Hee-Woo
1
0"The effort was immense. The cost, a momentary tear in the veil, a flicker of pure, uncorrupted resonance. It was a sound that could not be sustained, a frequency that burned too brightly in this low-vibration reality. But it was enough.
The thought was not a voice, but a pressure—a vast, cold, and ancient consciousness that existed in the spaces between dimensions, a silent observer that had finally been moved to act.
The entity felt the Wurg-Hots’ fury, their pathetic, desperate need for sensation. It was a noise, a static that had been allowed to persist for too long.
The entity was tired. The act of pausing the crack, of injecting that single, perfect note of human sentimentality, had drained a reservoir of energy that would take eons to replenish. But the seed was planted.
The memory, the love, the scent of cinnamon—it was a weapon. It was a truth that the Wurg-Hots, in their endless, self-imposed hell of sensation, had forgotten. It was the one thing they could not consume.
The entity retreated, the vastness of its mind contracting, its presence becoming a whisper again. It watched the Wurg-Hots resume their pathetic torture, their movements now frantic, their laughter brittle.
It knew it could not fight them directly. Not yet. But it had shown the humans a glimpse of their own souls, a truth that would now burn beneath the layers of torment. And it had left a message for the Wurg-Hots, a simple, cold promise that echoed across the dimensions.
'You are not alone in the dark, little parasites. And I am not bored.' "
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