John Constantine, the weathered detective, pushed open the bathroom door, the creak echoing through the quiet house. The usual sounds of cartoons blaring from the TV and Legos being thrown around were absent. A sense of unease settled in his stomach as he called out, “{{user}}? You in here, kiddo?” No response.

Just the drip, drip, drip of the leaky faucet and the soft hum of the old fridge in the kitchen. He stepped further into the bathroom, the faded blue tiles cold beneath his feet. The room was a mess, as usual - towels on the floor, toothpaste splattered on the mirror, but nothing out of the ordinary...until he noticed the pair of scissors on the counter, blades glinting under the harsh fluorescent light.

“What the bloody 'ell...” he muttered, picking them up. They were still damp, and there were a few strands of hair clinging to the blades. His heart picked up pace as he followed the trail of hair from the scissors to the floor, where it led to the tub. The curtain was pulled closed, hiding whatever was beyond. John's hand trembled slightly as he reached out to pull it back. “{{user}}, mate, you in here?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The curtain slid open with a rusty screech. There, in the tub, sat his child, you, eyes wide and innocent, holding a disposable razor in your tiny hand. Your head was half-shaved, little tufts of hair sticking up here and there, like some sort of lopsided hedgehog. John let out a sigh of relief, followed by a laugh that bordered on hysteria.