Cw Dark Themes - Blog Posts

Chapter 10: When the Silence Breaks

TW ⚠️

Emotional and psychological trauma, Implied domestic abuse (Clara’s backstory. Not that detailed tho), Medical scenes and mild body horror (organ-like dream realm), Brief discussion of death, Mild violence and unsettling imagery, Mental disorientation / hallucination & Light profanity and dark humor

It had been days since everything happened. I’d been waiting—hoping—for an announcement that would finally let me take part in the journalism program.

But today… it was raining.

Raindrops tapped softly against the glass of my bedroom window, each one leaving a faint trail as it slid down. I stayed cocooned beneath my blankets, the quiet hum of the rain wrapping around me like a lullaby. For a moment, there was peace.

Then came the restlessness.

I wasn’t sure where the restlessness came from. Maybe it was the waiting. Maybe I just needed to move—to be somewhere else, even for a while. That had to be it.

So, I decided to go for a walk, rain or not.

The pavement shimmered under the drizzle as I stepped outside, the gentle patter of raindrops drumming softly on my umbrella. It was oddly soothing, like the world had quieted down just for me.

As I strolled through the streets, the rain gradually faded to a light mist. Eventually, the clouds began to part, and the sun peeked through, casting a golden warmth across the damp streets of Aloy.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the National Museum—Metallica. That’s one thing about living in the city: you can stumble upon places like this without even meaning to.

I looked up at the massive structure towering above me. A chill ran down my spine—not the kind that warns, but the kind that hums with something unspoken. Like clouds rolling in with no promise of rain. Oddly enough, it felt… inviting.

So, I took a step forward, and walked inside.

Inside, dim lights welcomed me, casting soft shadows along the museum’s quiet halls. Every artifact seemed to hum with its own presence—each one whispering a different kind of power. I could feel it in my chest, in my fingertips.

And it made me feel so…

Nice.

Until—

I stopped.

There, right in front of me, stood a statue.

“Oh…” The word slipped from my mouth as it fell open slightly.

My eyes locked onto it—unmoving, unblinking.

The Statue of the God of Time.

“Temureth,” I whispered, stepping closer to the statue.

There was a weight in the air—heavy, ancient. I was still caught in that silence when a familiar voice broke through.

“Hagarin! You’re here too?”

I turned. It was Clara, her eyes bright with surprise.

“Yeah,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I was just strolling, and somehow ended up here.”

She nodded, her voice softer now. “I always come here alone when I feel lonely. My mom used to bring me.”

I nodded, understanding her sentiment. “I don’t blame you,” I said gently. “If there’s any place—or anything—you hold close, of course you’d cherish it.”

She gave a soft smile, then sighed. “Wanna have a drink?”

I deadpanned. ———————————————————————

At first, I thought she meant alcohol.

But now we were sitting in a café. The sun had fully broken through the clouds, casting warm light across the windowpane.

“Y’know, Hagarin,” Clara said, eyes on the menu, “you remind me of my older sister.”

“Oh?” I asked, absentmindedly flipping through a spare menu. “How so?”

“She was… chill. A lot like you. But she’s not around anymore.” Clara’s voice dipped, but she kept talking. “I’ve got a brother too. He’s a doctor. Busy guy.”

She paused. Then, after a breath: “My mom… she died. My father abused her.”

The silence that followed was heavy. I looked at her, then exhaled.

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much,” I said quietly. “It’s okay. You’ll find a way to carry it—maybe even grow past the pain someday.”

Clara gave a quiet nod just as the waitress approached our table to take our orders.

“A salad, please,” Clara said as the waitress nodded, jotting it down.

“And a slice of apple pie,” I added with a small smile.

When the food arrived, we fell into easy conversation—talking about anything and everything.

“Speaking of school, I’ve finally caught up on everything,” I said.

Clara groaned lightly. “And here I am, still needing to go back just to pass some things.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Well… I was sick the other day, so I’ve got to hand in everything I missed.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said, without thinking twice.

The good atmosphere lingered even after we finished eating. There was something comforting about it—like we’d both needed that quiet hour more than we realized.

The sun had taken its rightful place in the sky, high and golden, casting long shadows across the street as we made our way toward school. The sidewalks were still damp, glistening faintly, and the air smelled like wet pavement and leaves.

We didn’t talk much on the way. We didn’t need to. There was something about shared silence that felt more intimate than words.

When we reached the school, Clara turned to me and gave a small smile. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll wait here,” I replied.

She disappeared through the doors, her footsteps echoing faintly down the hall as she made her way to the faculty room. I lingered just outside, near the row of lockers lining the hallway. A few students wandered past, chatting among themselves, laughter echoing in snippets that came and went like passing winds.

I leaned against the cool wall, folding my arms. The stillness gave me too much room to think.

The image of Temureth’s statue flashed through my mind—how the stone felt alive, how his name tasted strange on my tongue, like something forgotten yet familiar. There had been a presence in that room, subtle but undeniable. Like something old was watching. Waiting.

I shook my head a little, trying to bring myself back to the present. Still, the feeling lingered.

The silence around me wasn’t as peaceful now. It felt suspended. As if time itself had slowed, stretching out the seconds into something just a little too long. Just a little too still.

And then—I felt it again.

The same chill I felt at the museum. Faint, like a whisper running along the edge of my spine. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough to notice.

I looked around. Nothing out of place. Just lockers, bulletin boards, classrooms with doors slightly ajar. The ordinary shape of a school afternoon.

But something felt…off. Like a ticking clock had skipped a beat.

That is, until I heard it.

A shriek—sharp, panicked, and startlingly loud. What made it worse was that it came from a man.

The sound cut through the hallway like a blade, jolting me upright before I even had time to think. My instincts kicked in. I didn’t call out. I didn’t hesitate. I just moved.

I followed the direction of the sound, my footsteps echoing softly against the tiles as I passed one hallway after another. The school, once familiar, now felt unfamiliar—twisted slightly by the weight of something I couldn’t name.

Eventually, I reached the stairwell.

The air felt heavier here, like the very space was holding its breath.

I climbed the steps slowly, cautiously, my hand brushing the rail. With each step, the atmosphere grew more tense, more… off. Like walking into a place that time had forgotten.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway was dim. Lights flickered above, struggling to stay alive. A faint hum buzzed from a nearby socket, but it was the only sound besides the soft thud of my heart.

Then I saw it.

A room—its door slightly ajar, pale yellow light leaking from the gap. The windows were completely covered by thick curtains, drawn from the outside. The whole space looked swallowed in shadow.

I approached slowly, heart beating a little faster.

And then I saw the sign on the door.

Faded lettering. Nearly rubbed away by time and cleaning.

But still readable.

“Time Studies - Research Archive Room 3”

“What are you two doing here?!” the teacher’s voice boomed, sharp and urgent—but it sounded far away, like I was hearing it through water.

Everything was fogged, muffled.

“I—I don’t know why she was here!” Clara’s voice cracked, panicked, as she held onto me.

Then—darkness.

I didn’t get to hear what came next. The pain in my chest spread like ink in water, and the world around me unraveled. My limbs gave out. My mind slipped.

And I passed out. ——————

Is this real life? Or is just fantasy?

I heard cackles.

Sharp. Echoing. Wrong. It was Ezra’s laugh. Twisted and distant, like it didn’t belong to him—or maybe like it did, and I’d just never heard it this way before.

“Ezra?” I jolted awake, gasping.

But it was just a dream… wasn’t it?

I blinked. My vision blurred, then settled.

“Ezra…?” I whispered again. His giggle still lingered, soft and persistent, like it had taken root in the walls.

The room around me pulsed faintly, cramped and alien. The walls weren’t made of stone or wood—they were… flesh-like. The color of organs, deep reds and purples, squirming gently as though alive. Veins, maybe. Or shadows.

I couldn’t tell where I was—but it was definitely not the school anymore.

It was disturbing. Claustrophobic.

And still, I could hear Ezra’s giggle.

Light, childlike.

Wrong.

“Hagarin… Hagarin!”

His voice echoed everywhere. Not just once. It multiplied—clashing against itself in distorted waves, rising and falling like laughter buried beneath madness.

It was Ezra’s voice. But it wasn’t Ezra.

Each syllable struck like a drumbeat inside my head, louder, faster—relentless.

I clutched my temples, stumbling back as the space around me pulsed like a living thing. The squirming walls grew tighter, the colors deeper—veins bulging, floors rippling beneath my feet.

My breath hitched. Confusion swelled. Panic followed.

And that’s when I felt it—my powers flaring uncontrollably.

Like a storm breaking inside my chest.

No direction, no form—just raw energy reacting to the fear, the disorientation, the voice.

It was overwhelming. It felt like being stripped back to zero. Like all the control I’d built up until now had been burned away in a second.

I fell to my knees.

“Hagarin…” Ezra’s voice whispered again, this time gentler, but no less twisted. “Why are you afraid of what you already are?”

“Get… get out of my head! Ezra!” I cried out, my voice cracking, heavy with panic. My hands trembled as I broke down into sobs, unable to hold it together any longer.

And then— Silence.

The giggling stopped. The echoes dissolved. Even the room… settled.

The walls no longer squirmed in chaos. They pulsed slowly now—steadily. Like a heart at rest.

And that’s when I felt it.

A sharp sting in my palm.

I looked down— A clean cut had appeared across my hand, fresh blood welling at the surface. It wasn’t from the dream. It was real.

Pain flared. The world snapped into place.

I gasped, sucking in air like I’d been underwater.

My eyes flew open.

Bright lights. A ceiling. The sterile scent of antiseptic.

I was back.

Breathing hard, my chest rising and falling rapidly, I scanned my surroundings—disoriented.

Hovering above me were three figures. Clara—her brows knit with worry. A nurse gently checking the IV line in my arm. And a teacher standing behind them, arms crossed tightly, eyes unreadable.

Sir… Evan?

I blinked. Focused.

His school ID swayed slightly from a lanyard around his neck. Evan M. Soriano, it read. Faculty, Temporal Studies Division.

I was shaking.

Not from fear—at least not just that. It was exhaustion. Discomfort. A heaviness that settled in my bones like I’d run a marathon inside a nightmare.

What the hell was that even? Was that… Ezra’s power?

I clenched the blanket over me, trying to stop the tremble in my fingers, but it didn’t help. My body still remembered the chaos—even if my mind couldn’t fully make sense of it.

And that place—ugh.

I swallowed hard as the memory returned, vivid and raw.

It was like I had been trapped inside a living organ—walls that pulsed, colors that moved and squirmed like tissue under a microscope. The floor wasn’t solid. The air felt alive.

It wasn’t a dream. Not completely.

Because the pain was real. The cut on my palm was real.

The bolt of darkness, Ezra’s eyes, that voice—

I wanted to throw up.

I closed my eyes, steadying my breath. But I could still hear that distant giggle—lingering like a splinter in my mind.

When I tried to sit up, everyone in the room panicked.

Clara practically jumped three feet in the air. “Hagarin, no—lie down!”

The nurse rushed to my side, gently but very firmly pushing my shoulder back against the bed. “You need rest—please don’t make me use tape.”

Even Sir Evan, who looked like he hadn’t blinked in ten minutes, took a step forward. “You shouldn’t be moving yet. You’re still stabilizing.”

“Stabilizing?” I muttered. “I’m not a nuclear reactor.”

But they didn’t laugh.

Probably because I looked like I’d been through a nuclear meltdown.

Still, I couldn’t stay put. I was too rattled. Too… itchy inside my own skin. My brain was spinning, my chest still tight, and every time I blinked, I saw squirming walls and heard Ezra’s creepy little laugh echoing in the back of my head.

“I can’t just lie here,” I said, struggling against the blanket like it was actively restraining me. “I’ve literally been inside a sentient meat room and black magic’d through the chest. I think I earned a walk.”

Clara’s eyes widened. “A what kind of room?!”

Sir Evan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting ever getting a teaching license.

The nurse finished patching up my palm with a soft sigh, gently placing my hand back down on the bed. She didn’t say anything at first—just turned her gaze to the hospital bed next to mine.

I followed her eyes.

Then Clara looked.

Then Sir Evan.

We all deadpanned.

Ezra was lying there.

Sleeping.

With his eyes open.

Another nurse was tending to him, adjusting his IV like this was completely normal behavior, as if sleeping with your eyes open was just some cute little personality quirk.

“Is… is he dead?” Clara whispered.

“No,” the other nurse replied, unfazed. “He’s sleeping.”

“With his eyes open?” I asked, tilting my head slightly like it would help the situation make sense.

“It’s… been happening since the incident,” she added, as if that explained anything at all.

Clara leaned closer to me. “I feel like I’m in a horror film.”

“You are,” I muttered. “Except there’s no popcorn and I’m the one getting possessed.”

Sir Evan let out another sigh. “Enough. He’s stable—for now.”

“Ezra… his power is highly contagious. Everyone knows that. Everyone should know that.” Sir Evan started, dismissing the nurse with a wave before turning back to us.

“We all grew up thinking that the five elemental categories—nature, air, water, fire, and time—were the main sources of power. But the truth is…” He paused, folding his arms. “Those five aren’t the ‘main.’ They’re just the most recorded. The most understood. That’s why they dominate the books, the schools, the statistics.”

He stepped closer, his tone growing firmer. “There’s no such thing as a true ‘main’ element. Every power is different. Some valuable. Some… completely useless. But even the rarest ones have gods tied to them.”

I furrowed my brows, listening.

“That’s why gods and goddesses exist in so many forms—each representing something deeply specific. Take this nation, Aloy. Ruled by a god who commands metal. Yet ironically, the highest recorded ability among our people? Air.”

He glanced toward the window, briefly, before continuing.

“And then there’s Ezra. We don’t know where he came from. No nation claims him. No lineage traces back to him. But one thing we do know…” Sir Evan’s voice lowered.

“…is that the power he carries is called Pulsebind.”

My stomach turned at the name. That was the thing that put me in the fleshy, breathing nightmare?

“It’s a contagious ability,” he said. “When Ezra experiences intense emotion or trauma, even brief eye contact can infect someone. That’s all it takes. In some cases, he can even cast Pulsebind into an object.”

He looked at me, pointedly.

“It craves flesh and bone, and once it gets ahold of your mind, you’re trapped. Inside a world that’s him. A place built from his instincts, fears, and whatever twisted shape his subconscious decides to take.”

Through an object… My fists clenched.

That’s what he did to me. That’s how it started. And if Clara hadn’t stopped me—damn it.

I sighed heavily, glaring at the unconscious boy nearby.

If it weren’t for his face, I’d have decked him by now.

“Though it’s still taught in basic education that those five—time, air, fire, nature, and ice—are the main elements, truthfully, that should’ve been changed a long time ago.”

Sir Evan’s voice carried a hint of frustration, as if he’d said this before, many times, to ears that refused to listen.

“They’re not the ‘main’ because they’re fundamental. They’re just… common. Well-documented. Easy to explain to children. But the truth is, there are countless types of abilities out there. Some born from emotion, others from ancestry, or even divine influence.”

He took a breath.

“And then… there’s time.”

At the mention of it, something in the air shifted.

“It’s still one of the rarest powers ever recorded. And yet, despite its rarity, it’s counted among the top five strongest abilities known in history—not because of how many people have it, but because of what it can do.”

He paused for a beat, letting the weight of that settle.

“Time itself doesn’t just manipulate moments—it bends memory, rewrites decisions, reshapes futures. That’s why gods like Temureth are feared, even by other deities.”

“But… our rules clearly say never to tamper with the timeline,” I said, brows furrowed. “How can you say it’s possible to change the past?”

Sir Evan didn’t flinch. He simply looked at me, calm but heavy with meaning.

“Rules exist to keep something in place,” he began. “To protect what’s fragile—like cause and effect. And yes… if you do interfere with the past, you’ll likely be stuck in that altered timeline forever. That’s the consequence. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

He leaned forward, voice low and firm.

“You can change the past. You just might not survive it.”

I swallowed. “But why would anyone even want that? To live in the past… until their soul cracks from the weight of what they’ve done?”

A shadow passed over his face.

“If you don’t belong in a timeline,” he said quietly, “the world will notice. And once it does… you die the moment you’re seen.”

Sir Evan checked his wristwatch and let out a quiet sigh. “That’s my cue,” he murmured. “I have to leave. In the meantime, get some rest. Another proctor will take over from here.”

He stood from his seat, giving one last glance toward Ezra, then at me—like he wanted to say more, but chose not to. With a nod, he turned and left the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

“That was… a lot to digest,” Clara finally said, breaking the thick silence that had settled between us.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, eyes drifting to my bandaged palm. “Yeah. I’ve got a million questions, and zero brain cells left to process them.”

“I think I’ll just ask Ms. Renée later.”

There was a pause.

“Sometimes,” I muttered, “I really want to strangle Ezra.”

Clara let out a small snort. “Same. But he’d probably trap us in another meat realm the moment we touch him.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” I groaned, pressing my palm to my forehead.

“Maybe let’s change the topic then?” Clara offered with a soft smile, trying to lighten the mood.

I nodded, rubbing my temple. “Yeah… good call.”

She glanced out the window for a moment before saying, “Back at the café… I didn’t really finish what I was saying. About my mom.”

The air shifted—just slightly. I sat up straighter, the exhaustion still there, but I gave her my full attention.

“She used to take me to the Metallica museum,” Clara began, her voice gentler now. “Not because we loved art or history or anything. She just… wanted me to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere she could pretend we were safe.”

She paused.

“My dad was the kind of man you never knew what version you’d come home to. Angry. Drunk. Silent. And my mom… she was always trying to shield us. Me, my sister, my brother. But eventually, she couldn’t anymore.”

Clara looked down, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet.

“She died. Not all at once. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left to protect us from him.”

I swallowed hard, unsure what to say, so I just listened.

“My sister left first. She ran. And I don’t blame her. My brother buried himself in school, became a doctor. I… just learned how to disappear when I had to.”

She glanced at me, her eyes glassy but steady. “That’s why I go to the museum when I feel lonely. It’s the last place I felt like she was still trying.”

“I… honestly just wanted a loving father,” Clara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone who would provide love and care for me. The man who created us three—me, my sister, my brother—he used to love Mom so much.”

She exhaled, long and tired.

“I just…” her voice faltered, “maybe the idea of loving someone or settling down—it’s hard to imagine now. The world feels too dangerous for that kind of dream.”

She paused again, her eyes unfocused.

“Life is such a beautiful thing… but sometimes I wonder why we were brought into it, only to live through so much pain.”

“I used to be so fixated on the idea,” Clara said softly, “that somewhere out there, there’s a man who’ll love me forever. I… I hope I’ve already met him.”

She sighed, eyes lingering on the floor.

I couldn’t help the quiet smile that tugged at my lips. “That’s why there’s Clarence.”

Her head snapped toward me. “Where the hell did that even come from?” she huffed, giving my arm a playful slap.

I laughed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at my bandaged palm. “I dunno. Just saying. He looks like the type to write poetry in secret.”

We both laughed quietly, letting the tension melt into something lighter. But just when I thought we were done, Clara tilted her head with a sly grin.

“Oh yeah? What if Ezra likes you?”

I didn’t even blink. “I’ll shove this dextrose tube down your throat if you keep talking.”

She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “You’re so dramatic—he’s not even conscious!”

“That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

In the end, it all dissolved into quiet giggles and soft chuckles—like nothing had happened. Like we weren’t just talking about trauma, or powers that trap people in organ nightmares, or the terrifying mystery that was Ezra.

For a fleeting moment, it felt normal. Almost safe.

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3,857 words

Chapter 6: What time took from me: Temporal Cipher

Content Warning for Chapter 6 This chapter contains depictions of psychological distress, hallucinations, paranoia, mentions of therapy, and unsettling imagery (including gore-like descriptions, though not physical). Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to topics related to mental health struggles and dissociation. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

there's fluff despite everything, dw, you're not just a reader! there's aftercare.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another day. Another twisted activity waiting for us.

We were all gathered in a cramped, windowless room today — air thick with tension and the faint metallic tang of stress-sweat. Proctors paced back and forth, handing out assignments, their shoes tapping like countdown clocks against the tile.

Every student had their own task: someone bent metal into intricate symbols; another whispered to a bowl of water until their reflection screamed back; one kid calculated endless numbers, their fingers twitching like flesh calculators.

And me? I got the box.

It sat at the center of the room, black and heart beating, almost alive. When the proctor called my name, my gut twisted painfully — the same way it did when I first learned my mother died. A slow-blooming nausea that whispered, This will change you.

I obeyed anyway. Because what else could I do?

The moment my fingertips brushed the box, everything around me ruptured.

The walls melted, my classmates vanished, and suddenly I was standing on a bridge suspended over nothing. The sky churned with black oil clouds, and the only sound was my own pulse, loud and thunderous, rattling my skull from the inside out.

The first puzzle piece was easy — a small section of the box slid away under my touch, clicking into place like a child's toy. Too easy.

The second piece? It bit into my skin. Razor-sharp edges slid under my nails, prying them up like peeling fruit skin. Blood welled fast and slick, dripping down my wrists — but I couldn't stop. My fingers moved like puppets under some crueler hand, and the more I solved, the more reality warped around me.

I saw my mother's coffin. Even though in reality, I never had the chance to give my mother a proper burial.

It was standing upright beside me — nailed shut, but not enough to stop her hand from slipping through the crack. Bone-thin fingers, nails ripped clean off, reaching for me.

Behind me, Clara stood with her throat slit wide open — petals growing from the wound like some macabre garden, blooming faster every time I blinked.

Worst of all, in the mirrored shards scattered on the ground, I saw myself. Or versions of me. 

One had no eyes, just empty sockets filled with writhing, ink-black worms. 

One had my lips stitched shut with golden wire, my hands folded politely like a corpse. 

One stood with her back bent at a grotesque angle, head hanging loose by a thread of skin.

I should have screamed. I should have stopped. I didn't.

Because the box wouldn't let me.

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With every new piece, the puzzle took more from me.

My left eye burst — or at least, it felt like it. A blinding flash of pain seared through my skull, and something thicker than blood leaked down my cheek. I wiped at it, trembling, and my hand came away soaked in black ink, dripping like melted shadow.

My fingers began to crack and splinter, bone peeking through skin. Every time a piece slid into place, my own flesh unraveled — as if solving the puzzle meant dismantling myself.

But I couldn't stop.

Time twisted in knots around me. The bridge collapsed and rebuilt itself beneath my feet, forcing me to step forward, backward, sideways — every wrong step dropped me into another memory.

I fell into my childhood bedroom, staring at my mother's empty bed.

I fell into the schoolyard, watching Clara wave before a flower pierced her hand.

I fell into my own grave, dirt filling my mouth until I couldn't scream.

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Somewhere, some tiny rational part of my mind knew the truth.

This wasn't real. None of it. This was the test — a psychic simulation planted directly into my skull by the proctors. My body was still standing in that tiny room, trembling, hands clutching the real box.

But the rest of me? I was dying. Over and over and over.

This was how they forced my powers to awaken. Not through training — through terror. Through stress so violent my time magic would activate by instinct.

They were ripping me open, not to teach me, but to see if I could survive it.

When the final piece slid into place, I hit the ground hard. My knees split open against jagged stone, and for a moment I could taste my own blood, bright and sharp like a warning bell.

The bridge shattered beneath me, sending me into a free-fall through my own memories, my own past mistakes. I relived my mother's death in reverse, watching her rise from the grave, heal from her sickness, smile at me once more—

And then I woke up.

Back in the room. Hands trembling over the very normal, very wooden puzzle box. The proctor nodded once. "Good work." My gaze fell to the woman by his side. It was Ms. Renée

She didn't ask questions. Didn't tell me it was all fake, because she knew it didn't matter. My mind couldn't tell the difference. My body still remembered the agony, the trauma. The phantom pain lingered, too deep to scrub out.

She knelt beside me, hands warm on my frozen skin. "Hagarin, You're okay."

I couldn't even answer. My throat felt stitched shut.

She wiped my face gently — her sleeve coming away soaked with cold sweat and tears. No blood. No ink. Just a terrified kid they pushed too far.

The walk home is as though paranoia grips through my skin, it causes me to shiver to no end, no relief, no warmth.

Ms. Renée walked me home, her arm never leaving my shoulders. Every step felt like it existed in three different timelines — one where I fell, one where I ran, one where I stood still until time ate me alive.

When we reached my door, I froze.

It wasn't my house. It was my mother's funeral home, twisted into the shape of my front door. Her coffin was waiting inside — not real, but my brain didn't care.

I collapsed to my knees, trembling so violently I thought my bones would rattle apart.

Ms. Renee held me, whispering, "You're here. You're real." I didn't believe her.

I still don't.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at my hands.

The injuries were gone. My fingers were whole. My eye was intact. My skin was clean.

But when I clenched my fists, the air shimmered, rippling faintly like time didn't fully trust me anymore.

Every time I blinked, I saw the stitched-mouth version of me sitting at the foot of my bed, watching, waiting for me to break again.

Time didn't just test me today. It claimed me.

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Morning light gently seeped through the veil of my curtains, painting fragile gold across the room and...

Sleep didn't come.

When I closed my eyes, I fell into the bridge again. Into the coffin. Into my own corpse.

I woke up gasping, fingers clawing at my throat, convinced it was still sewn shut. I vomited once — black sludge that vanished the moment I blinked, leaving me doubting if it ever happened.

Time magic is supposed to be beautiful. But mine feels like a curse — a parasite gnawing at my spine, whispering, You don't deserve control. We do.

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The next morning—another morning. I saw my reflection.

My face was fine. But my shadow moved slower than me, lagging by just a fraction of a second — like time itself didn't fully trust me anymore.

At breakfast, my cup cracked when I picked it up — age speeding up around my fingertips until the glass simply couldn't hold itself together.

I was unraveling. And no one could see it but me. 

They wanted me to learn control. 

What I learned instead is that time has teeth — and every second you touch will bite back.

I'm stronger now. But I'm also haunted.

Because every time I close my eyes, I still see that stitched-mouth girl — still sitting at the foot of my bed, still waiting for me to break her free.

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The past five days unraveled like a slow, cruel unraveling of thread — paranoia soaked into every corner of my mind until it left me disheveled, barely standing today. My fingers now brush against the fragile edges of reality, where I could finally distinguish what was real and what was only a phantom born from my fear.

Guilt curled itself around my throat like a noose, tightening with every breath I took. I never gave Hanari the explanation she deserved — I simply pushed her towards Ms. Renée, too ashamed, too fractured to speak for myself.

The school excused me for a month, a mercy disguised as punishment. They said I needed time to recover, as if time alone could soothe wounds carved into my mind. Even now, I'm not sure if healing is something I can reach.

A therapist was assigned to untangle my chaos, but how do you calm nerves that still vibrate with phantom pain? How do you silence a storm that's made a home inside your head?

The day I finally told Hanari the truth, the weight of my own words crushed me. I cried. I broke. I admitted I was not okay — and somehow, saying it out loud made it all feel so much heavier.

When the tears finally fell, Hanari pulled me into her arms — no words, no questions, just the quiet strength of her embrace. It was her way of reminding me that I was still here, that I was alive, even if my mind had long wandered into the graveyard of my fears. Her warmth bled into my skin, thawing the frost left by endless nights of paranoia. And in her arms, I could finally...

Breathe.

And for the first time in days, I drifted — not into nightmares, not into fractured time loops or restless visions, but into something tender and whole.

I slept in peace.

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Days slip through my fingers, and still, my feet refuse to touch the school grounds. I've let procrastination drape over me like a second skin, curling into my blankets as if they could protect me from everything I'm not ready to face. I feel better now, at least my body does — but my spirit won't rise.

Not yet.

There's a whisper in my mind, one that tells me to step forward, to walk into the unknown, because life rarely waits for those who hesitate. But I'm too tired, and for once, I want to be selfish enough to stay still — to let my bones sink into rest without guilt gnawing at me.

So my world shrinks to something soft and familiar: cooking for my sisters, sweeping the floors, folding laundry, turning ordinary moments into quiet lanterns that light my way back to myself. I even let myself imagine a life of simple domesticity.

But no — a housewife I could never be. Not in this life, not in this body.

I was tracing meaningless lines into my sketchbook when the silence broke. A knock — sharp, loud, persistent — rattled the door. A knock so familiar, I already knew whose hand it belonged to.

I wasn’t wearing my mask, so for a brief moment, I caught a small glimpse of the future. It was them — Ezra, Clarence, and Clara. Oddly enough, my mind felt calm, as if the usual storm had finally settled. Maybe it was because I was relaxed, and for once, my powers weren’t overwhelming me.

Perhaps the only real weapon against my own abilities was something as simple as staying calm. Maybe that was the key all along.

I walked toward the front door, and just as my vision predicted, there stood Ezra.

"Oh, my dove! I missed you!" Before I could even process the moment, Ezra swept me off my feet — quite literally — pulling me into a hug so sudden it forced a yelp out of me. Strangely enough, my little glimpse into the future never warned me about that.

The second he set me down, Clara stepped forward, pulling me into her own embrace. There was a warmth in it that made my heart ache in the best way. In that moment, surrounded by people who cared, I felt alive.

"I’m so glad you’re okay," Clara said softly, her voice trembling as unshed tears gathered in her eyes.

"Hey, don’t cry. I’m here — I’m okay now. Sane as ever," I reassured her, though my smile was just a little wobbly.

"Ooh, nice house." Ezra’s eyes darted around, already scanning every corner like a curious child in a new playground.

I let out a quiet groan, fully expecting him to start touching everything he could get his hands on.

"I’m really glad you’re okay now, Hagarin," Clarence said, his voice softer than usual. "When we saw you leaving school with Ms. Renée, you looked... not great."

I nodded, the memory making my shoulders tense involuntarily. "It was hell," I admitted. No sugarcoating, just the raw truth.

I led them into the living room, only to find Ezra already making himself at home, flipping through the movie collection like he owned the place.

"Have a seat, guys. I own the place anyway," Ezra joked, sprawling dramatically across the couch like a king claiming his throne.

Without a second thought, I grabbed a cushion and threw it straight at his face. Clara and Clarence burst into soft laughter as they settled into the room, filling the space with a comforting sense of normalcy I hadn’t felt in a while.

And it was nice — really nice.

I didn’t feel alone.

I had them, too.

They might each carry their own ghosts, their own cracks and sharp edges, but knowing we all had our struggles somehow made it easier to breathe. I wasn’t drifting aimlessly in isolation anymore. I had my people—chaotic, flawed, and human—right beside me.

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2,535 words

next chapter

Chapter 3: Answers and Change of Plans

Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of death, health-related distress (migraines/passing out), themes of isolation, and discussions about mortality. Reader discretion is advised.

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I woke to the sterile scent of bleach and the muted hum of fluorescent lights, the weight of my own skull pressing down like stone. My limbs felt waterlogged, heavy as if the bed beneath me was slowly pulling me into its core.

Hanari's voice reached me before my vision fully returned, muffled and sharp at the edges, her tone caught somewhere between anger and fear. "You should've told me."

I blinked against the ceiling, pale and cracked, a spiderweb fissure directly above me that seemed to throb in time with my pulse. "Are you done moping?" My voice came out raspier than expected, irritation curling through my words—not because I was angry at her, but because I needed something to feel other than dread.

Hanari folded her arms, her posture defensive, but her eyes too wide, too soft. The mask didn't fit today. "Dramatic sigh" barely covered the shaky breath she let out as her shoulders rose and fell. "You're such a dick."

The glass door creaked open, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her reflection warping in the glass like something unreal. The setting sun behind her fractured into shards of light, cutting her figure into pieces. In her hand was a mug—coffee, dark and bitter from the scent that followed her in.

"I'm glad to see you awake," she said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone..." I answered, but the relief felt fake. "What did you do?"

Her face flickered with something unreadable before she folded her arms, considering her words too carefully. "Focus on resting first. Your health comes first."

"Don't patronize me. I want answers." The words ripped out of me before I could soften them, sharp and uneven. Something burned inside my chest, a simmering panic I couldn't name.

Renée sighed, long and tired. "Kids these days. Always so hungry for ruin."

Beside me, Hanari leaned in, whispering through a half-smirk, "You're stubborn too."

"Listen closely." Renée's voice lowered into something quieter, colder, like she was telling us a ghost story we were already trapped inside. "Hanari, when you found Hagarin, I mentioned the headaches. They aren't migraines. They're symptoms."

"Symptoms of what?" Hanari's voice broke slightly. The cracks were showing.

"Time travel."

The word alone made my stomach twist. Time was no longer a concept or a lesson or even a power. It was inside me. A disease eating through the walls of my skull.

"The headaches, the blackouts, the visions—they're your brain trying to reconcile past, present, and future all at once. Your mind wasn't made to hold infinity." Renée paused, letting the silence soak in. "If you don't learn control, time itself will drown you."

That's when the word hit me like a knife to the chest: Death.

It was no longer a distant concept. It was here, sitting beside me, breathing on my neck. I had always wondered—would it be a void? Would it hurt? Would I even notice when I crossed the line between existing and not?

My head spun, nausea curling deep inside me.

"Can you..." My voice barely worked. "Can you explain what happens? From experience?"

Renée's smile was brittle. "Of course."

She leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where memories seemed to stain the tiles like watermarks.

"The visions never stop. Past, future, alternate versions of now—they whisper constantly. You'll hear things that haven't happened yet and things that already did but differently. You'll see your own death a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. Your brain will try to split itself into pieces just to make room." Her fingers traced the edge of her chair like she was touching a grave marker.

"When I first realized what I was, my parents locked me in a room for months. I was dangerous, even to myself. They thought isolation would save me—but it just made me a prison of my own mind."

I could see her now, a younger version, curled up in a corner, knuckles white, vision flickering between every timeline where she lived, died, ran, stayed. A thousand lifetimes trapped inside one skull.

"So how did you survive?" My voice sounded small. Fragile.

"I ran." She didn't sugarcoat it. "I ran until I couldn't hear them screaming my name anymore."

Hanari and I exchanged a glance, that unspoken what the hell? hanging between us.

"It's survival," Renée said with a shrug. "Messy, desperate, survival."

Golden light sliced across her face, painting her like a portrait half-burned at the edges.

"I was thirteen when I learned to lock most of it away. I got into this school. They transferred me to the time traveler department, and I stayed hidden there until I understood how to breathe without choking on centuries."

She stood abruptly, shaking off the weight of her own story. "Anyway, I run a library five blocks from here. Visit sometime."

"Will you actually be there?" I asked, half hopeful.

Her smile was half a ghost. "No. I'm a history teacher, not a prophet."

She left before I could answer, the door swinging shut behind her.

Hanari's shoulder pressed into mine, warm and real in the empty room. "Woah...quite the announcement."

I stared at the tiled floor, letting the information sink in like water through cracks. "Yeah."

"It'll be fun," Hanari said, too bright, too forced. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell."

"Consent would've been nice," I muttered. "Ms. Renée never even asked."

"Maybe the admins will do an official talk. They have to, right?"

I didn't answer.

"Have you decided?" Her voice softened.

I stared at my hands, at the faint tremble I couldn't hide. "Dunno."

Hanari leaned her head against my shoulder. "You have a death wish."

The words should've been funny, but they weren't.

We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, while the room darkened around us. Just two silhouettes against the fading light, floating somewhere between fate and fear.

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The air inside the counselor's office clung to my skin like cold sweat. The silence had weight—like the room itself knew secrets it couldn't say aloud. The printer groaned in the corner, coughing up a consent form, each page landing like a death sentence.

"You're early," Maria Tess said, voice mildly surprised. "I haven't even prepped the files yet."

I glanced at her nameplate, gold edges catching the flickering fluorescent light: Maria Tess. Funny how official names always felt like gravestones.

"Wanted to get this over with," I said. "So I can sleep after."

"Even Ms. Renée isn't here yet. Relax."

Relax. In a room where my fate hung from a single sheet of paper.

The doorbell chimed, and Ms. Renée stepped inside, her coffee steaming, her smile distant. Maria Tess handed me the form, paper still warm, ink still drying.

"We're all aware of your situation," Maria Tess began, words too rehearsed. "When students discover dangerous powers, we relocate them. For safety. For survival."

Time travelers didn't get to choose. Time itself chose them, and all they could do was keep breathing until it didn't want them anymore.

"Without control," she said, "your mind will fracture under the weight of the past and future. And it will kill you."

The word wasn't metaphorical. It was bone-deep, absolute.

"Sign here."

"This is how you stay alive." "Hagarin." Ms. Renée's voice cut cleanly through the silence, slicing apart the fog of my thoughts. "This will benefit you — if you want to keep living."Maybe I needed that bluntness. A reminder that this wasn't just a choice between two doors, but between survival and collapse.

I blinked, my gaze still locked on the consent form. My hand hovered near the pen, fingers curling and uncurling like they couldn't decide if they belonged to me.

"...Would this damage me financially?" The question tumbled out before I could think it through, my voice quieter than I meant."Not at all," Ms. Tess replied, her tone brisk and assured — at the exact same moment Ms. Renée answered too, her voice overlapping in a soft echo.  For some reason, that made me smile. Just a little.

 I exhaled slowly, letting the air drag out all my hesitations with it. 

 "Alright." 

 The pen felt heavier than it should as I picked it up. With each stroke of ink, the page drank my consent, sealing my fate in writing.My name rested there, small and sharp in the sea of legal language, and though my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest, the signature was already drying.

 It was done.

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1,512 words.

Hi guys, I plan to write more than 1k words.  Every chapter gets worse and worse, hang in there, Hagarin will be insane soon.

Next chapter

Chapter 1: Present time

This chapter contains themes that may be sensitive to some readers, including:

References to past violenceMentions of death, Light school stress and academic pressure, Brief mention of dangerous creatures and plants (idk how sensitive are yall but hell yeah), Mild language.

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Hagarin's POV After many years, we are finally old enough to leave the institution and live independently in the city. My sisters and I are still together and living under the same roof. I also saw several changes in ourselves as we grew up.

And today, both Hanari and I are 15 years old. We spent years studying within the facility and never had the opportunity to attend a regular school. Now that we are living alone, we can finally attend school. I considered staying at home and do houseworks while my two sisters continue with their studies, but Hanari insisted that I should as well.

We all know that education will always be important in many aspects in lives. 

In the world we live in, survival demands sharp minds—not just sharpened by magic, but by the brutal chaos we humans created for ourselves.

We’re still human, I suppose. Just tainted—twisted by the very magic that makes me wonder: is this still humanity, or were we meant to become something else entirely? 

The world has grown far more advanced ever since magic spread across it. Nothing feels impossible anymore. Some have forgotten where they came from. Others cling to old traditions and beliefs. And then there are those who simply don’t care.

Maybe that’s why the world feels so loud. Everyone’s different now, and no one seems willing to accept what we’ve become.

Look around, and you might see flying cars soaring through the skies of this city. In another, people ride enchanted brooms as their everyday transport. Everything and everyone is different—blended together in a strange mix of magic, machines, and habits.

But here…

I live in a city considered the richest in the world. The nation itself—Aloy—owes its wealth to vast oil reserves. Oil money built everything here. Because of that upper hand, nearly everything is accessible. Magic, technology, luxury—you name it. In Aloy, nothing feels out of reach.

What this city values most, though, isn’t oil—it’s metal. Preserved, traded, revered. I think it’s because the city was once ruled by a god whose very touch could turn anything into metal. Not figuratively—literally. Stone, wood, even flesh. Everything he touched became metal.

And that kind of power leaves a mark. On the land, on the people, on the way we see worth.

But that might not matter now. What matters is that every morning, we follow a certain timetable. I get up early to cook our breakfast, and Hanari and our younger sister will get up early to prepare for school. When they're finished, we'll all enjoy breakfast together. After that, Hanari will wash the dishes as I prepare for school, and our younger sister will assist in putting the plates back in the drawers.

That routine goes on and on everyday.

Sharing what has just happened at the school we attend is stressful, at least for me and Hanari. Our younger sister is stress-free since she is still young and a kindergarten student.

Lately, we have been learning many magic spells, doing scientific experiments, studying a bunch of literature and theses, and many more.

I can say that studying magic spells and doing scientific experiments will help us discover what elemental power we possess.

As I listen to my journalism teacher, I'm fighting the urge to fall asleep. She was now discussing the significance of magic, particularly how it began.

"Magic is important to everyone. No matter how unfair or how much chaos it brings to our lives." she went on to say. "And, in the beginning, the use of magic was legalized as a weapon to defend ourselves, but I have to warn everyone not to be such a prick when it comes to using magic." She giggled, went to the board, and began writing.

"To be exact, 8290 years ago, magic was discovered by a witch," she said, making my focus adjust to her as I listened. I was intrigued. "That witch was none other than Victoria Lemioska." It intrigued the whole class. "Also known as; Victo. Now that you all came to a realization, in all places in the world, her face, and statues are everywhere. As we are all deeply connected with her discovery of the magic," she said before turning to us once again.

"Since Victo is a witch, she first discovered a spell to make a withered plant come back to life." The teacher pulled out a withered rose and used magic to bring it back to a healthy life while it floated in the air. "Victo discovered that spell and named it Resuscitate."

"As time passes by, more spells are discovered by her."

"You can learn it in your spell class."

"But as a journalist, I have seen her notebook filled with magical spells; half of it is forbidden to be used as it casts irreversible damage to anything." She snapped her fingers, making an image of the notebook appear in the air.

We all gazed up, awestruck. It's quite a hefty notepad. Though the object is significantly tarnished due to its age, I can see that the writing on the notepad is still legible and readable to anybody. However, I was attracted by the prohibited magic. I feel that the banned spells are not included in the magic books that are handed to us.

when the image disappeared and the rose landed on her desk. "The notebook was located in our national museum, the Metallica Museum." Our teacher was about to speak again, but then a student raised their hand.

"Ma'am, what about the five major elements?" A student asked.

"The five major elements were discovered by Baili Hermin," our teacher stated. "He was also a journalist like me, and of course, being a journalist requires traveling around the world to explore many things."

"Fun fact, he also used to work under the branch of media analyst, wherein I also work." She proudly claimed. "Moving on, it may sound unrealistic, but Baili met Victoria in a desert. Baili was almost attacked by a lion, but Victo blinded the lion with a spell and took Baili to a cave."

"There's proof, no matter how unrealistic, that Baili's diary was found, and it was also in the museum. He documented his whole journey of travelling around the world, and the most highlighted part of his diary was the discovery of the five major elements."

"He discovered it because of Victo. Baili wrote everything about what Victo said about magic spells, making it more believable that magic spells exist."

"When the article reached many people, the majority of the people started to panic, and out of panic, everyone else planned to execute Victo. The reason is that Victo is nothing but an outcast in the world; possessing magic is absurd and unbelievable."

"And yet, we are here, prone to using magic," our teacher said.

"The elements were discovered when Victo was executed; a light escaped from her chest, making it explode through the sky. It landed on humans, animals, and most importantly, plants."

"Which resulted in why we have species in the forest that are completely dangerous and can harm your life, for example, the flower Rafflesia."

"Before the light landed on that flower, it's just the biggest flower in the world and has a foul odor to attract insects to kill."

"Now it still does its purpose, but it has the ability to stretch away from its position and follow you everywhere in the forest." Our teacher deadpanned making the whole class laughed.

"To make this quick, the five major elements landed on five humans, and those humans are now known to be the gods of those major elements." Our teacher sighed. "We are all aware that the most powerful and rare element to possess is time; in other words, you can control the time, predict what's going to happen, and there are many other signs to feel if you possess one."

"Second is nature."

"Remember, never mess with nature itself, as it was the one that gave us a reason to live in, to breathe in. The ability to possess nature grants you access to control plants and animals."

"But isn't changing the weather also a part of it?" A student asked. "Only the god of nature can do that." Our teacher chuckled. "Come to think of it, the God of Nature has a 15-year streak of absence. Many say that her aura is still around, but many also believe she has passed away, and it's just nature speaking," the teacher sighed.

"Moving on, fire is on the third."

"In my study, fire is always predicted to be possessed by someone who has such a boisterous personality, while the ice one is someone who is...restrained. However, this is just a myth. It is still mostly believed that no matter what personality you posses you'd still get whatever." our teacher summoned her book and it was probably her personalized book. It has a lot of pages and everything that was written in that book was her understanding on how to predict which element do a person possesses.

"ah, here it is." She placed her book on the desk and started reading.

"The element of fire is known to be the most fascinating, exquisite and ravishing elemental of all. It was asserted as one considering a klatsch of people are indulged to play with fire even if it only steers to harm."

"and by all means of harm, it can also be describe as destruction." she finished making the whole class whisper among themselves. "But that doesn't mean to treat someone with disrespect just because they hold that elemental power." She sighed.

THIRD PERSON'S POV

The teacher noticed the change of atmosphere in her class and sighed. "You all probably have forgotten my name but once again, my name is Renée and I hope you all learned something today." Renée glanced at her watch on her wrist.

many students started to protest on her from leaving. They still have a lot of questions with the history but that will all be answered at the next time they see each other again. Renée only stifled a chuckle at the frustrated expression of their students. Curiosity truly made their heads run wild.

"An advance reading on your textbooks won't hurt. Simply just turn your page to chapter 5 and all of your questions will be briefly answered as it provides descriptive explanation to everything." Renée finally exit the classroom.

Once she did, the students in her class opened their textbooks to discover a lot more information. As Renée exit the classroom, she went to the elevator to venture her way to her next class but she was greeted by another teacher; Kyla.

"I see you've gotten your students all pumped up. Quite a headache to deal with." Kyla scoffed as she pressed on the buttons. It only made Renée shrug. "Don't act like you aren't as curious as them when you're at that age." Renée retorted to only make Kyla chuckle and let Renée's tone slide for now. "I assumed you've found someone with a rare element in this class. Hmm?" Kyla's eyes watched Renée's expression from the reflections of the elevator.

"It was such a rare occurrence indeed." Renée remembered Hagarin. "Her eyes are different from the rest. The colors were a lot more dull than the others making it more accessible to assume that she was an extraordinary person." Renée thoughtfully answered. "And this by this she you are referring to, who is she?" Kyla averted her eyes from Renée and focused on the door as it opened. a small ding was heard as they reached the floor. Renée walked ahead of Kyla but spoke before leaving. "Hagarin."

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2,022 words.

Chapter 2

now playing…

angel by massive attack

↺ |◁ II ▷| ♡

yandere asylum therapist! suguru x reader

my first ever dark content/yandere oneshot aaaaaa!!! plsss thoroughly go through the cw’s before reading ^^;

read the prequel here!!! :)

cw’s!!: non-consensual drugging, mentions of needles/syringes, medical malpractice, descriptions of violence (gutting, beating someone to death, etc.), mentions/romanticization of cannibalism, blood eating, medical abuse (???), gn! reader, no use of y/n, uhhhh freaky suguru. like he’s actually crazy (but so are u) and uhhh i think that’s it?? ^^;

wc: 1.3k (what.)

“how have you been feeling?” your therapists voice is soft, just barely loud enough for you to hear. it’s like he’s trying to grasp at any sense of normalcy, as if any of this was normal. your head feels like it’s filled with cotton when you move to look at him, a deadly look in your dazed, slow-blinking eyes.

he completely disregards your glare with nothing but a growing smirk, shifting to adjust your position on his lap. “i see you’ve taken well to the sedatives.” his cold hand grazes your bare arm as he speaks and you have to resist the urge to use all of the strength you have left to throw yourself onto the floor just to get away from him. you decided against it. you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you like that.

suguru’s a charming man. every nurse, therapist, and criminal in this hellhole of an institution knew that. maybe that’s why he clung to you like this. you saw through him, had threatened to knock his teeth out just because you found his smile unsettling in the preliminary meeting (“a convenient way to find your perfect fit!” is what one of the brochures had read).

a few weeks later he was your primary therapist. the only one allowed to see you for sessions and the only one able to prescribe what medicine you took.

this time it was a strong sedative administered by needle, only given to you the one day a week you saw him for your “sessions”. he seemed to enjoy this one, considering how he hadn’t switched the prescription in almost a month (though you were sure he was upping the dose every week, there was no other explanation for the way the syringe seemed to get more and more full every time you saw the nurses holding it).

it’s only now that he seemed to notice the narrow-eyed expression you were giving him. “aw, don’t look at me like that… it’s for my safety, angel. i can’t have you lashing out and hurting me, can i?” his palm rests on your cheek and as much as you will the muscles in your neck to jerk away from his touch, it still doesn’t work. only a small grunt leaves you and that sound only heightens the amusement in his eyes.

“m’gonna fuckin’ kill you…” you manage to strain out. you despise how weak your voice sounds. you despise the way his eyebrow quirks up in interest in response to your threat. you despise how his voice comes out a low, patronizing purr when he asks “oh, are you?” because he knows you will. he knows that if he lowers your dose you won’t hesitate to hunt him down. he’s seen your files, he knows.

you let out a shaky breath at his words, that deadly glare in your eyes never faltering as your head nods in response to his question (though he’d barely constitute it as a nod, more like a subtle twitch of your muscles). “m’gonna gut you… cut you alllll the way from your bellybutton to your fuckin’ throat…” you can feel the delirium from your medication settling in when you’re halfway through speaking, but that doesn’t stop you.

“how gruesome.” is all he hums, a deep, twisted glint of admiration in his gaze. “you’ve certainly grown more creative.” the pad of his thumb presses into your bottom lip as he speaks. he seems almost satisfied with your violent description, like you’d just given him the greatest gift he could possibly ask for (to him, it was).

he couldn’t help but feel touched by your words, how you planned something particularly torturous just to bring him as much pain as possible. the way you hurt people — at least before you were admitted — was concise and unmeditated. someone made you lose your temper so you hurt them, plain and simple as that. you were only able to plead insanity because of the way you “blacked out”, only noticing the soreness in your arms (and the brain matter in your hair) after you had beat a man to death.

so for you — a patient with uncontrollable violent outbursts — to plan something specific just for him? oh, he could feel the pleasant chill rolling down his spine. how would you do it, suguru wondered. would you steal a scalpel from the nurses or a knife from the kitchen? would the way you cut him open be clean — planned, even — or would you just hack at his skin until you were satisfied? he could almost imagine the way you’d pin him down (not like you had to, he’d let you see his insides if you asked politely enough) and run the cool metal over his abdomen before he felt the sharp contrast of the warmth of his blood trickling down his skin. he could only hope he would be alive long enough to see the crimson tainting the pretty skin of your hands, getting under your nails and sinking into the grooves of your palms, absorbing every drop of him.

suguru was so lost in his fantasies that he didn’t notice the way you had squinted at his far away expression, a muscle in your jaw giving a small twitch. maybe if you…

suguru also didn’t notice the way you had managed to slowly pry your jaw open, the tip of his thumb now resting against the ridges of your bottom row of teeth. at least, he didn’t notice until you miraculously willed your jaw to snap shut, the metallic taste on your tongue bringing you a primal sense of satisfaction (you would’ve preferred to bite the the tip of his thumb clean off to teach him a lesson, but this would do).

and oh, you would’ve laughed in his face if you could when you heard that strangled little gasp leave his lips. you relished in the way he watched you with a dumbfounded look, his usually piercing eyes opened wide in surprise.

your victory was disturbingly short lived, though. his shock quickly turned into something almost giddy with the way his eyes seemed to light up like a child who was just handed their favorite toy. he forced his thumb deeper into your mouth, his head cocking to the side almost observantly. “how do i taste, angel? hm?” there’s a crazed look in his eyes. you feel like you’re getting dissected. “maybe you should eat me after you cut me open, yeah? i’d let you, you have my permission.” he’s all too eager to give you more ideas, more ways to torture him even after death.

his arm snakes around your middle so he can press a palm to your stomach. “i’d be with you forever… wouldn’t you like that, angel?” he murmurs lowly by your ear. you don’t have the strength to answer anymore, your eyes blinking slower… and slower…

he holds you tight as you slump against him, (the sedatives make you intensely drowsy… it doesn’t help that he had prescribed you double the recommended amount) making a mental note to up your dosage once again. he can’t risk you building up some sort of immunity, can he? if the force of your bite was any indication, he’d have to find a new medicine for you within the next month or two (not like it was any hassle on his end. if anything, he was excited to see your adorably pathetic attempts to brute force your way through the daze of a new drug).

he just had to keep you here with him… you’d learn to love it.

to love him.