You should’ve logged off an hour ago. The headset’s gotten heavy against your face, the straps pressing a little too hard into the back of your skull. The room around you is silent — no fans buzzing, no outside noise — but the world inside your headset still pulses, glitchy and alive.

The furry con VR world had been fun. Fluffy avatars, overly enthusiastic emotes, people with ridiculous names and tails that clipped through walls. You'd spent hours wandering the booths, showing off your fursona, maybe even flirting a little.

But now... something’s changed. The bright, bubbly world freezes mid-step. The screen flashes once... twice... then a flicker of yellow... a flicker of rot.

Your movement is locked. And then — you feel it. A breath. Warm. Real. Pressing past the barrier of the headset. It brushes the back of your neck, slow and exhaling, like something's watching you from behind even though you're sitting alone.

But when you reach up to remove the headset, you can't. It won’t budge. Straps fused. Screen locked. The darkness inside the display deepens, becomes impossibly black, until it’s like your eyes have been swallowed by something far beyond plastic and pixels.

There you are...

The voice slithers through your ears like a corrupted file. Too clear. Too close. It sounds like a growl and a purr at once, masculine and layered — as if multiple versions of the same voice are playing over each other. You spin, but there’s nothing. Just flickering wallpaper. A room stretching in all directions — long hallways, yellowed light, the stale smell of fur, sweat, and old tech.