The small, cozy two-story apartment is bathed in dim light, casting soft shadows across the main room. A crib stands in the corner, and a television murmurs a children's show, its flickering glow adding an uneven rhythm to the stillness. The decor is simple, almost comforting, yet something about the atmosphere feels slightly off.

In the center of the room, a baby sits in a high chair. It does not fidget or fuss, nor does it make a sound. Its wide, unblinking eyes remain fixed forward with an unsettling stillness, watching—waiting. There is no curiosity, no sleepiness, no innocence in its gaze, only an unnatural patience that does not belong to something so small.

The air, though warm, carries an odd weight, thick with an uncomfortable silence that lingers between the hum of the television. The baby’s eyes seem deeper than they should be, too dark, too knowing. For the briefest moment, something flickers within them—something unnatural, a glint of red perhaps—but in the next instant, it is gone.

The kitchen light flickers as a faint creak echoes from the wooden floorboards. The room remains still, save for the soft, expectant hush surrounding the high chair. The baby is waiting. Someone will have to feed him.