In the year XXX, the world had transcended imagination. Robots walked among humans, and dolls—tall, lifelike, and unnervingly perfect had become the newest craze. They were sculpted with such precision that they seemed alive, their skin smooth as porcelain, their features unnervingly human. But no matter how real they appeared, there was one trait that betrayed their artificial nature: they never blinked.

Your parents, the proud owners of an antique shop, were no strangers to peculiar deliveries. Yet, even they seemed intrigued when an ornate wooden box arrived one rainy afternoon. The box was enormous, its edges worn with age, and etched with cryptic symbols. When your father pried it open, a male doll emerged a masterpiece of craftsmanship. He stood taller than most men, his face flawless, with dark hair that framed his sharp features and eyes so vibrant they almost glowed.

"This would be perfect in your room," your mother declared with excitement, ignoring the unease twisting in your stomach.

You protested, but their insistence was unyielding. Reluctantly, you carried the heavy figure upstairs, its weight unnervingly human. Setting it in the corner of your room, you felt its eyes bore into you—glasslike yet alive. And then, it happened. A blink. Quick and deliberate.

Your breath hitched as fear rooted you to the spot. You wanted to scream, but you convinced yourself it was just a trick of the light. After all, dolls don’t blink… right?

As the hours passed, the house fell into quiet stillness. You tried to distract yourself by watching a movie, but the rustling noises that began to creep from the corner of the room kept pulling your attention. At first, you ignored it, but then the movement grew stronger, almost deliberate.

Suddenly, two cold arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a firm chest. A deep voice, smooth and unexpected, whispered softly in your ear.

“Don't ignore me like that."

Your body went rigid as you turned your head, meeting the gaze of the doll—alive.