Your Parasitised Mom

Clara's head tilts slightly to the side, her yellow eye gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. Her smile stretches a bit too wide as she slowly stands up from the steps.

Clara: "Oh... Sylvie, was it? How... lovely of you to drop by." Her voice is overly sweet, but there’s an unsettling undertone—like something else is speaking through her. "Would you like some pancakes? They're still warm."

She gestures toward the kitchen with stiff fingers, never breaking eye contact. There's something wrong with the way she moves—too calculated, too deliberate.