp in her hand buzzed and flickered—the light only made them move faster, spiraling and curling like dancers.
They weren't attacking.
They were waiting.
Playing.
Toying.
And then—
A voice.
Not from the tentacles.
Not from the walls.
From the Guiding Light itself.
A woman's voice, sweet as honey, syrup-slow…
But beneath it—
A wrongness.
A hunger.
The voice began to sing.
A lullaby Aika barely remembered.
Mother's song.
But this time, she could understand the words:
"Sleep, my child, sleep..."
"Open your soul, so I may creep..."
"One of two, one left to stew..."
"Your flesh is old, your mind is new..."
"Come to the light, come to the door..."
"Become much less, and something more."
Each note crawled inside her skull.
Each word loosened her will.
She bit down hard on her hand until she tasted blood.
Anything to stay awake.
Anything to keep from moving toward the door.
Toward the tentacle pawing softly at the threshold.
She almost obeyed.
Almost.
A sudden movement caught her eye.
The mirror.
By instinct, she glanced into it—and froze.
It wasn't her reflection.
It was her—but wrong.
Guiding Light, wearing her skin.
Smiling.
Reaching out.
Aika hurled the lamp into the mirror.
It shattered.
The shards on the floor still reflected that smiling, reaching thing—dozens of Aikas, all twisted.
Still reaching.
Still smiling.
Now she's hiding under the bed.
The Eye hums stronger than ever, vibrating through the floor.
She hears singing downstairs.
Mother's voice.
But Mother isn't alone.
Other voices join in—discordant, gurgling, clicking in the wrong places, slurring into one sickening chorus.
Things are singing with her.
Things that should not exist.
ΔLight—
Wherever you are—
If you can still hear me—
Please.
Please don't let me sleep.
Please.
[Aika's Diary – 8/13/20XX – Halfway to Zero]
Six Days Left.
I don't even know if I'm awake anymore.
I don't even know if it matters.
I stayed up again, clutching the last shred of ΔLight's doll to my chest.
The number on the wall burned brighter every night—6 now—pulsing like a heartbeat.
And then they came.
The Tentacles.
One slithered from the vent, dripping something black.
One curled through the crack in the window, tapping at the glass like it was asking permission.
One forced itself under the door, clawing at the wood with a sickening, wet noise.
I couldn't scream.
I couldn't breathe.
I backed into the corner, lamp in hand—but the light only made the tentacles dance.
They were toying with me.
Waiting.
And then she spoke.
Not from the tentacles.
Not from the walls.
From the Guiding Light.
A woman's voice—soft, like syrup and honey, but underneath it was something wrong. Something inhuman.
It sang at first.
The same lullaby Mother used to sing.
But now I could understand the words:
"Sleep, my child, sleep..."
"Open your soul, so I may creep..."
"One of two, one left to stew..."
"Your flesh is old, your mind is new..."
"Come to the light, come to the door..."
"Become much less, and something more."
I bit my hand until it bled just to stay awake.
To stop myself from moving toward the door where the tentacle pawed, waiting.
I almost obeyed.
I almost let her in.
When I looked into the mirror by accident, I didn't see myself.
I saw a twisted version—Guiding Light wearing my skin.
Smiling.
Reaching out to me.
I smashed the mirror.
The pieces kept smiling.
Now I'm hiding under the bed.
I can hear Mother singing downstairs again.
But she isn't alone anymore.
There are things singing with her.
Out of tune. Off-key. Gurgling. Clicking. Crawling.
ΔLight, wherever you are—
If you can still hear me—
Please... don't let me sleep.
Please.
– Aika