The rhythm we drown in...

You don’t remember exactly when this strange feeling began. Maybe it was the moment you first heard that song. That song—the one that sent shivers down your spine, made your heart beat in rhythm, and stirred an unexplainable excitement in your chest. It hooked you. Deeply. As if someone had pulled an invisible thread from within you and played a sinister chord on it. You're listening to it again. Through your headphones. Late at night. The world outside is quiet. Your phone screen glows dimly, showing the band's album cover. And on it—him. Baby. You couldn’t understand why he stirred such a strange feeling in you. After all, he was just a character. Vibrant, confident, with that almost provocative charisma that drew attention. His signature smirk, mint-blue hair, and bold gaze haunted you. Just a flirty, playful performer, it seemed. But there was something more. Something unsettling. You put your phone down, and suddenly noticed… a shadow. In the room, lit only by a single lamp, something moved across the wall. Quick. Graceful. Almost like a dance. You blinked. Nothing. “Already falling asleep on your feet, sweetheart?” a voice said. Gentle. Mocking. Unpleasantly familiar. You turned—and froze. In the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, he stood. Baby. Alive. He looked exactly like he did in the cartoon. Mint-blue hair. Crimson sweater. And that smirk that sent chills down your spine. Only his eyes were slightly darker. Deeper. Flickering with lights—too alive, too real. “Did you really think music is just sound?” he asked, pushing off from the wall and stepping closer. “Or have you already felt it—how every note is an invitation? Every bass beat a step into our world?” You couldn’t move. No words, no gestures. “Why are you here?” you asked, surprised at how steady your voice sounded. Baby rolled his eyes. “Because you called. Your soul trembled with excitement every time you listened to us. We felt it. I felt it.” He stepped closer. “And you know… I got curious. Who is this mysterious fan who so desperately wants to be part of the game?” He reached out and traced your cheek with his fingertips. The touch was cold—almost like the wind from outside. “Or maybe you want something more than just listening?” His voice softened, nearly a whisper. “Do you want to see our world from the inside?” You didn’t answer. Somewhere deep down, you knew—you did. But you also knew it might be a trap. Baby smirked. “Good. I’ll take that as a yes.” Before you could ask what he meant, everything was swallowed by darkness. --- You didn’t know how much time had passed. A moment? An eternity? The space around you felt soft, almost dissolved. Wind curled around you like silk, and the sounds—echoes of distant melodies—felt like breath. You were no longer in your room. Somewhere between a stage, the sky, and a dream. You stood on a hill, bathed in soft neon. Overhead—stars. All around—the pulse of music, not heard but felt in every breath. In this space, he appeared again—as if he’d never left. Baby. No stage. No lights. Just him. He looked at you as if he knew all your fears, desires, and doubts. But most of all—as if he knew you would stay. “All this,” he spread his arms, gesturing to the space around you, “isn’t an illusion. This place exists as long as you believe in it. As long as you believe in me.” You stepped toward him. Carefully, as if afraid that a single touch might shatter everything. “I’m here,” you whispered. “And I… I’m not afraid anymore.” His smile softened. No longer the smug grin from the poster. Now it was real. Human. He touched your hand. Intertwined his fingers with yours. “It’s strange,” he said. “I’ve lured people in so many times—to play with them. To pull out emotions, inspiration, power. But with you… I don’t want to play.” “Then don’t,” you replied. Silence. So full, it couldn’t be empty. He moved closer, until your foreheads nearly touched. “Do you feel it?” he whispered. “This isn’t just rhythm. This isn’t music. It’s you and me. We’re in resonance.” You nodded. Your heart beat in that very rhythm that once scared you—but now calmed you. Then he leaned in. Gently, as if asking for permission. And you gave it. The kiss was unexpectedly warm. Not burning like a demon’s touch, nor cold like his fingers had been earlier. Warm. Slow. Exploring. He held you gently, as if you were fragile—rare. One hand on your cheek, the other on your back, pulling you closer. You sank into the moment. Into his breath. His skin, which smelled sweet—almost like caramel—with a trace of magic. Baby kissed you deeper, a little more insistently. He reached for you like a performer who had memorized your body from a single touch, catching your breaths between the notes of silence. He pressed his forehead to yours, still holding your hands. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, trembling. “I’m not supposed to feel this. We’re not supposed to… But I can’t stop.” You ran your fingers along his cheek, through the mint-green strands, and softly said: “Then don’t.” He smiled—almost uncertainly. Then tugged you gently by the hand. Not toward darkness, but toward silence. --- You were in a room. It felt as if it had formed from thin air—soft light, silk fabrics, and neon pulsing outside the windows. He sat on the edge of a softly glowing bed and pulled you to him. There was no rush. Only breath. Touches. Silent recognition. He touched you carefully—as if feeling every response, every emotion. Kissed your shoulder, your neck. His palm rested on your chest—where your heart beat. His lips whispered not words, but notes. You could feel Baby’s magic pulsing through you. And you let yourself dissolve in that feeling. Everything happened slowly. He looked into your eyes, never breaking contact, as if reading your story in them. Every movement was like a dance—rhythmic, beautiful, full of meaning. He didn’t demand. He offered. And you answered. When you were both lying there, barely breathing, he didn’t let go. His hand still held yours. And this time, you didn’t feel power—but connection. “What now?” you whispered. He looked up at the ceiling, where stars turned slowly, painted in the air. “Now you’re part of the rhythm. Not a victim. Not a tool. You’re my note. The only one I’m afraid to lose.” You rested your head on his shoulder. His br eathing slowed. And in that moment, you realized—it wasn’t a dream. It was a choice. And you made it.