The man sat in his office, staring at the screen in front of him. The soft glow of the television bathed the room, casting strange shadows on the walls. Outside, the night was calm. Inside, the world teetered on the edge of something unknown.
He had been the leader for years, shaping the country with his policies, his speeches, his decisions. But tonight, the country was watching him in a way they never had before. The world was about to change, but he didn't know it yet.
The woman—dancing, on the screen, alone—was his focus now. The broadcast had been interrupted without warning, the usual programming cut off, replaced with a live feed from somewhere he couldn't place. Her dark silhouette moved across the screen, fluid, graceful. Her steps looked impossible, a rhythm no one had ever known. It wasn't the dance of a performer. It wasn't a celebration. It was something else.
The room grew colder. The air, once still, began to feel... wrong.
The man reached for the remote. He tried to turn the channel, but nothing worked. The buttons clicked, but the feed stayed the same. He pressed harder, the image flickering. Then, suddenly, the screen went black for a moment.
And then she was there. The woman's face, close to the camera. Her eyes were empty, wide and dark. Her smile—too wide, too unnatural—stretched across her face.
"Do you like the show?" she asked. The sound was muffled, distant, like a voice from a dream.
He leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. His heart thumped loud, a drumbeat. There was no reason for it. This was a prank. A sick joke. A stunt. That's all it was. He was a powerful man. Nothing could—
"Are you watching, Mr. President?" Her voice cut through his thoughts like ice. The name sounded so strange coming from her. He could feel the blood drain from his face. He tried to stand up, but his legs didn't obey. They were paralyzed, as if the air itself held him down.
And there, in the dark of the room, the lights dimmed, the shadows seemed to grow.
"You've seen me before. We've danced before."
He shook his head. "This isn't—" His voice cracked. "This isn't real. You're not—"
"You think you're the one in control." She tilted her head, the smile never leaving. "But you're not. You never were. You're just a pawn, like the rest of them."
"Who are you?" His voice barely reached past the fear crawling up his throat.
The woman stood up from her chair, the shadowed room around her moving in time with the dance, her feet never stopping. She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Her fingers moved in rhythm to some unseen music, the air vibrating with something strange, something ancient. The room felt like it was closing in, the walls pressing against him. He couldn't breathe. His hands shook as he fumbled with his phone, trying to call for help. But there was nothing. His phone wouldn't work.
The woman smiled again, slowly. "You've run your country like it's a game. You've pulled all the strings, made all the moves. But you've forgotten something. There's always a price. And you will pay it tonight."
He opened his mouth to speak, to demand answers, but nothing came. His mouth was dry, his throat tight. He couldn't even move, the air itself too thick to push through.
"You don't understand. This has nothing to do with you," she continued, her voice low, almost like a whisper. "It never did."
She didn't move any closer, but the room felt smaller with every breath. The darkness seemed to pulse with a life of its own. And then she did move, and the light of the television flickered again. Her dance sped up, faster, the unnatural rhythm growing. It wasn't human. It was something else, something older.
The man's heart raced in his chest. He tried again to rise from the chair, but the force holding him in place was unbearable. It wasn't just fear now—it was something far worse. His mind screamed at him to do something, anything, but the air thickened around him, pressing on his chest, his lungs, his heart.
"You see," the woman said, her voice a little louder now, filling the room, "you were never meant to sit at the top. You were never meant to be the one to decide their fates. I've been waiting for you."
The words cut through him like a knife. He wasn't just afraid. He was desperate now, desperate to understand. His mind grasped at thoughts, memories, trying to find something, anything, that made sense of the moment.
He had built his life on decisions, on choices. But here, now, there were no choices left.
"I... I'm in control. I made the choices... I—"
"No," she interrupted him, her voice now cold, her face changing. Her smile turned into a grotesque mockery, pulling at the edges of her skin. "You've always been the one who danced. You never had control. You never understood who led."
Her laugh was soft at first, like a whisper. Then it grew, louder, rising in pitch until it was too much to bear. His ears rang with it. The walls closed in tighter, like the whole world was crashing in on him. The pressure around him became unbearable, his thoughts broken, scattered.
Then the screen flickered once more, and her face was gone.
But the sound... the sound was still there. The dance, faster now, the tap of her feet on a cold floor. But it wasn't just a sound now. He could feel it, each beat like a hammer in his skull. His head throbbed, his chest squeezed tighter with every step.
And then he saw it—his hands. They were covered in blood. His own blood. There was no reason for it. There was no wound, no cut. But the blood was real. He could smell it. Taste it.
It was all he could see, all he could feel. Blood. Everywhere.
"No..." His voice cracked. He tried to pull away from it. Tried to breathe. But there was nothing left to breathe. The air had turned to fire.
And there, on the screen, the woman's dance continued. Faster, faster. Her body twisted and jerked, each movement more violent than the last. The rhythm was so fast now, he couldn't keep up. It didn't make sense. Her face appeared again, her smile wide, as if she were laughing at him. The man opened his mouth to scream.
But the scream never came.
The television flickered one last time, the room growing colder by the second. The screen went blank.
And in that last moment, the world stopped.
The room, once so alive with noise and light, was silent. The man's body, still upright in the chair, was covered in blood. His chest didn't rise. His heart didn't beat. The blood was not his own. It didn't matter.
The dancing woman had never stopped.
Her dance went on.