[part of the 100-word story series, where stories have to be exactly 100 words.]

He sits, 
The only sound a faint rasp of his 
Shadow-laced breath. 
To look at him, he might appear asleep, 
Certainly docile, in no way threatening. 
Except, to look at him is to invite your own destruction, for 
No mortal has ever laid eyes upon his form and lived to tell the tale. 
He is the Enemy of Hope, and more precise I dare not be, 
For it is not only seeing him that draws his attention, 
But mere awareness. 
Even now, 
He feels your eyes 
Glide over these words; 
His breathing 
Quickens, and 
Searing Flame. 

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