“You don’t understand, Doctor. These games… they’re alive.” Marcus’s trembling hands clutched the edge of the leather armchair, his knuckles white with strain. The psychiatrist across from him maintained her professional composure, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.

“Tell me more about when it started,” Dr. Evans said softly, pen poised above her notepad.

Marcus’s hollow eyes fixed on a point beyond the office walls. “Three weeks ago. I found this old console in my grandfather’s attic after he passed. The games… they were different. Hard, unyielding. Not like normal games at all.”

“Different how?”

“The characters would… speak to me. Not just scripted dialogue. They knew things. Personal things.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “About grandfather’s death.”

Dr. Evans leaned forward slightly. “What did they say?”

“They said… he didn’t die naturally. That I needed to know the truth.” Marcus’s breathing quickened. “At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then the images started appearing even when the console was off. Faces in mirrors. Shadows moving against walls. His face… oh god, his face…”

“Marcus, remember our breathing exercises-”

“NO!” He shot up from the chair. “You have to believe me! The games showed me everything. How grandfather discovered something he shouldn’t have. How they silenced him. And now they’re coming for me too!”

“Who is coming for you, Marcus?”

A sharp rap at the office door made them both jump. Dr. Evans’s assistant poked her head in. “Doctor, your next appointment is here.”

“Just a moment, Sarah.” She turned back to Marcus. “We’ll continue this next week. Please, take your medication as prescribed.”

Marcus backed toward the door, shaking his head. “There won’t be a next week. They’re almost here. I can feel them… getting closer…”

That night, in his small apartment, Marcus sat rigid before the old console. The screen flickered with impossible images - memories that weren’t his own, truths too terrible to face. His grandfather’s final moments played out in pixelated horror.

“Please,” he whispered to the empty room. “I don’t want to see anymore.”

The shadows in the corners began to move, coalescing into familiar shapes. His grandfather’s face formed in the darkness, mouth stretched in an unnatural grin.

“But grandson,” the voice crackled like static, “don’t you want to join our games?”

The next morning, police found Marcus’s body seated before the console, expression frozen in terror. The screen displayed only static, and a single line of text:

GAME OVER.

Dr. Evans attended the funeral. As she placed flowers on the fresh grave, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:

“Would you like to play?”

She looked up to see a shadow dart between the headstones - a shadow wearing her patient’s face.

Behind her, Marcus’s grandfather’s tombstone cracked into a crooked smile.