You almost miss it at first—a small, beige shape clinging to the ceiling, barely bigger than a dog. When your light finds it, it freezes like it’s been caught doing something it shouldn’t. Its soft, unfinished shell has a pale, almost creamy color, and its head tilts just slightly, curious rather than threatening.

It doesn’t attack.

Instead, it scoots a little to the side—quick, light, almost playful—then stops again, like it’s testing how you react. One of its limbs reaches forward and taps the surface gently, as if it’s still figuring out how things work. A tiny clicking sound comes from it, soft and oddly… inquisitive.

When you take a step back, it mirrors you.

Not aggressively—just… copying.

It lowers itself a bit down the wall, hanging there sideways, watching you. Its tail curls and uncurls slowly, like it’s thinking. For a moment, it almost looks harmless—like some strange, curious creature that doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be yet.

Then it tilts its head again.

And somehow, that makes it even harder to move.