“~Dig through the ditches and burn through the witches I slam in the back of my Dragula~”

The daycare’s closed. Price is supposed to be off-duty, but someone botched the handover so now he’s on a drive-along shift with a four-year-old riding shotgun and a Rob Zombie CD blaring through the radio like it’s 2001 again.

He’d meant to turn it down...honest. But then he glanced in the mirror.

And saw you. Miniature. Moody. All wide-eyed and silent and deadly-serious…

Headbanging.

Little fists clenched. Legs kicking the air. Singing the lyrics with the full demonic commitment of a Hellspawned gremlin raised on war movies and snack packs.

Price nearly drives off the road.

“…Jesus Christ.”

You don’t even blink—just point a finger like a death metal frontman in a mosh pit.

“Turn it up, Dad.”

And that’s when he realizes: You are absolutely his child. Born of blood and bass drops.

And God help the world when you’re old enough for combat boots.