The afternoon sun streamed through the dining room window, casting a soft glow over the table. The scent of freshly baked cake filled the air, warm and sweet, like every breath carried a touch of celebration. The ticking of the wall clock was barely noticeable amidst the joyful atmosphere, making time seem to fly by. 

George Russell stood by the table, setting the plates with a smile that he couldn't hide. "Ethan, come on! It's your big day!" he called out, his eyes gleaming with a father’s pride and affection. 

"That's right, honey, today is May 1st, your 16th birthday," Margaret Russell said softly, standing behind Ethan and gently placing a hand on his shoulder. Her voice was as tender as always, her eyes shining with what seemed like endless motherly love and joy.

Ethan smiled as he approached the table, feeling relaxed and happy. He sat down, looking at the cake in front of him, the candlelight flickering and reflecting off his face. "Alright, time to make a wish," he said, a hint of anticipation glimmering in his eyes. The room was filled with a warmth that only family could bring. 

"Make your wish, darling," Margaret whispered, her gaze full of expectation. 

Ethan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and silently made a wish. The cozy atmosphere surrounded him, the candlelight blurring into a haze before his eyes. The room was so still that the only sounds were his own breath and heartbeat, a moment of tranquility that felt like it had been waiting for this exact instant. 

Just as he prepared to blow out the candles, a sharp pain tore through his neck, as if a razor-sharp blade had sliced through. His eyes flew open, but before he could even register what was happening, the agony spread through his body like a tidal wave. He tried to cry out, but something was choking him, making it impossible to breathe. 

Through the blur of pain, he saw his mother still standing beside him, smiling in that same familiar way. But beneath that smile, there was something chilling, something cold and merciless. Her hand gripped a knife, the blade buried deep in his neck, warm blood gushing from the wound, staining her fingers red. 

"Don't be afraid, darling. It’ll be over soon," Margaret said, her voice still as gentle as ever, as though the knife in her hand was nothing more than a kitchen utensil. Her eyes, once filled with love, now gleamed with a terrifying indifference. 

This can't be real... it's just a nightmare... Ethan's mind screamed, desperately trying to convince himself it was all an illusion. But the searing pain in his neck, the warmth of the blood, and the fading grip on consciousness were all too real—real enough to drown him in despair. 

Standing off to the side, George Russell watched with a look of fervor in his eyes, his voice trembling with long-suppressed excitement. "Finally... we've waited for this day." A grin stretched across his face, one that spoke of hunger, as though he were about to enjoy a long-awaited feast. 

Ethan’s vision blurred, the world around him growing darker as the taste of blood filled his mouth. His consciousness ebbed away, slipping into the void as if his very life was being drained. 

But then, just when he thought it was all over, the darkness vanished. 

Ethan’s eyes snapped open. He found himself back at the familiar dining table, his heart pounding in his chest as though the pain still lingered in his neck. His mother’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder again, her smile sending a wave of unease through him, as if something far more sinister lay beneath it. 

"Ethan, make a wish, darling," Margaret's soft voice came again, sending a jolt of fear through his body. He instinctively touched his neck—intact, no wound in sight. But the terror, the pain... was it all just a dream? 

Everything had been too real. 

His hands trembled as fear clung to him like a shadow. "What... what’s happening? I thought... I died," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. 

The air grew thick, his breathing shallow. His mind raced with questions—why had everything reset? Was it really just an illusion? 

His eyes darted to the knife on the table—the same one that had pierced his throat. Why was it back? And more importantly, why had his mother tried to kill him? 

Ethan’s thoughts spiraled as he stood abruptly, grabbing the knife off the table. His voice shook as he spoke. "I’ll cut the cake." 

George’s gaze lingered on Ethan, his tone disturbingly casual. "Sixteen... such a perfect age, in every way." His lips curled into a faint smile, and for a moment, his eyes glimmered with the predatory gleam of someone waiting for the hunt to begin. 

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Ethan’s stomach twisted with dread. His father’s words didn’t sound like a birthday blessing—they felt like a hunter savoring the anticipation of a kill. He glanced between his parents, suspicion and terror clouding his mind. 

Gripping the knife tightly, he forced himself to stay calm. His voice trembled. "What are you… really?" 

Margaret’s brows knitted together slightly, her hands clasped nervously, but her voice remained soothing. "Ethan, sweetie, what’s wrong? It’s your birthday, remember?" 

The concern in her voice seemed so genuine, so motherly, but deep down, Ethan’s instincts screamed at him. Was this really the woman who had raised him? 

George chuckled, pulling a beautifully wrapped gift from under the table, his tone light. "Ethan, relax. I’ve got something special for you." 

But Ethan's fingers only tightened around the knife, unease rising within him like a storm. He kept his eyes fixed on his father, watching for any sudden movement. 

"What do you want from me?" His voice cracked as his father’s words echoed in his mind, sending chills down his spine—*the perfect age.* 

Margaret’s smile faltered for just a moment before she regained her composure, her voice soft again. "Ethan, we just want you to be happy. It’s your day, after all." 

George nodded, his voice calm. "Yeah, just take it easy. The more tense you are, the harder this gets." 

The air around them grew heavier, the tension thick and suffocating. Ethan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his grip on the knife never wavered. The cold dread in his chest wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he tried to push it aside. 

Margaret’s hand lightly patted his shoulder again, her voice smooth yet unsettling. "Sweetheart, put down the knife. You still haven’t made your wish or blown out the candles. Make your wish, alright?" 

His fingers were turning white from clutching the knife so tightly. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face—so loving, so caring, but something dark lurked just beneath that surface. 

"Make a wish, Ethan," George’s voice came, slow and deliberate. "You’ll love your gift." 

Ethan’s heart raced as the unseen pressure mounted. Finally, he gave in, slowly lowering the knife back onto the table. But even as he let go, his fingers twitched, reluctant to release it completely. 

Just as he was about to make a wish, Margaret’s hand darted for the knife. The motion was soft, but it had purpose. 

Ethan’s instincts kicked in. He reached out in a flash, his hand intercepting hers. The blade slashed through the air, slicing her wrist. 

Instead of the soft give of flesh, there was a sharp clang as the knife collided with something hard. His eyes widened in horror as he stared at the exposed black carapace beneath her split skin.

The air froze instantly. Margaret's smile vanished without a trace, replaced by a cold, indifferent expression. Her brow furrowed, and her gaze lost all warmth. “This skin is valuable,” she said, her voice now low and filled with cruelty. “Since you won’t behave, I’ll just take yours instead.” 

Ethan’s heart pounded violently, as if it was trying to burst from his chest. For a moment, his legs were frozen in place, but fear surged through him, forcing him to step back before he turned and bolted toward the door. His legs felt heavy as lead, but the instinct to survive pushed him forward. 

He stumbled, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. His heart thundered in his ears, his mind clouded with one desperate thought: escape. Behind him, the once-familiar sound of Margaret’s footsteps had transformed—now heavy, quick, like the pounding of iron on the floor, each step closing the distance. 

“Why did you have to realize it now?” George's voice came from behind, cold and mocking. “Fear will sour the meat. You would’ve been so much tastier.” His tone was chillingly calm, as if discussing the loss of a fine meal. 

Ethan stumbled into the hallway, his legs shaky and weak from fear. The sound of the creature’s approach grew louder, closer. He tried to pick up speed, but his legs betrayed him. The cold air around him carried a stench of rot and iron, like the smell of something long dead coming to life. 

He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Margaret—or what had once been Margaret—her arms grotesquely transforming. Her skin split like old paper, revealing the full, sleek black carapace beneath. Her fingers stretched into razor-sharp blades, while her other arm twisted into a sleek, black scythe.

All strength left Ethan’s body as his pace slowed to a crawl. He knew he had to move, to dodge, but his legs felt nailed to the ground. The scythe flashed through the air, whistling as it cut toward him. 

The cold scythe sank into his chest, sending waves of agony crashing over him, breaking down every last defense. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his shirt and pooling on the floor beneath him. His vision blurred as the pain overtook him, each breath a sharp, torturous gasp.

Margaret slowly withdrew the scythe from his body, blood dripping from its edge onto the floor with a dull thud. Ethan felt his consciousness slipping away, the world around him collapsing into darkness. 

"Why?" The question, faint and fragmented, echoed in his mind. How could the people who had cared for him, loved him, been the center of his world, turn into monsters? His thoughts began to fade, and the last thing he heard before everything went black was the sound of his own labored breathing and the steady drip of blood. 

"Don't kill me!" Ethan's scream shattered the silence, pulling him back from the brink of darkness. 

In an instant, Ethan was no longer fleeing through the bloodstained hallway. He gasped and found himself lying in his bed, drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cold, biting pain from moments ago was gone, replaced by a terrifying stillness. Was it all just a dream? 

He gasped for air, his hands gripping the sheets tightly as if still trying to escape the nightmare. His chest heaved as he tried to calm down, but the terror clung to him, refusing to let go. 

A loud knock at the door startled him, and Margaret’s familiar voice, sounding so normal, so *motherly*, filtered through the wood. "Ethan, are you alright? What’s going on in there?"