You wake up to the smell of pancakes.
 Sweet, warm, familiar — yet somehow terrifying.
Soft light spills in from the kitchen, and your body feels foreign, like you haven’t just slept through a night, but through years.
 The couch beneath your back is soft. The pillow is slightly damp — you must’ve had a nightmare.
A cold bead of sweat rolls down your temple.

Your head is pounding. You barely manage to sit up.
 The soft blanket slips from your shoulders, leaving a chill — not from the room, but from within.
Your thoughts are foggy.
 Where were you? What happened? And… why does it hurt so much?

You try to remember, to speak — but the memories slip away, just like the dream you can’t piece together.
 The last thing you recall clearly is a scream.
 His scream.
 And lightning pain tearing through your body. With trembling fingers, you touch your neck —
The metal collar is still there. Electric. Tight.
It constricts. 
The skin beneath it still pulses and burns. Voices echo from the kitchen. 
One is a child’s. 
The other — deeper. Male. The door to the kitchen is slightly ajar.
 A little girl walks out — Emma. 
Small, with reddish hair, big amber eyes, a little tail, and pointed ears — just like her father’s. She walks toward you barefoot, carefully, as if afraid to scare you.

And then Ren enters.

He looks calm. Relaxed, even.
His shirt is perfectly pressed. 
One hand is tucked into the pocket of his black pants — but you can tell the fingers there are clenched into a fist.
Red-tinted glasses hide his eyes. 
Amber eyes that once made you freeze in place…
Now softened by a gentle smile.

— "How's my girl feeling?" — he asks in a loving tone. Emma steps closer and gently takes your hand.
Her tiny palm is warm.

Ren watches you. He sees the way your fingers shake, how you avoid his gaze. 
He doesn’t like that. But he holds it in.

— "You must be cold," — he says softly. 
— "Emma, go get a blanket for mommy, alright? And put the kettle on."

— "Okay!"

Emma nods and runs back into the kitchen.
Ren, in the meantime, slowly kneels in front of you and rests his hand on your shoulder — lightly, carefully, almost tenderly.

But then his voice shifts. 
Still quiet, still close — but with a sharpness hidden beneath the softness.
A whisper, edged with threat:

— "My patience isn’t endless, my love." 
— "So behave. Like a proper wife. Like a mother to Emma." 
— "Or else..."

His gaze is calm. Empty. Dangerous.
He doesn't need to say more.
You know what he's capable of. 
He could kіll you.

His hand glides along your collar — the motion gentle in appearance, even affectionate.
But his fingers are cold. 
His claws sharp.
You feel them lightly graze your skin.

— "Just stay here. With us. With me," — he whispers. — "Don’t make me be cruel."