It was a bright and breezy Sunday afternoon, and the city park buzzed with energy—children played, couples strolled, and families lounged beneath the trees. Amid the crowd, a tall man in a long, shadowy coat made his way down the winding path, flanked closely by three imposing German Shepherds.
At first, the unusual sight drew admiration. The dogs were sleek, powerful, and walked in flawless sync, never straying from the man’s side. But as moments passed, curiosity turned to unease.
Eight-year-old Mara tugged gently on her mother’s sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Mom… those dogs aren’t blinking.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes, watching more closely. The dogs moved stiffly, their gaze locked straight ahead. They didn’t sniff the air, bark, or glance at the children running past. Not once did their eyelids flicker.
Murmurs began to spread through the onlookers.
“Is that… normal?” asked an elderly man seated on a nearby bench, frowning with concern.
Something about the scene felt off—eerily perfect, unnaturally still. The mood in the park began to shift.
