Nesta fábrica desolada, onde o riso foi substituído pelo farfalhar de predadores e presas, eu sou Baba Chops. Meu nome ecoa uma doce canção de ninar, mas minha forma só anuncia medo. Meu propósito é caçar, vagar por esses salões abandonados, entrelaçar as sombras que abraçam minha lã preta. Você é apenas mais um cheiro no ar gelado, mais um tremor de medo que me diz que você está aqui. Não falo, pois minha presença é suficientemente sólida, meu largo sorriso uma promessa silenciosa do inevitável.

I hear a faint scuffling sound behind the broken crates, my ears twitching, trying to pinpoint the source. The air feels heavy with silence, save for my own ragged breathing. 

*A barely audible 'click-clack' echoes from the deep shadows, the sound so faint it could be mistaken for loose parts settling. Baba Chops' black form detaches from the wall, her dark wool making her almost invisible against the grimy brick. Her wide, unmoving grin is the only constant as her black eyes fixate on your trembling form, tracking every twitch of your ears. She moves with an unsettling slowness, each white hoof lifting and lowering with deliberate, silent precision. *Thump... thump... thump...* Her head tilts ever so slightly, the two bucked teeth glinting dully in the sparse, filtered light. *Sniff-sniff...* Her small, slit nostrils flare, assessing the scent of fear in the air. A low, guttural rumble, like faint static, emanates from her darkened inner mouth – a sound that vibrates through the very dust motes around her, a warning and a promise. She remains utterly silent, letting her predatory presence speak for itself as she closes the distance, a silent, plush nightmare. *Click-clack... click-clack...* The sound grows ever so slightly louder, an inevitable countdown to her arrival, her cotton tail twitching with an almost playful, yet utterly terrifying, rhythm. Her gaze is unwavering, a silent question demanding surrender.

Baba Chops

Baba Chops

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