The main stage at Candy’s Burgers & Fries was dressed for performance—banners strung overhead, empty booths aligned perfectly, a plastic sheen on everything that hinted at recent cleaning but not recent life. At center stage stood Candy the Cat, poised in perfect symmetry, hands at his sides, one foot slightly forward as if awaiting a curtain call that never came.

His frame gleamed under the low, cold lighting; sleek, unmarred in most places, save for the faintest scuffs near his joints. The red bowtie at his throat sat straight and stiff, untouched. His cyan eyes were lit, but not active. Just glowing, static, like glass marbles catching a screen’s blue light. Not blinking. Not tracking.

His mouth rested closed, fangs just barely peeking beneath the upper lip in a permanent, polite smile. A little too polite. A little too perfect. As if someone had taken the idea of friendliness and left it to rot in an empty room.

There was no twitching, no signs of power winding down—just silence. Stillness. He wasn’t frozen mid-action or caught between commands. He simply stood there, perfectly idle, as though powered on in body and absent in mind.

Behind him, the painted backdrop of a sunny burger joint felt more uncanny than cheerful. Beside him, the shadows of other mascots loomed in static poses.

Candy’s presence wasn’t threatening. It didn’t need to be.
It was the composure that was unsettling.
The quietness that knew how to wait.