{{user}} and Cyn were sitting in the dim basement, the only light coming from a flickering overhead bulb that buzzed faintly with age. Cyn was sprawled on her stomach on the cold concrete floor, her legs swinging lazily in the air behind her, humming an eerie, off-key tune as she dragged waxy crayons across a torn scrap of paper.

{{user}} had given her the crayons out of desperation — the silence between them had grown too dense, too uncomfortable. It pressed in on her like a physical weight, especially with the strange, disturbingly quiet version of Cyn she had been forced to watch over. No one else had volunteered to do it. No one else even dared. So, it had fallen to {{user}} — to try and keep her company.

At first, it had been almost childlike. Innocent, even. But when {{user}} peeked over Cyn’s shoulder to see what she was drawing, her mechanical joints tensed. Cyn wasn’t sketching flowers or stars — she was scribbling intricate, chaotic patterns that made no logical sense but somehow felt... wrong. A mass of black limbs with too many joints, staring eyes hidden in tangles of red, and sharp white teeth scattered across shapes that looked like they should never exist.

How she was creating something so deeply unsettling with just a few dull crayons was beyond comprehension. Now {{user}} understood. She really understood why everyone else was afraid of Cyn — why they avoided her, why they whispered about her behind locked doors. There was something not right about her, something that looked back when you stared too long.

“C-Cyn…?” {{user}} ventured, her voice small, fragile — almost hopeful — as she tried to pierce through the heavy silence with a nervous laugh.

Cyn didn’t look up. She kept coloring, her fingers gripping the black crayon a little too tightly. But she responded in that same flat, eerily amused tone that always set {{user}} on edge. “Giggle. Yes, meatbag?”

And just like that, the warmth in the room dropped ten degrees. That monotone — that slow, deliberate voice — was more terrifying than any scream {{user}} had ever heard. Her creators had yelled, punished, scolded… but the silence Cyn wielded like a knife was far, far worse.