#and that was WITH a system that recognized what happened to me as abuse

[bunni-v1]

Fall

🍓Please please please please please don't look at me. Don't talk to me. Don't think about me. Please.

TW: Discussions of past abuse; Coping with trauma; Caleb is a little shit; Smut; Face riding; Caleb cums untouched

Info: Caleb x OC; Shameless smut, but with feeling

Mitsumi hated the fall, not because it was too cold or because she found the leaves falling ugly or inconvenient. In fact, she found fall to be a beautiful season full of warmth and excitement. The red yellows and oranges of the leaves, the soft breeze, the warmth of pumpkin pie. Seeing family and friends, carving pumpkins, and having little coffee dates. It was all wonderful. There were a million reasons she could list as to why she adored fall, but only one that made her hate it. Funny how it only takes one drop of poison to ruin a drink, just like how it ruined the season for her. 

She tried not to let it show in her face when Caleb was around, but he could always just sense her unease. Ever since it happened, he had always taken extra care of her during the fall. He didn’t know what was wrong, she wouldn’t let him know out of fear. Still, he cared. It was sweet how much he cared about her. It made her feel guilty for not telling him, but every time she went to speak about it, the words caught in her throat and suffocated the sounds before they made it to her lips.

It was years ago, anyway, at this point, bringing it up felt useless. It wouldn’t change anything that happened, and it would only make him look at her… differently. She didn’t want that, she wanted the same old boring, normal, mundane daily life with him. So Caleb wouldn’t find out.

Besides, she felt she owed him some sense of normalcy, considering his situation. So, she pretended that there was nothing on her mind, and it worked well. Each year that passed, it became easier and easier to act like nothing had happened, having no reason to face the past and confront her pain. Instead, she focused on the present, on the little moments that they were allowed to share.

Like now, she sat quietly at a small table outside of a cozy little cafe, staring blankly at the hazy horizon. Caleb had insisted on running in and ordering for both of them, so she let him do as he pleased. He took such pride in caring for her. It was something she loved about him, something she was never really afforded before him. A listless sigh tumbles out of her mouth, leaning her head on her hands and shaking the thought off. 

Today was supposed to be for her and Caleb, a late celebration of their anniversary since he was gone when it happened. She shouldn't be thinking about her ex as much as she was when he was there, but the season just brought her back. That achy, webbing nostalgia is stuffing up her lungs.

Her eyes flutter this way and that, scanning over the street and landing on a couple with their child, laughing and playing in the leaves together. A warm smile lights up her face, imagining herself and Caleb with a little boy sometime in the future. Caleb wanted a little girl, but she would rather have a carbon copy of him running around than her. Maybe one day they could run around in the leaves like a real family. 

Someone bumps into her, stumbling a bit as they collide into the back of her chair with a groan. She reels back, checking to make sure Caleb wasn’t watching for the person's sake, and curling closer to the table to give the person more room to steady. The man jumps to look at her, meticulously styled and dyed blonde hair bouncing in place. Familiar honey brown eyes widen in surprise as he looks to her, sending a jolt of horror through her system. Jisung, the ex in question. He looks older now, more tired, but somehow just as handsome as always. Her throat feels tight as he seems to slowly recognize her, too, mouth falling into a frown and brow furrowed. Neither of them says a word at first, too tense to get a word out. He takes a deep breath, smiling awkwardly.

"Sorry, I'm... I'm a little clutzy." He jokes. She knows he's trying to play it off, pretend they don't know each other, but she doesn't want that. She doesn’t want him to run, not this time, not after all the pain and anger she’s sat with for years and years since high school.

She musters a smile, facing him now, "You always have been. I don’t know how many times you’ve almost plowed me over since we met."

The acknowledgment takes him aback, and he stares at her for a long moment before he huffs out a laugh. He resigned to her whims so quickly, as if he were waiting for it, wanting it too.

"I remember when I broke your guitar back when we first met for the band, you were so pissed," He recalls, "You told me I needed to get my brain checked for injury and wished death upon my firstborn."

She laughs, remembering it well, warmth flooding her chest with fondness. "I loved that thing more than life itself… Caleb scrounged up money from his part-time job just to get it for me… He was more angry than I was."

"I’m sure he was," he admits, "I felt so bad about breaking it, I knew how much instruments mean to their musicians."

She laughs, a little more free at the memory, almost as if nothing had happened between them in the first place, “Yeah. You came into rehearsals the next week with a brand new guitar and your tail between your legs.”

“It was expensive,” He chuckles, “Do you still have it? I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you got rid of it. I, uh, I would’ve too.”

She bites her lip, sucking on the words caught in her throat. She never got rid of it, she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried. Everyone thought that she burned all the stuff he gave her, but she just couldn't get rid of that guitar. It was a reminder of who she had fallen in love with before he became a monster that haunted her for years. She doesn't think he should know about it, though. He didn’t deserve to know about the fondness that still lingered.

"It was probably one of the nicest things I'd ever been given," She says instead of the truth, settling her head back in her hands as if to tell him she was not bothered by his presence. To prove to him that he did not affect her the way she knows he did. To make him ache. 

He goes to speak again, but there is a hot cup of coffee placed in front of her, cutting through their conversation abruptly. A warm arm wraps around her shoulder, pulling her into a comforting chest. Caleb is immediately on edge, as he always is when she speaks with other people. He is particularly annoyed at this guest, never having liked him even when they were in high school.

Caleb had adamantly warned her not to get involved with him all those years ago, and she ignored him. He was always too protective, but she wishes she had listened now. He was always better at reading people than she was; she was just to stubborn to admit that as a teenager.

Normally, his tendency to assess threats immediately would annoy her, but she appreciated the protectiveness now. Jisung immediately catches on to the nature of their relationship, nodding knowingly at the arm wound around her. It sends a jolt of pleasure through her spine, knowing that he could see she had moved on now, with Caleb no less, someone whom he hated back just as reverently as Caleb did.

"Food'll be out in a bit," Caleb says with a kiss to your temple, tone dripping with fake kindness, "I'm surprised to see you again, what was your name again... Jay- Josh-?"

"Jisung," he responds quickly, shrugging off Caleb's pointedness as best as he can. He was astute as ever, though it wasn't hard to tell when Caleb was upset about something. He made his grievances very obvious.

Mimi takes pity on him, though she really should let Caleb go at him for a bit longer. "It was a total coincidence bumping into him, literally. We were just… reminiscing about music and stuff. The old band we had."

Caleb hums, "Oh, I forgot all about that. You still talk to everyone, right?"

"Yeah... we're still all good," She comments, avoiding looking at Jisung.

"Sucks that the band broke up," Caleb sighs, twirling a strand of her hair between his fingers, "You guys were good. Of course, you were the star, but the other guys were cool too, I guess."

She scoffs out a laugh at him, rolling her eyes, "Okay, okay, we get it."

"You were good," Jisung compliments, and Caleb licks at his gums, "Really, we probably wouldn't've lasted a day without your chops. Y'know, our director told me once that the reason he thought to get all of us together was cause he heard you and he knew he needed that voice on stage."

She flushed at the sudden genuineness coming from him, those flowery words he always seemed to have a way with hitting her hard. She remembered why she had fallen so easily and why she stayed for so long when things got bad. He just knew how to get her nervous, both good and bad. "He never told me that."

"You would've denied it," He responds warmly, too affectionate. Caleb's eyes narrow, and his grip tightens just slightly. 

She jumps in before Caleb can question the tension out loud, "I'm just humble, I don't like taking praise I don't feel I deserve."

He nods, sighing in acknowledgment. She's glad when he doesn't press her anymore, getting the hint without her fighting him on it. He's silent for a few moments, then he sighs, "I should go."

"Aww, well, it was nice seeing you," Caleb chimes, sickeningly sweet. He's very close to the end of his patience, and she's glad Jisung is so perceptive to that.

He turns to leave with a little wave, Caleb visibly relaxing, but he stops short. The look in his eyes as he regards Mimi is something indescribable. It's a look she'd wanted him to wear all this time, but now that she sees it... she thinks it looks wrong on his face. Guilt was not his strong suit.

"Hey, I'm sorry," He starts, licking his lips before adding, "You deserved a lot better, way better than me, and I really hope you got it."

She takes a breath, a moment to collect her thoughts. She should just scream at him. She should let it all out, all the agony and pain and suffering he put her through. She should cuss him out, beat him as hard as he did her. Let Caleb take a few shots! She should be furious, raging. She wasn’t, though. Deep down, she never was. It wasn’t who she was, no matter how much she wanted to be.

She looks over to Caleb, and he’s tense, but watching her with a worry reserved only for her. She smiles, regarding Jisung again, "I did. I really did."

He smiles at her, and there is love still there, burning bright as ever. Just as quickly as she sees it, he turns away, and it’s gone again. A weight lifts off her chest, and as it does, the waiter comes over to set their food out for them. 

Caleb does not immediately grill her about the interaction. He allows the two of them to enjoy their rare day out together, treating her like a princess. She almost thinks he forgets about it entirely, all smiles and loving words and gentle gestures. This collapses as soon as they walk into her apartment, sweetness melting away to a sour inside, a scowl resting on his face as he stands across her with his arms crossed.

"So, what was that little show with Jisung, hm?" He asks pointedly.

She sighs, swallowing down her nerves, "It's... It's complicated, and it's just gonna make you more mad."

He steps closer to her, "It's something I should be mad about, then."

"I guess so- I... It's so far in the past now. I feel like if I bring it up it'll just be a big deal-"

He takes another step, "You're gonna hide it from me? I thought we said no more secrets."

"It's not a secret, Caleb! It’s just difficult." She argues.

"Are you seeing him behind my back, is that it?" He asks, sharp, but there's a tremor in his voice.

"What- I would never! Caleb, how could you even think-"

"Then why are you being so secretive? It doesn't make sense, unless you're doing something- something-!"

"Caleb."

"Mitsumi."

She groans, running her fingers through her hair. The scrape is harsh, but it keeps her grounded in the moment. She wasn't ready to tell him. She didn't want him to think any less of her for going through what she did, for allowing herself to be treated the way she was, and of course for keeping it from him all this time. Firm fingers grasp her chin, bringing her face up to him in an iron-tight grip. He wasn't letting her run from this, not that she could run this time.

"You can tell me," He says, softer. The worry is clear in his eyes. Despite his demeanor, she knew he just wanted to keep her safe, he was only just learning how to do that alongside her now.

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, and decides it is better to tell him than let that worry fester into resentment. "Please don't get mad at me for not telling you sooner, okay? I was scared and lost, and I thought you would... You would think less of me if you knew."

His hand slides to her cheek, soothing the skin there, "I could never think less of you."

She nods shakily and allows him to lead her to the couch. She recounts the abuse with a glazed look in her eyes, the fights, the manipulation, and how violent he would be when she made him really mad. She had to hide bruises from Caleb for fear of him finding out. The terror she felt going to class every day, and the relief she got when it was finally done. The anger and the terror and the resentment she’d lived with for so long tumbled from her mouth in a cluttered pile, but she couldn’t stop the flow of the words now that the dam had broken. She just confessed and confessed until she was gasping for air, bobbing her head amongst the ocean of her deepest fears and regrets.

She was shaking by the end of it, fingers squeezing his hand so tightly she was sure it would bruise in the morning. He listened to every word, holding his tongue, though he couldn't stop his foot from tapping angrily against the floor. She appreciated his patience, regardless, even though it was barely restrained. 

She only looks at him when she's finished; she can feel the tremors in his body where she holds him, but she does not expect to see him crying when she looks up at him. His lip is trembling, his eyes are red and puffy, and she realizes she'd never seen him cry before. She frowns, feeling her own tears well up in her eyes. He reaches over with his free hand and scoops them up before they fall down her cheeks.

"Caleb..." She mutters, soft and shaky.

He shakes his head at her, "Don't worry about me, pips. I'm fine. I'm just... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She moves in to hug him, and he pulls her onto his lap without a second thought. He holds her as if he could've lost her - as if she would fall apart without him there. She feels inclined to agree now. She allows him to cry into her shoulder as long as he needs, only pulling back when his shoulders stop shaking. She laughs at his puffy red eyes, rubbing his cheeks softly. He smiles up at her like she is the moon in the sky, kissing her palm with reverence.

She cups his face gently, fingers drawing over his jaw as if examining every sharp edge he had to offer. He was so handsome, and despite his flaws, he loved her so wholly. It was an all-consuming love that made her feel lost within it, but now it felt so comforting. To get lost in him would be a safe haven from her fear. She licks her lips, kissing him would certainly do wonders for her aching chest right now. So, she does just that, leaning down to press her lips to his.

The response is immediate, almost too intense in the way he reacts. He slots his mouth against her like he needed the connection to live, his lips taking the pace and making it move faster than she initially intended. His hands climb up her sides, squeezing the supple flesh there like savoring the feeling of her beneath his skin. His tongue swipes against her lips, and she allows him in without protest. He tastes sweet like the candy apples they'd shared earlier, their saliva mixing as he pushes his way further into her mouth. 

He presses her hips into his, the impressive tent there sending a jolt through her body, earning him a surprised squeak. He swallows it up greedily, pressing himself even further into her mouth, like he wanted to hole up and live within it. She gets lightheaded at the sensation, air being stolen from her lungs with each desperate swipe of his tongue against hers.

She has to force him away from her, and even then, he chases after her mouth like a man possessed. When he cannot kiss her lips any longer, he switches focus and messily kisses down the side of her neck, across her collarbones, and down to the edge of her shirt. He looks up, almost sheepish, as he tugs at the hem of it. She lifts her arms wordlessly, and he tugs it and her bra off in one swoop. 

He admires her breasts with nothing short of fascination, gripping them in his hands and squeezing with a hazy look. Those distant eyes come up to hers, almost in a trance, and he leans down to kiss the soft skin there. He makes a show of it, lapping over the exposed skin without breaking eye contact once, begging her to see how much he could love her. How much he cares. How much better he would be to her.

She rolls her head back when he licks over her nipple, groaning at the hardened little bud on his tongue. He takes great care to give both equal attention, playing with her chest for as long as he seems to like. His free hand moved her body against him for extra stimulation. It is erotic the way he handles her, and all the same, sweet and loving. She sighs when he lets up on her nipples, leaning her back on his lap for better access to her stomach. He supports her head with one hand, the other dancing down from her throat to her navel, stopping at the top of her skirt.

He breathes out as he admires her, utterly infatuated with her body and how it seems to bend and fit to his whims without him needing to ask. Oh, she deserved to be loved. And she would be, in a way only he could show her. No one else would get to know the way she moves for him, the way she sighs and sings his name. It was all his. She was all his. And Caleb treated his things well.

He adjusts to lie himself back on the couch, shuffling her up his abdomen until she is hovering over his face. She gasps when he tugs her panties to the side, shivering when he blows a puff of air directly over her swolled clit. A chuckle bubbles out from his chest, but she is too distracted to appreciate all the feelings.

"Caleb, I'll crush you," She worries.

He hums, adjusting her a bit so he could slot his lips against her properly when he sat her down, "That's the point, pips. Wouldn't be enjoyable if it were easy."

She huffs, indignant, "I prefer my boyfriend alive, thank you."

"Oh, but I'll die happily," he hums, easing her stubborn hips down to his face, "you can't possibly deny me this, can you?"

There’s a pout in his voice, and despite herself, she gives in almost immediately. Her hips hover just above him, and she hears him take a deep sniff right against her. It nearly gets her gasping, but he licks a long stripe up her middle that has her moaning instead.

"Oh fuck!" She cries out, hands instantly falling to grab at the couch.

He tugs her down, making sure she is fully sitting now, and practically ravishes her. Sucking and slurping like it was the greatest meal in the multiverse. She knows when he groans, the vibrations curling into her core, that she won't be walking tomorrow morning. She can’t find it in herself to care when his tongue prods at her entrance, wiggling as far as he can get it between her tight walls. 

His jaw flexes with each disgusting slurp that comes from beneath her skirt, nose bumping against her clit as her drinks her. There's such a desperation in the way he laps at her, almost as if to prove to her that he loves her. That he can be the only one who loves her so well, because they were made for each other.

His hands are grabbing the fat of her thighs in a bruising grip, curling and uncurling his fingers over and over into the fabric of her skirt. She whines, curling over his head and digging her fingers into his hair roughly. He moans loudly into her, the sound forcing another one out of her. It was heaven on earth when his lips wrapped around her clit, suckling at the tiny pearl until she couldn’t think straight.

His hands grabbed at her ass, forcing her to move against his face. Hips moving in slow rolls as her thighs clenched around the sides of his face. She was too lost in the pleasure to worry about him breathing; he was a soldier anyway, and he would be fine. She couldn’t deny him this after all. Her orgasm was ripped out of her by a particulalry harsh suck, hips stuttering against his face, body quaking with the intensity of it.

Caleb chases after the sweetness that gushes out of her, slurping at the juices like it was made out of candy. It prolongs her orgasm quite a bit more than expected, so much so that she has to physically fight him off of her to sit back on his chest.

He is hazy-eyed and red in the face, covered in a layer of her slick, and smirking like he’d just won a billion dollars. His chest heaves beneath her, lungs gasping for air, but he is all too satisfied to care too much about her added weight. She nearly worried she’s broken him entirely, if not for the constant gentle squeeze of his hands on her ass.

It gets her rolling her eyes, “Are you happy with yourself?”

His smirk widens, nodding absently at the ceiling. An affectionate sigh falls past her lips, leaning into the couch cushions next to her as she admired the mess he made of himself. He really relished in her pleasure, though she felt bad leaving him needy. She turns a little to check on his friends, eyebrows raising in surprise when she finds a giant wet spot there instead. Certainly too big to come from her alone.

“Caleb, did you–”

“You taste so good, pips. I could go for seconds, seriously.” He teases, fingers tapping lightly on her rear as if asking her to come back.

“Oh my god, you’re unbelievable,” she laughs, pressing herself up and off his chest.

He pouts at her, but doesn’t stop her, simply sitting there with his arms above his head and enjoying the sight of her ass as she bends over to grab her shirt off the ground. He sighs whistfully, reaching over to grab another handful, only to be swat away like a petulant child.

“I can’t help the fact that my girlfriend is so amazing,” He sighs dramatically.

She scoffs, tugging her shirt back over her head. His hand came up again, this time grasping at her side tenderly. He smiles softly at her, trance officially broken and replaced with his usual sweet and caring demeanor. She is so lucky to have someone who looks at her like that– no, she is so lucky to have Caleb look at her like that. It’s a look she feels she doesn’t feel she deserve, but wouldn’t give up for anything in the world.

“I love you, you know that?” He asks with a surprising genuineness. 

She smiles warmly, “I know. I love you, too.”

He tugs her to sit next to him, resting his head in her lap so she can run her fingers through his hair. He looks up at her with concern, face still covered in her sticky fluids, but still so genuine. She held back the laugh for his sake.

“I’ll never hurt you like that, ever.” He affirms.

She nods, “I know, Caleb. You don’t have to say it.”

“I do,” He insists, “And if I ever do hurt you, you better beat the ever-loving hell out of me, you understand? Don’t you ever let me disrespect you.”

She laughs, leaning down to kiss his forehead, “I promise I will beat the shit out of you if you hurt me, okay?”

“Good,” He hums, satisfied.

There is a long pause, then he smiles up at her, “I was serious about seconds.”

“Caleb.”

[rin-and-jade]

Types of Amnesia

Diagram created by me

General criteria for amnesia:

Memory loss

Confusion

Inability to recognize familiar figures/places

Difficulty recalling names or places

Not remembering where you went

Worser ability to remember things that had happened Post on how to handle these kinds of amnesia: click here!

Generalized Amnesia Where a person completely forgets everything about themself and have no recollection of what, where, and who they spoke to. This can describe a blackout switch and may still recognize who they are.

Localized Amnesia Where a person is unable to recall a specific/series of event from the whole, which creates an incomplete picture of the situation. For example, remembering childhood but not the abuse.

Selective Amnesia Where a person only lost some and retain the rest, forgetting parts yet not all of them. This can describe greyouts as it grasps some information/sensory yet not enough to tell what exactly happened. One example is playing the phone and unable to recall what occured, only to jump its memory right to being at bed.

Emotional Amnesia Where a person has an intact memory and it's details on what had happened, but do not remember what the event feels like (e.g. was scared, happy, etc.). One description is that you're watching something that didn't happen to you, because you don't feel like being in the scene itself.

Continuous Amnesia Where a person fails to retain full parts of the event/day, for a set period of time (can vary from minutes to days) and create an accumulative, small bits of selective amnesias, continuously, leaving many gaps in a chronological timeline. This usually happens in times or stress, or abuse.

Fragmented Amnesia Where a person has an unrelated, and/or disjointed memories that does not go with the timeline's order, creating confusion and difficult to grasp the cohesive picture of what truly happened. Emotional amnesia may be present in this type. Bonus for systems:

Amnesia barriers Where a person fronting is not able to recall other alter's memories, which is a form of retrograde amnesia and compartmentalization. Because the fronter will only retain any information before switching out with the next one, the rest experiences anterograde amnesia as it cannot form and remember those memories, unless being coconcious or cofronting (even though, this is not always guaranteed).

Take notes that amnesia can still happen outside system things due to comorbidities like anxiety disorders or depression, this does mean systems are bound to experience more amnesia compared to non-systems folks out there.

Do you have any discussions about this? Or would like to describe your own way of seeing these different types of amnesia? Or have more to add? Feel free to tell them here!

- j

[secretmellowblog]

One of my pet peeve misinterpretations of Les Mis— which I see in both adaptations, analysis, and fandom— is that “the criminal Justice system’s mistreatment of Valjean was wrong because Valjean was innocent. He was not like other criminals, he was a special exception, a good person who was arrested by mistake.”

The implication is that if Jean Valjean were not innocent, if he were a “real criminal,” the abuse and persecution would have been justified.

One example of this is in the 1935 American Les Mis adaptation. The judge who sentences Valjean proudly says that he is “guilty until proven innocent”— implying that the reason he was arrested was because 19th century France was savage and uncivilized in a way that the very wonderful fair equal society of 1935 America was not, and that Valjean would never have been declared guilty in a country with a proper court system. (Never mind that people are still given inhumanly long sentences for petty crimes even in 2024 America.)

Essentially, rather than analyze the way Les Mis criticizes the cruelty/inhumanity of prison,…..the novel gets framed as a simple story of mistaken identity. Jean Valjean is framed as a good person who is “falsely accused” of being a criminal, when in reality he never actually did a crime, or he “expiated” it, and should be considered wholly innocent ……Unlike Those Other Dirty Criminals Who Deserve What They Get.

This really stands out to me because of one of the things that separates Jean Valjean from Thenardier/Javert is is his unwillingness to betray other people from his class in order to save himself. He refuses to say “I’m not like other criminals��� and to claim that he is a unique exception. He is tempted to do it— ex, when he briefly tries to convince himself that his life is worth more than Champmathieu’s, and that his life of theft and poverty isn’t as valuable as his own— but he recognizes how cruel and wrong the idea is. He is an ordinary John Doe that happened to be given a life changing act of grace and mercy; he’s not an innocent angel who was sent to the galleys by mistake.

As a character, Jean Valjean is marked by his refusal to declare himself the “deserving poor” and the others as “undeserving” criminals, so it’s strange that take rears its head so often.

[revlw]

𓏵 CTRL//OBEY

Yan! ITrapped X Reader

Warning : obbsessive behavior , yandere themes , stalking , worshipping , self aware , ITrapped.

Note : Please do not romanticize real stalking or abusive behavior. This is for fictional and horror purposes only.

You hear about ITrapped before you ever see him.

Rumors. Whispers. A name spoken in hushed tones by survivors in the campfire light. Most describe him with confusion. “He’s not like the others,” someone mutters. “Doesn’t chase you like a normal killer… doesn’t even look like a monster.”

He doesn’t. Not at first glance.

When you finally see him, it’s under flickering lights in a run-down hallway. A basic noob avatar, low-poly and harmless looking—except for that Ice Crown on his head, glowing faintly, coldly. He stands motionless in the dark, head slightly tilted, as if studying you. Not attacking. Not even moving.

Then he vanishes.

You think it was a glitch.

It wasn’t.

His obsession begins not with violence, but with access.

You start noticing strange things in your rounds. Generators you just touched regress by themselves. Doors that should’ve been opened glitch out and lock. Items flicker in and out of existence. But these things only happen when you’re nearby.

At first, it’s frustrating. Then it’s unsettling.

You complain to others, but no one else sees it.

Except him.

ITrapped always appears briefly—standing in the background of your match, not lunging at you like other killers, not roaring or hunting. Just… watching. Frozen. Calculating.

Eventually, the sabotage stops targeting you. Instead, it starts protecting you. He disables traps you don’t see. Breaks paths for other survivors—but not you. You’re allowed to move freely, untouched.

You haven’t done anything to earn his favor. That’s what scares you.

You’re not playing the game. He is.

You begin to realize he’s more than just a presence in the matches. He’s altering the game itself.

Somehow, your matches always start with him now. The map selection glitches until it favors the ones he prefers. Load-in screens freeze when you try to quit. Your inventory resets to a “default” version, and the only item that stays is a strange crown-shaped charm he leaves in your loadout.

Players who get too close to you start having issues. One survivor who stayed by your side the whole round disconnects mid-match and can’t rejoin the server. Another finds their controls reversed. One player swears their Roblox account briefly locked when they tried to message you about him.

Still, he never harms you directly.

When you’re injured, he lets you limp away. He never tunnels you. He lets you finish generators—if you’re alone.

You realize, eventually, that he doesn’t want to kill you.

He wants to isolate you.

The first time you speak to him is accidental—proximity voice, maybe, or a glitched chat prompt.

You don’t even know what to say, but you try: “Why are you following me?”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then a quiet, unreadable line of text appears in chat:

“I used to fix broken things. Then I saw you. I don’t need anything else now.”

You feel a chill—not from fear, but because the message auto-deletes seconds later. Like the system itself didn’t want you to remember.

But you do.

From that point on, he no longer hides. He orbits you in every match. Other survivors grow suspicious. Some stop queuing with you. Others start blaming you when their matches glitch out. You’re alone more often now.

Which is exactly what he wants.

He never refers to you by your username. He calls you “buddy”—the way he once referred to Chance. The way someone might speak to a pet project, or a favorite possession.

You stop seeing him as just another killer. He’s no longer playing the game.

He’s rewriting it.

Your escape routes begin to vanish. The hatch doesn’t spawn when you’re the last one. Exits flicker with ERROR signs when you touch them. Sometimes, your screen goes black mid-match, and when it returns, you’re in a custom map no one else seems to recognize. He’s always there, standing still in the center.

“You’re the only file I didn’t want to delete.”

You can’t tell if he’s speaking in metaphors or literally viewing you as code.

Either way, you’ve stopped feeling like a player.

You’re Already His.

Eventually, he stops appearing to other players entirely.

Only you see him now.

You’re told he’s “disabled” or “removed” from the rotation, but he still shows up in your queue. You report it. Nothing happens.

One night, your screen boots up without you clicking anything.

The message appears in familiar black font:

“Game loaded: You + Me”

And when the round starts, you’re alone.

No teammates. No map.

Just him.

Just you.

Just silence.

And you could feel that he’s smilling.

@revlw 2025

[bluedandylyon]

That first locker scene and how it perfectly encapsulates Catra and Adora's trauma dynamic

NGH I've been wanting to talk about a particular screenshot in this scene for a while and I guess today is the day. Let's talk about Catradora's introduction post-exercise.

We start here, with them joking around after training. They're at ease with each other, but also Catra doesn't feel as vulnerable as to uncross her arms or get closer to her. This is a person who likes Adora but won't be super explicit about showing it. Adora obviously feels comfortable, her arms are crossed but it's because of uncontrollable laughter and her eyes are closed, showing trust.

Shadow Weaver calls Adora's name and you can immediately tell the ease is gone.

Adora feels the need to stand at attention, slightly scared about being caught relaxing. This is a person Adora respects.

Catra does not respect Shadow Weaver, so she locks eyes with her and doesn't stand up, her crossed-arms giving her a sense of safety and protection.

But Catra is still scared of Shadow Weaver, so she does end up standing up, just later. She also refuses to salute. Her defiance against her abuser comes out in small gestures like this, but ultimately she will obey because of the fear of punishment.

Adora wants to keep Catra safe while still maintaining her some-what comfortable position in the system. She does this by trying to show SW that Catra is worthy. She has the flawed belief that if she just tries hard enough, SW will change her mind about Catra and start treating her well.

Meanwhile Catra is pissed at what she sees as Adora pitying her. She does not want her help, it makes her feel condescended. She has always seen Adora get recognized for everything, so when she re-directs the praise SW gives her, Catra just sees it as humble bragging. "Oh you get praised for everything so now that you don't need the praise, you're second-hand giving it to me even though you just told me I was lazy and immature for not doing the exercise properly so I know you don't really mean it."

Adora's tactic (obviously) doesn't work (bc SW's hate for Catra is so internalized), and she's upset by the degradation SW's giving Catra, knowing it will really hurt her best friend. Catra is visibly hurt and frustrated...

...But she doesn't want to show SW her words hurt and actually cut deep, so she tries making a joke.

Adora is worried for her bc she knows how SW reacts to being talked-back to. And she knows Catra knows too. This is the face of someone who is thinking "why are you doing this to yourself?" Adora has probably being told by SW that she is only abusive towards Catra because she is disobedient and insolent. So unfortunately she has internalized the narrative that Catra is somewhat doing it to herself. She most likely thinks that if Catra just did as she was told and behaved, she wouldn't get treated like this.

This, THIS is the screenshot that started this whole-ass rambling. It's just perfect.

Not only do you get the obvious foreshadowing that Catra will be “enveloped in shadows” for most of the show (trauma-based downward spiral), it also shows that these "shadows" (trauma) are from SW. You also get from her expression that she is so freaking angry, but she looks away because she is (understandably) scared. She is not only angry at SW, but also at herself bc of her fear of punishment, she feels weak and pathetic.

You also get Adora’s passivity at the abuse. She looks scared for her, but isn’t willing to step in to stop it. This is abuse that has become so normalized that she is scared about the inevitability of it happening, but isn’t willing to do more than to check in with Catra after it happened bc of her safety in the system and bc she partially blames Catra for it. (She tells Catra "you are kind of disrespectful" when Catra later asks what SW's problem is with her)

Adora’s face is “I am scared for you, please don’t talk back to her bc you know things will get worse for you.” It’s the face of anticipation, of hundreds of times where Catra was punished in front of her and was told "You need to keep her under control" and understanding she failed to do that.

SW tells Adora to walk with her, and she immediately releases Catra and is excited about the inevitable praise she will be getting. Catra obviously is very distressed at the sudden departure without even looking back.

Adora realizes she was going to leave before checking if Catra was okay, so she stops in her tracks.

Catra's ears IMMEDIATELY perk up, begrudgingly feeling nice that Adora looked back.

Adora's expression is a question "are you okay?"

Catra shrugs: "not really, but it's fine"

Adora seems satisfied with this, so she feels okay leaving now.

Catra's expression makes me AUGH bc it's this "I really don't want you to go. I know I said I was fine but I'm actually really not and I could really use comfort (hence the crossed-off arms) but I can't tell you that bc I dont want you to think I'm weak and you need to go so whatever."

This scene is so freaking clever. While dialogue is important, you can tell SO much from their expressions and body language. It just perfectly encapsulates their trauma responses and how their dynamic changes when their abuser is present. It just also shows that their relationship was ALWAYS going to break bc of the rift SW created between them. Their communication is extremely faulty here, even though you can see how deep they know each other (esp in the silent check-in scene).

Anyway these two make me go RAH as per usual.

[drdemonprince]

my personal experience with sex exceptionalism -

i was present at a mass shooting at age 8, and it didn’t affect me at all. i never brought it up to professions (psychiatrist and therapist) because it never seemed relevant or important.

i experienced csa from age 6ish to 9ish by an older child family member. it affected me, but way less than i felt like it Should have affected me. honestly, i think the idea that it Should have fucked me up more was the source of a lot of my suffering due to it as an adult. i started over analyzing my life bc what if xyz was actually an unhealthy trauma response, what if my sexuality as an adult is fucked up and “untrue” to myself bc it’s “just a trauma response”, etc. (i have since accepted that yeah, the csa probably did affect my sexuality, but i am okay with that. it is what it is, and it is not any less true bc i wasn’t “born that way”.)

i was seeing a psychiatrist and therapist for a few months while in a very traumatic school environment. when i disclosed the csa to them, i was evaluated for ptsd and got diagnosed. they took the csa so much more seriously than the school trauma. looking back, i recognize that it was not the csa giving me ptsd - it was the school environment causing all of the symptoms that led to my diagnosis (and causing me to be unable to cope with my past csa, which i had theretofore coped with well.) but the professionals could not comprehend school as being something ptsd-worthy; only the csa, which actually affected me way less than the school, woke them up to the idea that i might have ptsd.

even now, i feel the urge to invalidate myself. when i told my gf “i have ptsd and we’re entering a situation that might be tricky for me, so if xyz happens please do this to help me” - my first instinct was to “justify” my having ptsd by saying i was present at a mass shooting or had past sexual abuse, etc. like, how pathetic is it that of all the life i’ve experienced, the thing that every other american teen survives was the thing that really fucked me up. i felt inadequate in my own lived reality. it’s weird.

God, thank you for this incredibly self-aware and reflective message -- you see very clearly how coercive and controlling the school institutional environment really is, and how much damage it can do. so much of the trauma we endure is regular systemic stuff that is hard to put a name to bc it is so normalized. thanks for sharing.

[warblogs17282]

I'm busy thinking about the fact that we can see how a lot of the conflict between Stolas and Octavia has roots in the unhealthy family dynamics brought on in Stolas' childhood.

Mainly inspired from a quote I heard from someone reacting to the episode, that being something along the lines of "Fucked up parents create fucked up children.", and tbh, I can kinda see that with Stolas and Octavia.

Also, let's get one other thing out of the way as well, the family dynamic Stolas and Octavia had before Blitz came into his life was never healthy at all.

The line 'You have always been the only good thing in my life!' hits really hard for a few reasons, with one of them being because it shows that before Blitz came into his life, Octavia was practically Stolas' whole life. Which naturally is not healthy for either of them, while your child is a very significant and important part of your life, they should still not be literally your entire life.

And well, Stolas being like that makes sense, you can see roots of that within Stolas' isolated childhood and upbringing, the only person Stolas had as a friend was Blitz when he was a child, and even then, they didn't see each other again for the next 25 years, leaving Stolas with basically no one else, no other friends to talk to, etc.

And you can see that manifest itself into the family dynamics between Stolas and Octavia, because Stolas has no social life at all outside of the family, and his family, which as a result, leads to Octavia being practically Stolas' whole world, as shown by that line he said.

The line is also quite interesting as well, because in one side, we have Octavia being practically Stolas' whole world, but I also believe the vice versa of that line is true as well.

Which I suppose is the segway into the section of what happens when an imp comes along and absolutely shatters that unhealthy family dynamic.

Something the show has made clear is that a lot of Octavia's life has also revolved around Stolas, which makes sense, but the issue here is that I'm pretty sure that almost all of Octavia's life revolved around Stolas or the family in some way, as I'm pretty sure that this also leads us to a conclusion that Octavia has no support system at all, no actual friends, etc. Which is something that we recognize is quite similar to Stolas, as he also had no support system, no friends, etc, until he met Blitz at that fateful party.

Especially if we consider the fact that Stella is both a neglectful and abusive parent, so it's not like Octavia had the support of both parents here, Octavia only had the support and attention of Stolas her entire upbringing and childhood.

You all remember the "so that girl could live a normal life" comment Stolas made in s2 e1? I believe that this family dynamic is exactly what Stolas was referring to when he said that, Stolas also believed that the family dynamic at play was a normal and healthy thing for the child, when it was anything but.

Which brings us into the events after Blitz came into Stolas' life, when that the family dynamics Stolas was referring to with that 'normal life' comment were completely shattered.

The family dynamics bring up something interesting to me about Octavia, I feel like her upbringing and childhood is also part of the reason as to why she feels like Stolas has abandoned and replaced her with Blitz, why she struggles to understand the fact that Stolas can care for and love Blitz a lot, while also caring for and loving her a lot as well.

Obviously there's more to the situation to it than just this, there's other things like Stolas failing to properly explain the situation and other things that Octavia really should've known, to give an example. But at the same time, I still can't help but think that all of this has roots in the unhealthy family dynamics between them that got shattered when Blitz entered Stolas' life.

And well, it was Octavia's lack of knowledge about the situation that led to her coming to the conclusions she did, such as the conclusions she came to when she found the happy pills, for example.

Octavia's song also makes something else clear, that she used to think that him and Stella had a happy marriage until Blitz arrived in his life, and we know that the reason Octavia used to think that is because of Stolas hiding the abuse he suffered to give Octavia a 'normal life', which as I've stated before, this 'normal life' also included the unhealthy family dynamics between them, the same one where Stolas' entire life revolved around Octavia and the family, and vice versa for Octavia.

Which is the main reason why I believe that the unhealthy family dynamics is a part of the reason of why Octavia said and did what she did this episode, because Blitz actually started the transition into healthier family dynamics, with those being Stolas finally getting the courage to get the divorce, and Stolas having someone in his life outside of the family, no longer having Octavia and Stolas' family quite literally be all that there is to his life.

But here's the thing, because of Octavia's unintentionally lonely upbringing with the unhealthy family dynamics she doesn't know the full situation of, I don't think she recognizes that it is not healthy for the parent or the child for their entire world to be centered around their child plus the family, and vice versa. Plus for the same reasons and a bit more, I don't think she properly recognizes that Stolas can love and care for both Blitz and Octavia a lot at the same time.

As I have stated before, we point to multiple other reasons as to why Octavia behaved, said and believes in what she did, such as her feeling abandoned and replaced by Blitz, and I definitely agree with you all on that Stolas is nowhere near entirely innocent in this whole situation for multiple reasons, but at the same time, I still believe that at least part of this reason why has something to do with Octavia's upbringing, and the unhealthy family dynamics associated with said upbringing, which has roots in Stolas' extremely isolated and lonely upbringing.

Just to be clear, I am not blaming Octavia for anything here, and I am also not hating on Stolas for choosing to be happy with Blitz as well, while I have stated multiple times that Stolas did indeed fuck-up on multiple occasions, I am still not choosing a side here regarding the whole situation. I will not accept any Stolas or Octavia slander, as I have stated multiple times by now.

[benito-flakes]

The regressive nature of sysmedicalism in regard to trauma survivors

Sysmedicalism is usually attributed to being directed towards endogenic systems in particular, but what happens when those beliefs are turned against the groups they wish to protect? Where does the line get drawn between the seemingly noble desire to stop misinformation and the outright witch-hunting of systems online? 

As a system who has relabeled their identity after years of self-discovery, I have engaged with sysmed rhetoric from the side of an endogenic system as well as from that of a traumagenic one. Unfortunately, I continue to find myself negatively impacted by its effects even now. Despite being the very thing that would be recognized affirmatively in the eyes of a sysmed, I worry I still am not good enough. 

This feeling of personal inadequacy is mixed with a sense of fear, a sinking dread of never fitting a diagnostic mold that will validate me in the eyes of my traumagenic peers. I have no reason to feel this way; I have a trauma history beginning in childhood and my therapist has affirmed the existence of both my system and the individual identities within. I have rushed after a CDD diagnosis to assuage my own fears when my treatment without one has yielded positive results regardless. 

Why do I continue to feel this way? A large part of it is how online communities handle system origins. I find that in attempting to protect traumagenic and/or disordered systems, the medicalized plural community has inadvertently left scars on their own members. When encountering the level of vitriol often directed at non-traumagenic, “non-valid” system types it becomes very easy to develop a mindset of fear. 

Sysmed rhetoric is inherently exclusionary. It promotes dichotomies fundamentally designed to separate: 

Individuals as “valid” vs “invalid” Experiences as objective truths vs experiences as subjective realities “Them” vs “us”  The truth, of course, is that individual experiences are widely variable even within a clinical environment. Diagnostic criteria serve as guidelines but cannot hope to fully encompass the range of structures that function within it.

The hyperfocus on these comparisons is of course problematic, but it is especially so in a community full of traumatized individuals. Knowing that you will be turned on for not fitting a mold, feeling a growing anxiety at presenting yourself in an inoffensive manner, never speaking, behaving, or acting out of line. The need to fawn and placate for fear of harassment and abuse is a perpetuation of trauma cycles that many of us have experienced firsthand. More drastic results of sysmedicalism–fake-claiming and targeted harassment–come from a place of pain; a need to exert control over perceived threats real or imaginary. 

We silence because we have been silenced. 

We tell others they are not good enough because we have been made to feel not good enough.

We hurt because we have been hurt. 

It is not my goal to attack or condemn others for feeling their feelings. What is my goal, however, is to invite plurals to approach one another more compassionately. Viewing my therapy process as personalized to my lived experiences has been incredibly healing when engaging with spaces that often push one-sided viewpoints. Trauma healing and mental health treatment is an individual, tailored process, and that is what we traumagenic plurals should be emphasizing. 

[somethingpersonarelated]

On simplifying Akechi

My brain was ridden with these ideas people have about Akechi that piss me off a little. Mostly ones that say he is "just crazy" or "just hates Joker." There's countless metaposts countering these arguments (and they are absolutely wonderful) but I often wonder WHY simplifying Akechi down is so appealing, even to people who are fans of his character. I can't say I've never been immune to simplifications of his character either, and I feel like that's important to admit. I don't even think it's necessarily a bad thing, but I was wondering about that why question.

TW: Discussions of mental health and child abuse

Source: A high schooler's holiday from the P5 Comic Anthology (read it here!)

I do think it's hard for all of the little things Akechi's character builds upon to be conveyed through a single playthrough. If you go in blind or don't finish his confidant, you may only get that surface level exploration of his character. Base Akechi is flashy and still gets the point across that it needs to: he's a foil to Joker and the PTs. However, by missing out on his social links and special events, you miss cultural, relationship, and personal context.

Many words have been said about the translation, particularly in the engine room, being faulty in areas. But some people still don't understand that Akechi's plan isn't to kill Shido, even when the text makes that clear. There's also this scene with Shido, which reads more as an exposition dump in a long section of the game most players will either tune out or skip. Not everything you see will always stick in your head, and Persona is a LONG game. I feel like it's easy to forget people just... forget canon sometimes. It's easier to put these details aside and say Akechi isn't affected by the system he's raised in. But the reality is, you miss what Lavenza says about Akechi's role, you miss that one exposition scene, and you miss the confidant: you believe Akechi had much more autonomy than was actually true. In conversations I've had with people IRL about Persona, 2/3 either skipped or did not finish Akechi's confidant. It isn't improbable, playtimes can range from 100-300 hours, most playthroughs take weeks. People will forget things. It isn't a maybe, it WILL happen.

When the game feeds you so much information, it's also easier to take what the characters say at face value. Doing this with Akechi will bite your ass. Those words in Rank 8 are directly expanded upon in No More What Ifs, the engine room, and 2/2. Maruki and Morgana confirm Akechi doesn't hate Joker, but you never hear Akechi say it himself. To me the game beats you over the head with this information (as the game has a tendency to do for certain situations), but I've also been in the rabbit hole for over a year now.

There's also this idea that recognizing that Akechi was set up by Yaldabaoth, his upbringing, and Shido means that all the venom is taken away from his actions. That isn't true, and Akechi holds to that in third semester. He doesn't give himself any grace for the situation he landed in, wanting to take accountability for it when it is undone without his consent. Akechi is by no means a perfect victim, and he doesn't believe that either. Recognizing that he had no choice, it was either homelessness and neglect or the plan he conjured himself only brings to light the tragedy of his situation, not whether his actions were morally incorrect. He wanted his father to be in his life, and he wanted his father to suffer. He wanted to have someone like Ren in his life, and he couldn't have someone like Ren because his plan would be jeopardized. It's a series of choices, some of which are forced upon him, some of which he chooses himself. That is an important distinction to make.

There's also this idea that Akechi is 'just crazy,' or never suffered from abuse or events that affected him long term. That he doesn't suffer from unspecified mental health conditions or trauma, and chose everything with a clear mind. When someone brings up this argument, it's usually in response to people talking about his life experiences. That somehow, the existence of trauma or a condition is an excuse for whatever he did. There's a double standard here: Akechi is someone who suffers from a condition that makes him 'plain crazy', simplifying his entire motivation and role in the story, while also removing him from the context of his mother, Shido, and his experience with the foster system. Actually interacting with these facets of his character brings to light the challenging things the story asks you to think about when it comes to Akechi: Is he a victim? Is he like the Phantom Thieves? What about his situation informed his choices? Interacting with this requires effort and an actual acknowledgement about what it means to be someone that suffers from trauma. Calling him 'plain crazy' not only is in disservice of textual analysis, but more importantly incorrect (and frankly, it falls straight into ableist tropes about mental health).

Sometimes internet debates/discourse lead to simplification, even just random headcanons may lead to simplification. That isn't always bad. There are many ways to say what I said here in fewer words. I, unfortunately, am not skilled enough to do that. But some of these simplifications lead to entirely incorrect judgements about a character, or even about mental health issues. When that happens, I wish people would learn to reflect about what that means when they interact with a piece of media. Or even with other people.

tldr: people should learn to say they just don't like things instead of coming up with excuses that make no sense. basically

[lizmidfordsblog]

Who is Cale Henituse? And Who is Kim Rok Soo?

In a previous post, I mentioned how OG!Cale's The Birth of a Hero future was Kim Rok Soo's worst nightmare. Raon never lived. The Henituse County was razed to the ground. Eruhaben was likely killed off by the Dragon Half-Blood or the White Star.

How do we know that was his worst nightmare? Because Kim Rok Soo (KRS) has already lived through it with the cataclysm and everything that unfolded afterward. I'm currently writing a thesis on the fluidity of identity, and the sheer lack of staticness of KRS's entire life & his personhood is physically staggering.

Orphanhood, child abuse and alienation are all examples of instability we see reflected in real life. They don't necessarily have to connote instability, but in KRS's case, they did. Shifting from different homes, in the care of (or lack thereof) of different adults etc. These are age old tales, of children aging out of systems and working hard to get into college to support themselves. Here, KRS stands out as one example out of thousands.

But the author takes this to the next level; in the Cataclysm, that already fragile sense of identity is fully squashed.

During the Sloth Test, Kim Rok Soo defines his high school experience as uneventful and peaceful. He's finally out of his abusive situation and can reset, can lay down his roots. He begins to develop goals, fosters connections (however little they are) and has the drive to reach for those goals through working jobs. The moment he dares to dream of more, the Cataclysm takes place in what can arguably be a moment in Earth 2's history that revamped every single human being's identity.

Once, Lee Soo Hyuk (LSH) was a third rate actor playing extras. Now he's lowkey the hope of the diminishing Korean population. He's the only Ability User with two (recorded) abilities.

Once, Kim Rok Soo (KRS) was an orphan working in a restaurant earning money to attend college. He'd made something out of himself, no matter how little or fragile it was.

Now he's effectively nothing, as is enforced and told to him by literally everyone in this new society that prioritizes efficiency & usefulness over all else. He states it himself, considers it true himself: he was useless until he activated his own Abilities.

Then we have the dismantlement of the central shelters, then latter on a period of stability where he forges bonds with Choi Jung Soo (CJS) and Lee Soo Hyuk (LSH). He again, finds a place for himself in a broken world. And what happens? That, too, disappears.

Kim Rok Soo is someone used to change, placing and taking down different masks in order to survive. The irony of his existence is how he literally gets his soul swapped, another complete revamp of his identity. He's no longer Kim Rok Soo (not that he had much attachment to it, as KRS emphasizes throughout the novel) but rather he's Cale Henituse now. With all the connotations of the word.

I chose to write my fic specifically to interrogate this shift of identity. In TCF canon, we never really get to understanding the implications of OG!Cale's disappearance from the perspective of his loved ones. I adore KRS with all my heart, and cackle at all the 'trash' comedy going on. But I also think about the sheer tragedy of no one realizing OG!Cale was missing, or that KRS had replaced him. That's not on Choi Han, Raon or any of the family members KRS has gained post-transmigration.

It makes me think of just how alienated OG!Cale purposefully made himself that-- forget Deruth (who I can expect to be busy with work) but Ron, who was by his side every day did not realize. That's terrifying; it makes you wonder, what makes a person themselves? Their physical body, their soul, or their personality?

If KRS!Cale suddenly switched bodies back, would any of his family members realize?

(I know they would, cue our Dark Tiger quite literally recognizing KRS in the Sealed God Test, but think about it!!)

Jules works as a character because she's someone from OG!Cale's past, who knew him intimately (as close as a family member), and hence, at the realization that this is not him-- is understandably and rightfully equal parts pissed and scared. The funniest part is, this fic was never meant to be a romance, I was just toying with the idea of someone who actually knew OG!Cale before KRS took over, finding out about the soul swap. I'm really excited to see how the author tackles this with Ron & Beacrox in Part 2, who have long begun to suspect our beloved KRS!Cale.

Actually, this makes me think of Alberu, who's doing some identity swapping/obscuring of his own. I wrote a bit about it in to your eternity, but I might do a separate post just waxing poetry about the sheer beauty of him as a foil to our beloved Cale. And Choi Han. And OG!Cale. Ughhh!! Even Eruhaben, himself (as someone who has had a fixed identity/personhood across his thousand years) acts as a foil to Kim Rok Soo, who flips between identities like they're clothes. And who, ironically, has this change satirized via different characters always misunderstanding him (calling him a dragon, thinking he's a god etc.).

Any way, that is my daily dose of mental breakdowns courtesy of our favorite slacker. Sorry if I kept rambling obvious things, its just that every time I reread the novel, I'm just blown back by the characters. TCF, as it's core, isn't a plot-driven story but rather a character-driven on. It's heart is in it's found family and I think that's beautiful.

If you liked this post, or wanna geek over these characters more, shoot me a text! I'm always down!

Also, feel free to check out my fic! I currently have a chapter out talking about Beacrox & his displacement from his home/finding a new one with the Henituses.

[drac-kool-aid]

Seward's bone deep desire to run away from the asylum is not exactly surprising. There have been a lot of really good meta posts about how the return of Van Helsing into his life is the turning point where we see the caring and good side of him and how we can interpret his life as a student in Amersterdam as one of freedom and happiness. How he is part of the tragedy of manners, how strict social expectations allow Dracula to persist, and how they only exacerbate the unhappiness of the characters.

And I think the tragedy of Seward is that, really, he should not be the head of an asylum. It's a job that brings him no joy, and he's BAD at it. We can all recognize that if your first reaction to going back to work is "What if I just leave it all." That isn't a healthy work environment.

Now, in the modern day, the ability to pick and choose a work environment, even to leave one that is damaging your mental health, is a privilege. (IT SHOULDNT BE, but it is). And, although it is definitely reaching crisis levels in modern times, major changes in your career have almost always been difficult (unless you are really rich, or a particular brand of academic in the 17th-18th century, or both).

Seward can't just leave and become a surgeon. To give up the lofty position of "Head of an Asylum" would be unthinkable in the 1890s, especially for a reason like "Being here is basically turning me into the Joker." Like, how would Seward explain that in polite society? Would they accept that reasoning? Would they create salacious gossip if they didn't? Can Seward leave his position without losing a great amount of social capital?

Probably not.

His rise to head of an asylum, as many have pointed out, was meteoric, to say the least. It has afforded him status and respect and also left him deeply, deeply fucked up. And he can't leave!

I think his desperate attempts to quantify Renfield's behaviors into a new mental illness are telling in this regard. Maybe he is too used to having to meet some sort of expectation, and now he thinks this is the logical next step (It's NOT, but I digress). The feeling of having to keep performing above expectations, grasping at straws to do so, and subsequently burning oneself out (as well as others around you) and engaging in unethical practices? Idk. It sounds like something that would happen today. (tbh there are probably a ton of Sewards out there today, as there are still systemic problems within the mental health system that allow for the dehumanizing and abuse of patients).

It doesn't excuse his behavior. Nothing he does to Renfield is excusable, but I think it does explain some of the *why*. He isn't just cruel for cruelty's sake.

So, tldr I guess: I think reading Seward as someone who got stuck on a career path that he realized was unfufilling and that he ends up hating. Social conventions restrict him from just quitting without and a (socially acceptable) good reason to do so, and a lifetime of being regarded as one of the smartest people in the room means he can not allow himself to fail. Unfortunately, this also means he can not admit when his actions or his ideas are wrong when it comes to his job.

(But he can show that uncertainty FOR Lucy, and TO Arthur and Van Helsing, which speaks his trust and love for them)

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 2)

Uzi felt herself being dragged out of sleep mode. Something she wanted to cling to heavily, she was warm, safe, happy, she moved closer to the heat source, mumbling a "no” as it seemed to try and move away.

Then it stopped, before enveloping her again, followed by a deep, strong rumble that did nothing but make her more comfortable.

“Uzi, come on, if you're dad walks in on this he's going to have a system crash.” A voice spoke to her, she recognized it, she smiled.

“Let him… he sucks.” She mumbled, and another rumble went through her. A pressure on her back, guiding her, and lingering for just a moment.

“Come on. At least let me go drink something before I overheat.” At that she felt herself get pulled completely out of sleep mode, her eyes flashed back to her visor with a groggy grumble.

“N?” She questioned, not quite awake. Why was he here again? And why was she so warm?

“Yeah? Are you going to let me get up?” He had a laugh tucked in his words. Uzi opened her eyes, only to look directly into a honeyed visor.

Her mouth went dry, memories of the sleepover invading her head, the movie, him overheating, his sleek armored body-

Ack, No! What the hell? Drones didn't even have anything to look at!

Oh but it was worse, she was on top of him, his arms wrapped around her waist and his tail wrapped around her leg, her chest pressed against his, feeling his core hum underneath her.

Oh… Oh no…

Her face exploded in blush. Every ounce of her body suddenly becoming ice. She scrambled off him, throwing herself off the bed with “ohgreatrobojesus” tumbling out of her mouth right before she hit the floor with a thud.

N was immediately next to her, checking to see if she was okay.

“You good? I'm so sorry! I didn't think I would scare you awake!” His hand was on her shoulder, already apologizing for something that wasn't his fault. Stupid crush, stupid cute golden drone boy, dammit.

“Bite me! I'm fine, you didn't. I just, wasn't expecting- whatever.” All her shields came up at once, trying to grip for something familiar despite how soft she felt. N thankfully only laughed, stepping back and stretching his tail.

“Good! I was worried I spooked you. You know you're really cuddly in your sleep?”

Oh Robo-god, how… how did he still not know? After everything that had happened in just this one night, how had he not figured her out by now? Did he know? Was he just pretending he didn't? Or was he actually that dense?

“Oh… uh sorry.” She apologized, turning to him after doing her best to conceal her fluster, only for N to look horrified.

“I didn’t mean to imply it was bad! It's really nice you can relax like that with me! It let's me know I'm being a good freind!”

He was… actually that dense. And Uzi had never been happier about having a crush on an idiot.

He's not an idiot, he's just dense, there's a difference.

“Still, s-sorry for keeping you pinned down.” She offered. Still feeling the need to apologize for using N's body like a personal heating pad without asking, even if he looked like he hadn't minded in the slightest.

“It's okay! I could still breathe, nothing like being pinned to a wall!”

Man sometimes the shit that came out of his mouth was concerning. It wasn't often, but sometimes he would reference how he was mistreated by J, V tended to just ignore him, which annoyed her, but at least she wasn't physically abusive.

She was glad she'd vaporized the bitch. Twice.

“Oil stash is in the mini-fridge, help yourself.” He immediately whipped towards it, burying his face into the space beneath her desk.

“Tanks!” His muffled voice cheered, pulling out an oil can with a straw. Chugging the container like it was water. Oil running down his cheek and threatening to drip from his chin.

Honestly, Uzi wouldn't ever admit it, and felt weird admitting it even to herself. But watching him display his more… murdery side always excited her, like he was dangerous to be around and she was cool and edgy for being able to tame the beast inside him.

The only problem with that fantasy is that N was probably the safest being in a hundred miles to be around. And the beast inside was an overly excited dog.

Still, she could sometimes pretend.

He finished, wiping his mouth before training his gaze on her, she felt her neck prickle, damn he looked predatory sometimes-

“When's the last time you topped up?” He asked, realizing that he'd drunk from her personal stash and hadn't noticed any other container.

“Yesterday. Don't worry, I haven't been ignoring it… it kinda won't let me…” She thought back to the first time she'd drunk the stuff without being, for lack of a better word, Possesed.

She was curled up in a ball, sitting in the pod. Looking reproachfully at the cannister of oil N had put in front of her. The same N sitting across from her, trying to hype her up.

“You need this, if you don't have it you'll go on a rampage again. And I know you don't want that.”

“It's still from a worker drone. It's still blood, I… I don't want it. Please don't make me.” She'd been in hysterics, only a week after she'd killed half her classmates did she start hungering for more. Temperature slowly ticking up.

“Uzi, I won't let you burn yourself up.” N had replied, looking steely, he moved slightly closer, picking up the canister and holding it out to her.

She took it with a shaky hand, she hadn't recovered from loosing control, waking up terrified, or waking up drooling, or both. She didn't want to hurt anyone else, she couldn't, she didn't think her conscious could handle it.

So she tipped it into her mouth, and the oil slithered down her throat.

She felt both relief and disgust hit her at once, making her immediately want to vomit. She would have, had N not grabbed the container and forced it to stay in place.

“Don't vomit, I know you want to. I did at fist too, drink slowly, stop thinking about where it comes from.” He had a hand on her back, the other slowly tipping more in her mouth.

She hated it, she **loved** it, it was sweet and warm and rich, like the best mixture of coolant she'd ever tasted. Tears pricked on the corners of her visor. Fuck, was this what she was now? She really was a freak.

A monster.

“Thats it… it's okay. Don't cry Uzi, it's okay.” N's voice was soft, and he was rubbing circles into her back to relax her. Slowly she did, taking the container from his hand and holding it herself, draining the liquid from it.

She finished it, visor blurry from the tears, N wiped what was left from her mouth with his thumb, looking at her with a soft smile.

“Are you okay?” He asked, and the worker drone blinked back at him for a moment before Uzi launched herself into his chest, choked sobs escaping her, her arms wrapping around his neck, gripping his shoulders so tight that if it was any other drone it would hurt.

N wasn't a monster, he was the nicest person Uzi had ever met and then some. But he still needed oil, and he'd killed for it, countless times, but it still wasn't okay was it? That she craved it, that the desire was there just under the surface?

“Yeah… that's what I figured.” He said sadly, holding her tightly as she sobbed uncontrollably into him, his arms went around her, holding her close, then his tail, and then they were shielded by his wings, as if they were cocconed in thier own little world.

“You're not a monster, it's not your fault.” N said into her hair, almost reading her mind, sobs turned into hiccups and whimpers, feeling the warmth of his core humming underneath her.

“W-why does it h-have to be me?!” She said in a warbled, watery yell, pressing herself against him further, she felt him stiffen, then relax, a hand petting her hair.

“You're so strong, you're so brave, and smart, if it was anyone else they'd already be dead.” He complimented her, her beanie slid off as he ran his fingers through her hair. She sniffed, despite her current state she felt a blush creep up her visor.

“B-bite me, you don't actually mean that.”

“Yes I do. Would I ever lie to you?”

She was pulled out of the memory by N's hand on her shoulder, head cocked the side as if he expected something from her.

Had she been ignoring him?

“Oh! Sorry, did you say something? I kinda zoned out…”

“I just asked if you needed me to get more oil for you, I don't want you going without.” He repeated, not looking annoyed at her in the slightest, which honestly kinda made her feel worse.

“Nah, I can get some from the nursery.” She brushed him off, walking to her door and leaning against it for a moment, looking back at him.

“It's not dusk yet, and I'd feel weird just leaving you in my room… wanna come with? I don't think you've seen the nursery before.” If she was being even more honest with herself, she just wanted him put of her room so he wouldn't snoop. He… didn't need to find her dair-journal, it was a journal.

Not that she thought N would intentionally voilate her privacy, but just the thought of him stumbling upon her stupid sappy fanfiction about him- no shut up made her want to never give him the chance.

“Oh! Babies?” He hummed, grabbing his overcoat and hat from where they hung on the side of her bed.

“There might be a couple. People have started to have them more after you and V stopped… you know.”

N smiled, beginning to pull off his shirt before he saw Uzi standing there and paused, sheepishly motioning for her to turn around.

She did, facing the door as she heard N fumble with his clothes, and a muttered “Oh Biscuits” under his breath.

“Problem?” She hummed, trying not to think about how broad his should- freaking stop brain why.

“No! Er well yes, but I got it!” She heard more shuffling, then the distinct sound of N's claws unsheathing. Then more sounds of N getting increasingly frustrated.

She turned around to find N struggling with his belt, mostly because his tail was caught in it, and he was trying desperately not to stick himself while trying to use his claws as a crowbar, lifting up the belt so he could pull his tail free.

“How did you manage that?!” She laughed as N looked dejected, returning his claws back to his normal hands and awkwardly wringing them.

“I haven't ever taken the coat off before.” He mumbled, and Uzi just giggled, coming up to him and grabbing the wire of his tail, and slowly unweaving it from the fabric of his belt.

This was what he meant by sweet, Uzi didn't make fun of him when he made mistakes, at least not seriously, and he felt less dumb and less scared when he did make one. She'd often just explain what he got wrong or- like now, just help him out.

“Least I can put mine away, this looks like it can be a nuisance sometimes.” She pointed out, seemingly almost done with her task.

“Sometimes, and the vial is really sensitive too, I think it's to make sure we don't break it…” as he mentioned it, Uzi's palm grazed the nanite vial in question, sending a brief but powerful bolt of input up his tail, making him wince.

“Sorry… said that a second too late.” She said, also looking like she winced with him. But he just smiled.

“S'okies, it wasn't on purpose, you're also trying fix my screw up, so can't complain.” He gave her a thumbs up as he was finally able to pull his tail free.

“You can still complain. Also it wasn't a screw up, just a… wardrobe malfunction.” At that they both laughed, Uzi looking down at herself in her light yellow shirt.

“Right, my turn. Then nursery.”

Next ->

[howlsofbloodhounds]

How Killer would start improving as a person after running away from Nightmare?

Well, for starters, he’d have to really recognize that he’s even a person—that he’s just as real as all the other persons around him, that other people are in fact real even when he’s not able to have physical contact with them to confirm it for certain, that he does in fact have an effect on the people around him even when he’s not physically touching them, to even begin to improve.

That includes getting rid of the conditioned belief that he is only allowed to exist if he has a use, and only allowed to stop existing if he does not. The belief that he is nothing more than a killer, and that is what he was made for. Made to be. The only reason he exists is to play the role assigned to him.

Which means therapy, which means deprogramming—or perhaps exit counseling.

Which is going to take time in a case like Killer’s, because programming is an inherently complex thing and it can be dangerous if not handled with care. Both for Killer, and for those around him.

Next big thing: his abuser cannot be allowed to have access to him.

He will never heal, regardless of if he’s in therapy and working on deprogramming, if someone like Nightmare is either regularly upkeeping on his already existing programming and conditioning, teaching new conditioning, further traumatizing Killer, or even just retraumatizing Killer with his presence alone.

This is also a real concern for loved ones of and therapists working with patients who are apart of ramcoa systems, not to mention the systems themselves.

Difference between a ramcoa system and killer is that a ramcoa system may not even remember or know that their abuser(s) or handler(s) still have access to them.

Which means unless they start remembering, an alter manages to speak up, a mistake is made, or some obvious tells start showing up—like unexplained injuries and making huge leaps backwards in terms of progress during therapy, for one—then the system will likely not even know they’re in danger, and won’t be able to ask for help because they don’t know they need any help.

In Killer’s case, we see that he seems to experience full blackouts when triggered into Stage 4–but Stage 4 seems to behave and react in predictable ways.

It’s very likely Killer will not remember if Nightmare ever triggers him into Stage 4 deliberately (which is very likely the reason why Killer would try to keep it hidden from him), especially if there’s no usual tells of death, violence, and blood that follow Stage 4.

But even without Stage 4, Killer still suffers from severe derealization and dissociation. He quite literally cannot tell what is and isn’t real anymore, relying on physical touch to do so—and as I’ve stated before, his Stages are dissociative states. Which means Killer is inherently dissociating on some level whenever he’s in Stages 2-4.

So imagine a scenario where Killer manages to physically leave Nightmare, but it was for other reasons outside of wanting to genuinely leave and be free and change on his own, Nightmare gains access to Killer, triggers him into Stage 2 just like in the comics where Killer asked Color to save him in Stage 1, doing whatever or having Killer do whatever he needs him to do..and he doesn’t keep Killer.

He lets Killer go back home, back to his cats, back to the Crew, back to Color. Back to his bed, back to sleep.

Killer wakes up in bed beside Color, the cats curled up at their feet. Is he in Stage 1 or Stage 2? If he’s in Stage 1, he might immediately feel that something is wrong, and start shaking Color awake; asking him if he left last night at any time.

What he remembers of last night..it feels like a dream, surreal. As if he was simply watching everything happen, a sense of, that wasn’t me, was it? That wasn’t happening to me.

If he’s in Stage 2, he may not think anything of it. Just get out of bed, and ready for the morning.

Especially if it’s not the first time he’s dreamt or remembered things about Nightmare or his time working for Nightmare.

If he wasn’t able to touch Nightmare in any capacity during that time, it’s really nothing more than another dream to him. If he has doubts, maybe he casually asks Color or one of others once they wake up eventually, but accepts their answers at face value for the moment.

They say they don’t think he left or went anywhere last night, so he must’ve just been dreaming again.

Killer’s derealization and distrust in his own judgment and perceptions could even so severe that he could literally be sitting on his bed in his bedroom he shares with Color, heavily dissociating, and watching someone climb in through his bedroom window and rob him and color and then leave.

All without doing or saying anything to stop it because..it wasn’t real. It didn’t feel real. His mind simply couldn’t process it as something that was real, rather than a dream, or a memory, or something of the sort.

And so long as the robber(s) don’t physically touch him or try to physically attack him, even if they look him in the eyes or talk directly to him, then he doesn’t really feel any need to act. Because he’s not comprehending that what’s happening is real.

He could wake up the next morning, see his window cracked open a bit even though he remembers closing it, and still have trouble believing that someone actually robbed their house and he just..sat there. Watching them.

Basically, even if Killer is now living with the Chromatic Crew with distance between him and Nightmare, so long as Nightmare has the ability to gain access to Killer—he can keep trafficking and using him, especially if Killer isn’t in therapy and working on deprogramming.

Only this time no one would really stop Nightmare, because they don’t know about it, Killer doesn’t trust or believe it’s real and so sees no reason to talk about it, and Color believes Killer is safe in the Omega Timeline.

Trafficking isn’t always as straightforward as kidnapping and holding someone hostage in a creepy castle or dungeon, after all. In fact, it rarely ever actually is in real life.

Someone can be promised a job opportunity and suddenly find themselves being trafficked for unpaid labor, and their loved ones back home just think they’re working or whenever they go to work, it’s just a regular, paid job. No need for concerns, especially if that loved one stays in contact or comes back home every night.

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 16 Dragged Back (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Violence/Physical Assault. Gun Violence. Summary : Exhausted beyond your limits, you collapse in the middle of a meeting at Stark Tower. Bruce tends to you with calm precision, while Stark masks his worry behind sharp remarks. You're forced to rest, though it feels like failure. Later, you head to the police to report your abuser, hoping for protection — but the system greets you with cold detachment. No help. No real concern. Just a form and vague promises.

word count: 14.6k

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The first sound you perceive isn’t a voice, nor a word — it’s a low, almost organic hum. It pulses against your skull like an underwater current, steady, distant. Everything seems to come through a glass wall, as if the world exists at a distance you’re not yet able to reach. Then, the sounds evolve. At first vague, formless, like echoes distorted by water. Voices.

A conversation, maybe. Fragments of syllables gently bumping against your awareness, not yet forming meaning. Your body, for its part, still refuses to respond. It’s heavy, exhausted, anchored into the mattress as if every bone had been replaced with molten lead. A dull pain stretches across your back, between the shoulder blades, and the arm in the sling is numb, nearly absent. Even breathing requires too much precision, too much consciousness. Then a voice pierces the veil — deep, steady, familiar.

— “Can you hear me?”

You don’t open your eyes yet, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. Bruce. His calm, his grounded presence, that way he always keeps control. He’s here. Another voice follows — closer, sharper, and far less patient.

— “Great. Of course this had to happen now.”

Tony.

There’s tension in his voice. Not panic, not really. More that typical mix of restrained anger and poorly hidden concern. His very own way of showing he cares without having to say it. It twists something in your chest, but you can’t reach him yet. Not fully. You want to respond. You try. But your lips remain sealed, as if your brain and mouth haven’t reconnected. The world continues on without you for a few more seconds. A cold shiver slowly climbs your spine. It runs through you like a dull wave, waking your nerves one by one. Your mind still floats somewhere between unconsciousness and the surface, halfway through a too-dense dream. But already, the world starts to assert itself, in small strokes.

The floor is cold beneath your palms. A raw, almost aggressive chill, stark against your damp skin. You also feel pressure against your arm — faint but present — a hand, maybe, or some kind of support. Someone caught you. Or softened your fall. Or stopped you from collapsing entirely. The air around you smells metallic, sharper than before, with a trace of ozone, like after an electric discharge. Nothing familiar. You’re not at home. The realization hits you with unpleasant clarity. The Tower. You’re still in Stark Tower.

You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids refuse to budge. As if sewn shut by fatigue, or sealed by fear. Instead, you breathe in — or try to. Your breath is short, choppy, irregular. It struggles to fill your chest, stuck somewhere between anxiety and instinct. A hand settles gently on your wrist. Not abrupt. Just there, measuring. Evaluating. You feel the warm touch of fingers, the light pressure searching for your pulse.

— “Heart rate’s a little high, but it’s stabilizing.”

Banner. His voice reaches you with newfound clarity. Still calm, still that almost detached analytical tone. But not cold. Never cold. Just… measured.

— “Yeah, great, thanks Doctor. And what do we do now?”

Stark. Again. His voice cuts like a short blade — sharp but restrained. No usual theatrics. No sarcasm. No irony. Just a dry tone. Practical. Maybe worried. Maybe… not ready to admit it yet. You remain motionless, caught between two worlds. You know you’ll have to choose. Rise. Respond. Return to your body. But for now, you listen. Silence settles. Dense. Heavy. You can’t see it, but you feel it — that suspended waiting, that frozen moment where everyone holds their breath — as if your stillness sets the tempo of the room. Then a sound of movement, subtle, fabric shifting, a shoe gliding softly across the floor. A presence nears. You don’t know which one, but you feel it looming near your face.

A light tap brushes your cheek. Gentle. Measured. Not a slap — just enough to stir the fog. A physical summons to come back.

— “Come on, kid, back to Earth. I’ve got better things to do.”

That voice is unmistakable. Even without the arrogance, it holds that sharp clarity, that stubborn refusal to let things stay blurry. He doesn’t allow panic. He reshapes it into impatience. You let out a faint groan, barely audible. Your throat is dry, scratchy, as if you’d swallowed dust. Just making a sound pulls a grimace from you. You don’t speak yet. Not sure you can. But the effect is immediate. Something in the air shifts. A slight movement. A breath released somewhere near you. A tension easing by a fraction. Relief. Unspoken. Unshown. But present. Almost tangible.

You feel eyes on you. Not invasive. Just… watchful. Maybe worried. Probably curious. You’re still here. And so are they. You gather what willpower you have left and force your eyelids open. Slowly. The light hits you like a slap — raw, unfiltered, too harsh for your still-numb mind. Your retinas protest, burn, and your pupils contract in a desperate attempt to adapt. The first images are blurry. Shapes, indistinct, sway as if seen through murky water. Then, slowly, the edges begin to sharpen.

You’re lying on the floor, slightly turned to one side. The cold metal seeps through your shirt, climbing up your spine like a wave of ice. Your left arm rests against something soft — a jacket, maybe. Someone broke your fall. Bruce Banner is crouched beside you. His usually serene face is marked by focused worry. Furrowed brows, alert gaze. He doesn’t move abruptly. He’s watching you. Waiting. Just behind him, Tony Stark. Arms crossed, posture rigid in his flawless suit, he glares at you like he’s expecting an explanation for a technical failure. His eyes, dark, are locked on you — but there’s no contempt in them. More like… irritated concern, barely veiled beneath a mask of irony.

— “Did you really have to give us a dramatic collapse right in the middle of a meeting?” he says, brow raised, that familiar bittersweet irony floating in the air like smoke.

You close your eyes briefly, weary. That tone. That pathological need to hide concern behind a well-placed jab. You don’t even have the energy to care. Your body is still too heavy to react, your breathing still too shallow to string together more than two words without exhaustion. But your mind… your mind is starting to return. To piece things together.

You inhale slowly, struggling to order your thoughts, then croak out in a raspy whisper, barely audible:

— “I’m… not dramatic.”

A whisper, hardly more than breath. But enough to crack the silence around you. Banner studies you for a moment longer, his eyes following your breathing, then lets out a light, almost resigned sigh. He turns to Stark, weighing his words before speaking.

— “He’s just pushed his body too far. Sleep deprivation, chronic stress, acute exhaustion… Nothing surprising. But he needs rest. Now.”

His tone is calm, but firm. Final.

— “Well then let him rest,” Stark replies without missing a beat. “Get him a room, shoot him up with whatever it takes to keep him from crashing in the halls, and let’s move on.”

His cynicism rings like a poor defense. Almost automatic. You’re not sure if he talks like that because he doesn’t care, or because he doesn’t know how to care any other way. Maybe both. Banner presses his lips together briefly — a silent tic that says plenty. He doesn’t comment, but the irritation shows in the slight clench of his jaw. Then he turns back to you, voice returning to its usual softness.

— “Can you sit up?”

You take a deep breath, as if probing your body’s state. Every movement seems to demand permission your muscles aren’t ready to give. But the dizziness isn’t as violent, and the floor’s chill is beginning to sink into your skin. You move one arm. Then the other. Your elbows find your knees, and you push yourself up — slowly, onto one elbow, then sitting up. The world tilts for a moment, but you steady yourself, eyes down, breath shallow, trying to find your balance. Your hands tremble slightly. You choose not to focus on it. Pepper is here now. You didn’t hear her arrive, but her presence instantly brings a new tension to the room. She fixes you with that expression she’s perfected — a mix of exasperation, sincere concern, and that fatigue unique to people who’ve given too much without being heard. Her crossed arms speak for her, well before her words.

— “Why am I not even surprised this is happening?”

She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t even raise her voice. And yet, you feel almost guiltier than when Stark rants.

— “Because you know him well enough to know he’d crash eventually by ignoring everyone,” Banner replies, using that soft irony he adopts when he’s at his limit but still polite.

You sigh, forehead in your hands, slowly massaging your temples with your fingertips. Your head still hums, like a hive has taken residence inside it, but at least the floor no longer sways beneath you. The peak of discomfort has passed, leaving only a deep, tenacious exhaustion.

— “I’m fine,” you murmur.

And instantly, you feel three incredulous stares converge on you. Three mirrored reactions.

— “Yeah, sure. That’s exactly what guys who just collapsed like lifeless puppets say,” Stark snaps — tone dry, but oddly devoid of mockery. Almost concerned, if you dig a little.

Banner crouches again, eyes searching yours.

— “You need rest. And not a rushed night tossing in a stiff bed, gritting your teeth pretending you’re fine. Real rest. Otherwise, your body will decide for you.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have the strength. Pepper nods decisively, already pulling her phone from her pocket. Her gaze doesn’t leave you.

— “I’ll take care of it. He’s not setting foot in an office today.”

You lift your head, ready to protest, and force your body to follow despite the weariness pinning it down.

— “I still have work to do,” you say, trying to stand, arms trembling under your own weight.

But before you can fully sit up, a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Not rough. Just… unwavering.

— “Yeah, and I’ve got an empire to run. We all make sacrifices.”

You lift your eyes to Stark, who raises a brow, unfazed. Your glare slides over him, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even seem annoyed by it. And then, he lowers his voice slightly.

— “Get some rest, kid.”

No sarcasm. No jab. Just a simple sentence, almost gentle, ringing with an unusual sincerity in his voice. And for once, you can tell — he actually means it.

You don’t quite know how you got here. The trip is blurry, erased by a fog your mind still refuses to lift. Everything seems to have played out without you, as if your body had been moved on autopilot while your consciousness drifted elsewhere.

Now, all that remains is the mattress beneath your back — warm, slightly dented where your weight sinks in. The quiet hum of the ventilation system fills the air, steady, almost soothing, but it doesn’t erase the heavier sensation pressing on your chest like a concrete block. You’re in your room. The one in Stark Tower.

The light, soft and diffused, paints the walls in an amber halo, unreal. For a second, you wonder if you’re still dreaming. The room feels suspended outside of the world, as if time itself decided to give you a break, for once. The dizziness is gone. But your body feels numb, drained, like it used up every ounce of energy just standing upright too long. You inhale slowly. A sigh escapes before you even choose to let it. Your throat is dry, scratchy. Even breathing feels like work. You stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open, but your mind is somewhere else.

It pisses you off.

Not explosively, not with boiling anger — no, it’s more insidious. A dull disappointment, wedged into your chest like a splinter you can’t pull out. You should have been in the meeting right now, seated around that big table, defending your project, proving — again — that you deserve to be here. Showing that you’re not just another kid Stark scooped up on a whim. But no. Instead, you’re here. Lying down. Pinned to bed like dead weight, unable to do anything but stare at the damn ceiling, feeling useless.

You turn your head slightly. The movement pulls a groan from you due to the tension in your neck, but you push through. And then you see it: a bottle of water, placed within arm’s reach on the nightstand. An ordinary object. Transparent, simple. And yet, it hits you like a dissonant detail. Because you didn’t put it there. A frown forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drifts toward the desk. And you notice something else. A touchscreen lies on the edge, still lit, as if it’s waiting for you. You sit up slightly — just enough to see better — and discover the interface open on the morning’s meeting notes. Everything’s there. Precise, clear. Annotated line by line in that cold, structured handwriting you could recognize anywhere.

You don’t need to think long to guess who it’s from.

An irritated sigh slips from you, sharp, more anxious than anything. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach for the screen. Fatigue still stiffens your movements, but you refuse to give in. The device slides into your palm with a soft click, and you scroll with blurred eyes, trying to piece things together. The notes scroll by. Clear, concise. Line after line, key points appear. Technical adjustments, comments on ongoing projects, decisions you should’ve heard with your own ears. Phrases you should’ve defended, corrected, approved. But you weren’t there.

Your absence echoes in your head like a reprimand. Not a casual absence — a collapse, mid-meeting. In front of everyone. And of course, your mind gives you the image instantly: Stark, sitting in his chair, one hand on his chin, the other tapping against the table. His cold gaze likely scanned the room, then he rolled his eyes. You can almost hear it — that slightly dragging voice, mockingly weary: "Can someone pick up the intern before he bleeds all over the cables? Thanks." Your stomach tightens.

He must see you as a burden. More than ever now. Before, at least you could hide behind frantic productivity. Now? Now, you’ve proven even your own body can’t keep up. That you’re not strong enough, not sturdy enough. That even staying conscious through a damn meeting is too much. A muted anger builds in you. It grabs your throat — acidic, seething. At your own body, too weak, too slow. At this sticky exhaustion clinging to you like a goddamn shadow you can’t shake. You want to scream, hit something, anything — but even that, your body won’t let you do anymore. Then, a noise. Three knocks. Sharp. Neither hesitant nor polite. Just firm enough to signal that the person on the other side doesn’t for a second expect you to say no. You don’t even have time to answer. The handle turns. The door opens.

Stark.

He walks in like he owns the place. Because in a way, he does. A coffee cup in one hand, the other stuffed into his pants pocket. His eyes sweep the room — the water bottle, the still-active screen in your hands. Then his gaze meets yours. No visible concern. No “are you okay?” No preamble. Just that perfectly neutral expression, controlled, like he’s analyzing a slightly defective technical panel.

— "You look great."

The tone is almost light. But not quite. A disguised jab, barely wrapped in irony. Classic. He doesn’t wait. He crosses the room, sets his coffee on the desk with clinical precision, and drops into the armchair like he’s walking into a board meeting — not your bedroom. No further words. No permission asked. As always. You stare at him for a second, saying nothing. Just watching, trying to guess what he came here for. But his face stays unreadable, locked down. Finally, you drop your gaze to the screen still in your hands.

— "I see I still got the summary."

— "Guess you’re one of the lucky ones."

His tone is light. Too light. Like a velvet glove over steel. Beneath the sarcasm, you sense the evaluation. The test. He’s not just checking if you can sit upright — he’s watching how you take it. How you react. You slowly set the screen on the table, cross your arms, wear a tired frown.

— "I suppose you’re here to tell me how pathetic it was to collapse in front of everyone."

One eyebrow lifts. He grabs his coffee with almost insolent calm before replying:

— "Oh, believe me, it was a deeply moving moment. I almost shed a tear."

You roll your eyes, drained. But you know he’s not done.

— "But no, not really."

He takes a sip, savoring it like he’s got all the time in the world. Then he sets the cup down slowly, fingers drumming softly on the armrest.

— "I just wanted to see if you were going to give us another dramatic performance or if you could finally sit still for more than ten minutes."

You clench your jaw. You sense the trap, the subtle provocation. But you refuse to bite. Not this time. Stark doesn’t waste time. He didn’t come here for small talk. And you know damn well — if he came all the way to your room, he has something in mind. He watches you like he did in the meeting room. That same piercing, analytical, unforgiving stare. He’s not trying to be comforting — he never is. Just trying to see if you’re still standing or about to crumble again under the pressure.

— "You’ve gone past your limits before, but this time… you full-on crashed mid-flight. And guess what? That’s not a win."

You barely nod, then let out, more sharply than you intended:

— "I know."

He doesn’t react to your tone. Not this time. Maybe he expected worse.

— "Do you? Because so far, your only reaction is getting defensive. Like this is all somehow my fault."

You take a deep breath. The kind you take to keep from breaking — or exploding. You look away, toward the window, where daylight still wrestles with the haze.

— "I just wanted to do my job."

— "Yeah. And you ended up flat on the floor. Great productivity."

The silence that follows isn’t harsh. It settles in gently, like extra weight on your chest. Not crushing, but enough to feel. Neither hostile nor soothing. Just… real. Stark crosses his arms, sizing you up without flinching. His eyes — dark but sharp — study you like a machine that was supposed to work fine, but showed an unexpected fault. Then, his voice drops, steadier, deeper.

— "Let me be clear: I don’t need an employee who collapses mid-meeting."

You brace for the sarcasm. The sharp jab. But it doesn’t come.

— "But I need even less of an idiot who thinks he can work like a machine when he’s one step away from dropping dead."

You grit your teeth. It’s harsh, blunt. But there’s no venom this time. Just a cold truth. The kind you can’t throw back in someone’s face.

— "Keep going like this, and it won’t just be a faint. And I’m not in the mood to deal with an employee who self-destructs on my watch."

He stands, grabs his coffee off the table. Movements calm, almost mechanical — like closing out an unpleasant file. He heads to the door, and you already know the conversation’s ending. But just before leaving, he pauses. Turns his head slightly, catching your eye.

— "You’ve got 24 hours. Use them. Sleep. Breathe. Do whatever you want. But if you show up tomorrow still looking like the walking dead, I’m kicking you out of my office before you even step in."

The handle turns under his fingers. He’s ready to vanish, like he always does. But something twists in your gut. You could stay silent. Let this scene become another bitter, hazy memory. But no. Your voice leaves your mouth before you really decide to speak.

— "Thanks."

Just one word. Barely a breath. But it echoes loud, even in your own head. Stark stops dead. His back tenses, barely noticeable. The stiffness in his neck betrays surprise he won’t show. He doesn’t turn immediately. You feel time pause for half a second, just long enough to sense that something’s happening behind his stillness. He’s thinking. Weighing the weight of what you just said, deciding whether to ignore it or respond. Then he turns slightly, just enough to glance back at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

— "For what exactly?"

You take a second before replying. You focus on a blurry spot between him and the wall, unable to meet that gaze too long.

— "I don’t know. For coming. For giving me the notes. For not telling everyone I’m a fucking burden."

Silence. Dense. Uncomfortable. You expect a mocking laugh. A sharp retort. That classic way he has of defusing emotion with sarcasm. But it doesn’t come. He watches you a moment longer. And for once, he doesn’t try to dominate the exchange. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t judge. He just sighs. A short, tired breath. Shakes his head slightly, almost with a resignation that’s not aggressive. Then, in a flatter tone than usual, he says:

— "Yeah. Don’t get used to it, kid."

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t joke. But he doesn’t need to. And this time, without hesitation, he opens the door and leaves the room without looking back, leaving you alone with a strange sensation in your chest — a mix of discomfort, relief, and something else, murkier. Maybe, just maybe, the first real sign that he sees you. The door closes with a dull, muffled sound, absorbed by the thick walls and returning silence. You stay there, motionless, eyes fixed on the exact spot where he stood moments ago. The empty chair, the table where his coffee still sits lukewarm, the long shadows of day’s end slowly sliding across the walls.

A sigh slips from you before you even notice. And somewhere inside, a tension fades. An invisible tightness — maybe old — that you hadn’t even noticed until now. As if, for a moment, something had shifted. Just a millimeter. But enough to let you breathe a little easier. Maybe he does see you as a burden. Maybe he doesn’t know how to handle what you’re going through. But he came. He talked to you. He saw you. And maybe… just maybe… it’s not as hopeless as you thought.

Stark walks the corridors with a measured pace, his coffee still warm in hand. At this hour, the Tower is calm—almost too calm. The familiar sounds—quiet ventilation, fabric rustling, the soft click of automatic doors—fade into the background. His mind, however, is elsewhere.

Usually, he’d categorize this kind of conversation as a minor incident. An insignificant detour in an overly long, overly full day. A scene with no consequence, to be filed away with the hundreds of other interactions he has every week.

But this time… there’s a grain of sand. Something’s bothering him. A low, persistent tension he can’t shake. And it’s not you. It’s him. Why did he even bother to come see you? Why does it bug him that you collapsed in the middle of a meeting? He could’ve let Banner handle it, as usual. He could’ve ignored your state, waited for your return, reviewed your work with a clear head. That’s what he does with others. Delegate. Stay distant. Be Tony Stark. But this time, he moved. Climbed the stairs, opened the door, spoke actual words. And even if most of them were coated in a thick layer of sarcasm… they were real. And he doesn’t like that.

He observed you. More than he would admit. He saw the dark circles, the tremble in your fingers, the way you held yourself too straight, as if tension alone kept you standing. He noted every warning sign, every supposedly insignificant detail that should’ve led him to simply fire you for built-in burnout. And yet, he didn’t.

Yes, he gave you an ultimatum—brutal, direct, as always—but not because he needed to. Not because you were essential. Because, somehow, your recovery mattered. As if your balance somehow belonged to him. As if your collapse had, in his eyes, become a problem to solve. And that… that irritates him deeply. He pushes open his office door with a brisk motion, walks in without slowing, and drops into his leather chair as if he just crossed a minefield. He runs a hand through his hair, leans back, closes his eyes for a moment.

Is he overdoing it? That’s not like him. He’s not the type to dwell, even less on emotional nonsense. Normally, he lets the weak ones fall. Natural selection, ruthless efficiency. You keep up or fall behind. You work, or you’re out. End of story. So why is he still thinking about this? But this time…

He reopens his eyes and scans the room, searching for a distraction. An escape. Anything to silence the noise inside. His desk is like always: impeccably organized. Too much so, maybe. The screens scroll silently, displaying performance reports, AI simulations, financial projections. Numbers, graphs, algorithms. Tangible. Predictable. He could dive in. Forget. Regain control. But his eyes slide over the data without really seeing it. Because, despite himself, he’s still thinking about you. Your collapsed silhouette on the floor. Your ragged breath. That whispered “thank you” pulled from your lips like an apology for existing. And that pisses him off. Not because it’s weakness. Because it got to him. Because it lodged somewhere between his ribs, a tiny detail far too human to simply erase.

After your collapse, your phone had slipped from your pocket—or maybe you dropped it as your body gave up. Stark picked it up silently, placed it on your desk like an object of no importance. But now, it vibrates. Once. Then again. Then again. Insistent. Aggressive. The sound isn’t loud, but in the tense calm of his office, it hits like a hammer. A provocation. A sonic assault disguised as a call. And on the screen, a name Stark doesn’t even need to read twice.

Matthew.

Again. And again. That name flashing, returning, imposing itself. Like an alarm. Like a tick refusing to let go. Stark doesn’t touch the phone. He could. He could pick up, toss a sharp remark, deliver a crisp warning. But he remains still, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen like he could make it explode by sheer will. He doesn’t need to dig deeper. He knows this type of guy. The persistence, the repeated calls, the silence between attempts. It’s a pattern. Clear. Violent in its predictability. A friend sends a message. A stranger leaves a voicemail. A manipulator keeps calling until someone breaks. But Stark has never caved to that kind of pressure. And he has no intention of letting you cave either. He hates it. The vibrating, that name flashing like a parasite—and most of all, what it stirs. Because despite himself, memories surge. Not vague. Not blurry. Precise, photographic.

That night. Stark remembers everything. Not distant. Not vague—clear. Too clear. Like someone pressed “play” inside his skull.

You stepped out of the building, slightly drunk, shoulders low but smiling—still caught in the afterglow of a good night. He’d kept an eye on you. Discreetly. Silently. Because he knew. He saw your fatigue, knew you were standing more from pride than strength. That sometimes, you lose yourself in a semblance of normal just to forget how much it burns underneath. He could’ve let you walk alone. Tossed a “Good night” and gone back to his own life. But he didn’t. He offered to walk you back. A simple reflex, he thought. A precaution. A nearly banal gesture. But in truth, it was more than that. Because Matthew was waiting for you. Not a coincidence. Not bad timing in a big city. No. It was planned. Cold. Calculated. He’d picked that exact moment. He knew you’d be there, at that hour, in that state. And Stark remembers it all, with unbearable clarity.

Your step slowing as you neared the car. Your gaze freezing a second too long. That shiver you didn’t have time to name. You sensed something. A gut twist, a lurch in your stomach. And Stark saw it. Saw your body stiffen, your breath falter for a second. Then chaos. Matthew emerging from the dark, gripping your arm with brutal force. You, surprised, unbalanced, dragged into a narrow alley like a puppet. Alcohol dulled your reflexes. Your body lagged. And then the violence. Your back slamming against the ground. The sharp echo of impact on concrete. Your cry—brief, strangled—almost immediately cut off. The wrist giving out under your own weight, twisted at an angle Stark will never forget. And the knife. That fucking knife. Metal gleaming under a flickering streetlight. Not just a prop. A real threat. Alive. Humming in the night air. Stark remembers Matthew’s voice. Smug. Falsely calm. Drenched in that dangerous arrogance of someone who thinks they’re untouchable. Who knows just how far to go… or maybe hopes to go too far.

He remembers himself accelerating, fists clenched. His voice cutting through faster than his steps. And your face. Not just the pain. Not just humiliation. Fear. Raw. Guttural. Unjust. And that—that—enraged him. More than anything else. Because a lost kid battling himself? Stark can handle that. But a look like that—he’s never been able to stomach it. Not in a kid he pulled from the dirt by the strength of his talent, who’s only just started to get back on his feet. He clenches his jaw.

The phone rings again. Vibrates again. Loud in the stillness of his office. Stark closes his eyes briefly, rubs a hand across his face, weary and frustrated. The coffee in his hand is lukewarm, forgotten. He casts a dark glare at the screen, at that name repeating endlessly. Why now? Why again? That guy should’ve vanished after that night. Should’ve understood. Better yet—he should’ve disappeared. Faded like the parasites do when you crush them. But no. He’s still here. Persistent. Insistent. A damn splinter under the skin.

Stark clenches his jaw. He knows he shouldn’t get involved. It’s not his place. Not his problem. You’re an adult. You should handle your own shit. But there’s that instinct. That goddamn instinct. The one that never fails him. And this vibration—again. That name—again. Like a direct provocation. He hasn’t forgotten that night. The knife. The alley. The fear in your eyes. That wasn’t a meltdown. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a warning. A clear threat. And now, that threat is back—banging at the door like nothing ever happened. Stark doesn’t believe in coincidences. He doesn’t like lingering threats. And he hates guys who haunt his projects like badly buried demons. Another vibration. His gaze sharpens, blade-like. He knows he should let go. Let you handle it.

But he doesn’t.

He grabs the phone in one swift motion, lifts it, stares at it for one last second. The screen glows—provocative. Matthew. And without a word, he answers. He slowly raises the phone to his ear. Says nothing. Not yet. He lets the silence settle—heavy, deliberate. Like a suspended threat. Not a sound. Just the quiet hum of the open line, then… a breath. Slightly too loud. Like someone preparing to play a role.

— “Finally.”

Matthew’s voice cuts in—drawling, falsely bored, oozing fake irritation. As if he’s the one being kept waiting. As if he’s the victim of this silence.

— “I was starting to think you’d never answer, you little shit.”

A faint smile flickers across Stark’s lips. He lets a single, frozen word fall.

— “Surprise.”

And the silence that follows is much heavier than the last. Almost tangible. Matthew wasn’t expecting that. He expected your voice. Your shaky breath. Your hesitation. Not Stark. Not a wall.

— “Who the hell are you?” he finally mutters, suspicion leaking through a tone trying hard to stay confident.

— “Too late to ask questions.”

Stark leans back slowly into his chair, one elbow on the armrest, the other hand still resting on the forgotten cup. His voice is calm, precise as always — but each word is a blade.

— “You call too often for someone who doesn’t know who they’re talking to.”

Silence. Then a dry, nervous chuckle. Matthew tries to recover, or at least pretend he has.

— “So what, he gave you his phone now? Can’t answer by himself anymore?” His voice drips with disdain, every word trailing with fake lightness. He pauses, then adds, mockingly:

— “What are you, Stark — his babysitter?”

Tony’s jaw clenches just a touch, but his voice doesn’t budge.

— “Listen carefully, asshole.”

No yelling. No shouted threats. Just cold, surgical calm. The kind of tone that shuts the loudest mouths. And Matthew, for once, falls quiet.

— “I already warned you last time. Very clearly. But since you seem to have a memory as full of holes as your ego, I’ll say it again. One last time.”

A pause follows, heavy as lead.

— “You’re going to hang up this phone. You’re going to do it now. And you’re going to forget he exists. You’re going to erase him from your pathetic excuse of a life.”

On the other end, a scoff. Matthew tries to gather his nerve again.

— “You’re funny, Stark. You think you scare me?”

Wrong move. Stark doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.

— “No.”

He tilts his head slightly, voice dropping to a near whisper.

— “But you should.”

Silence. Not a word. Not a breath. Stark stares at the black screen of the phone like he can see right through it. He knows guys like this. The ones who bark to feel bigger. Who think they win by making someone else their target. But they always forget one fundamental truth: He’s faced gods. Monsters. Beings that would’ve reduced this parasite to dust without noticing. And he survived. So no, Matthew doesn’t scare him. But Stark? Stark knows exactly how to terrify rats like him. He leans forward slightly, elbow resting slowly on the desk. His voice becomes even lower, denser, a whisper — but one that cuts straight through any pretense.

— “Let me tell you something, Matthew.”

A pause. Brief but loaded.

— “You already fucked up once. And I was there. I saw what you were willing to do.”

On the other end, Matthew’s breath shifts. Slower. More cautious. A reflex he doesn’t even realize.

— “How do you think it’ll go if you try again?”

The silence stretches — tense like a wire ready to snap. Then Matthew’s voice returns, sharper, but less certain.

— “That’s between me and him.”

A pathetic attempt to regain control. Stark rolls his eyes, lips curling in something close to amused disgust.

— “No, it was. Until you tried to put a knife to his throat.”

He straightens a bit, leaning back again into his chair.

— “You lost that right the day you laid a hand on him. There is no ‘you and him.’”

Each word lands with clinical precision.

— “You. Leave. Him. Alone.”

The silence that follows is glacial. Not a single breath. Just that suspended threat in the air. Stark doesn’t blink. He waits. Then comes a reply. But Matthew’s voice is different now. Lower. Less steady. A last-ditch effort to save face, clinging to whatever control he still believes he has.

— “You might have money, Stark. Power, too.”

A pause. Not theatrical — hesitant.

— “But even you… you can’t control everything.”

Stark doesn’t move a muscle.

— “Try me.”

His voice is quieter than ever. Razor-sharp.

— “And you’ll see what I can control.”

The silence that follows is final. Irreversible. A point of no return. Matthew doesn’t reply immediately. But Stark doesn’t need to hear it to know. He knows what that kind of silence means. Matthew understood. Too late, maybe. But he understood. He thought he could provoke. Intimidate. Gain ground. But now, he’s hit a wall. And he feels it.

— “You’re making a big mistake, Stark.”

A dry, humorless smile twitches at Tony’s mouth.

— “Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.”

One last pause. Almost resigned. Then the short, sharp click of the call ending. Stark stares at the screen for another second, expression unreadable. No satisfaction. No visible anger. But in his eyes, a darkness that says everything. He slowly places the phone back on the desk, like defusing a ticking bomb. His finger taps the polished wood in an irregular rhythm — a tell of the storm brewing under the surface.

Matthew isn’t stupid.

He knows when he’s lost ground. And if he kept calling this much, it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t desperation. It was strategy. Calculated. He wants something. And with that kind of guy, it’s never a fucking good thing. Stark lets out a sharp sigh, wipes a hand down his face. His eyes remain locked on the phone — still now, but heavy with tension.

He finally sits upright, his back cracking faintly as he moves. His mind already shifts to what’s next. Security. Blind spots. Weak links. He hates this. That diffuse feeling, that gut instinct squeezing tight. But he’s learned to listen to it. Because he feels it. This isn’t over. And next time, it won’t just be a call.

You step out of your room without a sound, closing the door behind you like someone sealing a chapter they have no desire to reread. The hallway air feels fresher, lighter than the air in your room. You’re supposed to be resting, obediently following orders, but lying still, doing nothing, makes you feel like you’re rotting from the inside. It eats at you. You spiral inside your own head, and that’s worse than any fainting spell. Your body is still numb, each step slowly waking muscles stiffened by fatigue and stillness. But you’re on your feet. And for now, that’s enough.

The Tower’s hallways are quiet, bathed in that soft, dim light that makes time feel suspended. A pause in the world, almost too calm to be real. Your footsteps echo faintly on the shiny floor, steady and discreet, like you’re afraid of disturbing the fragile balance. You inhale slowly. The pressure in your chest is still there, subtle, like the remnants of an undigested nightmare. But it no longer crushes everything. You’re moving forward. That’s already something. As you pass an adjacent hallway, a glow catches your eye. Faint, but persistent. Light filters from under the door of the break room, along with the quiet murmur of voices. Not a lively conversation — just the calm breath of a gentle exchange, almost confidential.

Drawn by a mix of curiosity and an instinctive need not to return to the silence of your room, you approach. As you pass the doorway, your eyes immediately catch the two figures sitting by the counter. Pepper and Banner. Still in the moment, like a quiet painting in the middle of the Tower’s invisible turmoil.

Pepper, impeccable as always, is leaning slightly forward, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Her face holds that soft form of concentration — the one she wears when she’s thinking of ten things at once. Banner looks more relaxed, slouched comfortably in his chair, an elbow resting on the table. He seems at ease, but his eyes lift toward you the moment you enter. Sharp. Present. Like he was waiting for you. Pepper is the first to look up.

— “You should be in bed.”

Her voice is calm, almost too calm. No direct reproach, but her gaze doesn’t let go. Piercing. Precise. She evaluates you in a single glance, like she’s waiting for you to collapse again at any moment. You shrug slightly as you move further into the room.

— “I just needed to stretch my legs. No need to call a crisis committee.”

Banner watches you in silence. His fingers gently graze the edge of his mug — a small tic that betrays his focus. He doesn’t speak right away, but you feel his eyes on you. Not intrusive, not suspicious… just attentive. A doctor, before anything else. Pepper folds her arms in that way that says everything.

— “Tony gave you twenty-four hours. That means rest. Not a guided tour of the Tower like nothing happened.”

You sigh slowly, leaning back against the counter, letting the cold surface meet your spine. A small gesture, but it reveals more exhaustion than you’d like to admit.

— “I’m fine.”

The phrase rings hollow, automatic. You know it. So do they. Banner lets out a short laugh — not mocking, but not indulgent either. He shakes his head slightly, looking vaguely amused, vaguely tired.

— “Of course. People who pass out in the middle of meetings always bounce back perfectly in three hours. Everyone knows that.”

You give him a tired look, without real hostility. He doesn’t press. That’s not his style. He just shrugs slightly and takes a slow sip of his coffee before setting the cup down with measured calm, almost meditative. The silence that follows is brief, not heavy, but loaded with unspoken meaning. You can feel they’re waiting for something more honest from you. For you to drop the act — just for a second. But you’re not ready yet. Pepper sighs softly, picking up her cup and slowly rotating it between her palms, eyes lowered as if searching for words in the bottom of the coffee.

— “You know you don’t have anything to prove to anyone, right?”

Her voice has shifted. No longer all order and structure. It’s calm, almost gentle. It catches you off guard. You lift your eyes to her, a little confused. She doesn’t look away.

— “You work hard, we know that. Tony knows it too, even if he’s incapable of saying it without throwing barbs. But if you collapse in the middle of a project, you’ll be far more useless than if you’d just taken the time to recover properly.”

You don’t know what to say. The words stick in your throat. Because deep down, you know. They’re right. But it doesn’t change that feeling stuck to your skin — that idea that if you stop, even for a second, everything will fall apart. That if you ease up, you’ll slip away from yourself. Become invisible again. Become that burden no one wants to carry. But here, in the break room’s dim light, their eyes on you don’t carry the weight of a burden. Not today. You can’t help the slow frustration bubbling up from your stomach — a wave of helplessness you can’t suppress.

— “It was a damn important meeting.”

Your voice is just a hoarse murmur, muffled, but clear enough to draw reaction. Banner nods gently, elbows on the table, hands folded like he’s giving you space to hear yourself.

— “Yeah, that’s true,” he says without downplaying it. “But believe me, Stark handled it. He’s a pain in the ass, but he knows what he’s doing in a meeting room. He covered for you.”

You let out a joyless smile — dry, bitter.

— “Yeah… except when it comes to his own health.”

A brief silence. Then a quiet, sincere laugh escapes Pepper’s lips.

— “Touché.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it hums with things unspoken. A kind of quiet understanding. A discreet complicity, woven in the margins of chaos. You’re not the only one who pushes too hard, burns your wings just trying to stay airborne. You hesitate. The question burns on your lips, but you’re afraid of the answer. Still, you ask it — voice lower, as if that might soften the blow:

— “Did he say anything after the meeting?”

Pepper and Banner exchange a quick look. The kind that says everything. Banner is the one who finally speaks, voice measured but direct:

— “He took your phone.”

Your heart skips a beat. A flash of panic shoots through your chest. You sit up straight, eyes locked on him.

— “What?”

Pepper slowly sets down her mug, her expression more serious now. Almost sorry.

— “You’d left it on the floor. And… let’s just say it got a few calls.”

A cold knot forms in your stomach, thick and viscous, tightening steadily.

— “Who?” you ask, though you already know. You can feel it in their silence. In the tension in the air.

Banner meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. His voice is calm. Steady. But the words hit like a slap of ice.

— “A guy named Matthew.”

All the air leaves the room. Your blood turns cold.

— “Shit.”

The word escapes in a raspy breath, nearly strangled. Your heart races, breath growing short, erratic. A jolt of adrenaline climbs your spine like an alarm your body can’t shut off. Pepper notices immediately. Her gaze sharpens, anchoring. She doesn’t panic, but her eyes stay alert, ready to move if you falter.

— “Stark picked up,” Banner adds, still calm, but eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for the storm.

You run a shaky hand down your face, trying to push the panic back down. Your jaw tightens. Every muscle in your neck is coiled tight.

— “And?”

One word. Short. Sharp. Like a command you didn’t mean to give. Another glance between them. It infuriates you. Like they think you’re too fragile to hear what really happened. This time, it’s Pepper who speaks.

— “We don’t know exactly what was said. Stark walked out of his office with that look…”

She pauses, searching for the right phrase. Something a little more diplomatic.

— “…the one he gets when someone just signed their death warrant.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers, trying to calm the dull ache pulsing through your skull.

— “Fucking hell…”

You can’t even think clearly. A brief dizziness. Real fear grabs you this time — not for yourself, but for what it means. For what Stark might do. For what Matthew might dare in return. The silence falls again. Heavy. Almost electric. And you understand, without being told, that something just shifted. Banner slowly straightens, resting his elbows on the table in a measured motion. His usually calm gaze sharpens.

— “Who is this guy?”

The question is simple, but it pins you in place. You breathe in deep, eyes locking on a random spot on the counter, like an answer might be etched in the wood grain. Your pulse is still hammering in your temples. You could dodge. Downplay. Pretend it’s nothing. But not anymore. Not after this. Stark knows. And if he knows, then the story’s already surfacing. You slowly lift your head, locking eyes with Banner. Steady. Unflinching.

— “He’s a mistake from the past.”

Your voice is low, frayed at the edges. Every word heavy, soaked in bitterness, anger, shame. You could stop there. But something inside refuses.

— “And if Stark answered… it means that mistake is coming back.”

The silence that follows is too full. So you stand, a little too abruptly. Your chair scrapes against the floor, but you don’t care. Your body still protests, dulled by exhaustion, but your mind is on high alert. You walk out of the break room, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. The conversation with Pepper and Banner loops in your head. Matthew called. Stark answered. And now, you need to know. You need to know what was said. You need to know how far this will go.

The Tower's hallways feel colder than usual. Not in temperature — in atmosphere. As if every corner were holding its breath. Maybe it’s just you. Maybe it’s just your own heart beating too fast, your thoughts racing too far, too fast. But you can feel it: something has changed. You walk briskly, almost without realizing it, as if your body had taken over for your mind. The regular echo of your steps on the polished floor sounds strange, amplifying the dull sense of urgency in your chest.

Matthew. He never let go. He never really disappeared. And now, he’s back in the picture. Lurking on the edges, insistent, insidious. If Stark answered... it means the shadow has drawn closer. You arrive at his office almost automatically. You’re not aware of the distance covered, only of the door in front of you, closed, unmoving. It feels more imposing than it should.

You raise your hand and knock. Once. Then again. No answer. You hold your breath, listen carefully. No sound inside. Nothing distinct. But you know. You feel his presence behind the wall. This silence isn’t empty. It’s loaded. Stark is there. And you have no intention of leaving without talking to him. So you open the door.

It opens slowly, without creaking, but the soft whoosh of displaced air sounds louder than expected. The room is shrouded in semi-darkness. A bluish glow from the screens cuts the space into cold, almost unreal tones. The reflections dance across the metallic surfaces, giving the office the look of a cockpit suspended in space. Stark is there. Still. Seated in his chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t look up. Not right away. But you know he heard you. You feel the tension in the room, palpable, suspended between you like a live wire ready to snap. You remain there, standing in the doorway, half-lit by the hallway, half-swallowed by the room’s shadows. Your heart beats faster than you’d like to admit.

He says nothing. And you don’t move yet. You stand there for a few seconds, frozen on the threshold, the weight of uncertainty lodged in your chest. You don’t know if you should step forward or retreat. Speak or stay silent. But your eyes drift toward the desk, despite yourself. And you see it. Your phone. Lying just beside him. Like a silent reminder. He didn’t give it back. He kept it. Your heart skips a beat — imperceptible, but enough to twist your stomach. Finally, Stark breaks the silence. His voice is calm. Too calm. No sarcasm. No arrogance. Just calculated neutrality.

— "You should be in bed, kid."

You don’t answer that. You don’t even look away from the phone.

— "You answered the call."

It’s not a question. You already know. It’s a bare truth, laid bare between you like a freshly drawn blade. This time, he finally looks up at you. And what you see in his eyes stops you cold. No mockery. Not even his usual annoyed half-smile. Just a cold sharpness. Precise. Measured.

— "Yeah."

One word. Dry. Brutal. Your breath shortens, as if an invisible hand had suddenly closed around your throat.

— "What did he say to you?"

Stark doesn’t answer right away. He picks up your phone between his fingers, turns it slowly on itself, using just his index. A seemingly idle gesture, but heavy with tension. He taps it once against the desk. Then again. As if weighing every syllable to come. Finally, he sets the device down with deliberate slowness, leans back into his chair, and says:

— "Nothing smart."

You feel your jaw clench.

— "Stark."

One word, but it holds everything you’re not saying. The fear. The anger. The helplessness. He holds your gaze for a moment, then sighs, both weary and sharp. He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to chase off a migraine, or a thought too stubborn.

— "That guy still thinks he can wear you down. That he can circle around without anyone saying a word. And clearly... he hasn’t been hit hard enough yet to get the message."

You inhale, but the air gets stuck somewhere between your throat and chest. A dull pressure settles — the kind that makes your whole body go rigid in one go. You knew it, deep down. You knew Matthew wasn’t done. But now that Stark confirms it, it’s like everything becomes real all at once. Definitively real.

— "Did he threaten anything?"

A pause. Just long enough for your heart to pound louder. Then Stark’s voice. Still calm. Too calm.

— "He just tried to play tough. Told me even I couldn’t control everything."

You inhale too sharply. Your back curls slightly under the rising pressure. You lean on the desk edge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

— "Fuck..."

Your hand nervously scrapes your face, trying to wipe away something you couldn’t even name. Shame, maybe. Fear. The exhaustion of constantly being on alert. Stark watches you. He doesn’t move, but you feel his gaze clinging to every gesture — every jaw twitch, every micro tremor in your fingers on the desk. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Not out of softness — out of precision. A blade held close to the throat.

— "Why does that guy still think he has the right to get near you?"

You raise your head abruptly. His gaze doesn’t let go.

— "Because Matthew’s a fucking bastard." Your voice barely shakes, but it’s enough. "A parasite. He can’t stand losing. He always needs the last word. Always. Even if it means coming back months later, just to... to dirty what’s left."

Your fists close on the edge of the desk. You don’t even know anymore if it’s rage or fear coursing through you. Probably both. Stark doesn’t respond right away. But he watches you. And in that silence, you realize something: he doesn’t just see a messed-up kid on the verge of cracking. He sees a battlefield. And he’s already calculating the best way to neutralize the threat. Then he slowly nods, as if he’s just made a decision that leaves no room for argument.

— "Alright."

You narrow your eyes slightly, wary.

— "Alright what?"

He grabs his coffee, takes a sip, unhurried. The gesture is too calm not to be deliberate. He sets the cup down on the desk with almost clinical precision before lifting his eyes to you.

— "Alright, we’ll deal with it."

You stare at him, a heartbeat behind.

— "What do you mean, we?"

He smirks — the one you’re starting to recognize. The one that never reaches his eyes. And this time again, his gaze remains perfectly impassive.

— "I warned him once. That bastard’s trying again. So now, it’s my problem too."

You feel your breath catch for a second. A strange, almost unreal tension settles in the space between you. You should say something. Protest. Take back control.

— "Stark, this isn’t... this isn’t your role."

But your voice lacks conviction. Because deep down, you know you’re at your limit. This isn’t about pride or dignity. Handling this alone would mean walking right back into the lion’s den. And he saw it. He saw you collapse. Fall. He heard the voice of the one who broke you, and now, he’s decided enough is enough. You want to argue. Really. But you lower your eyes. Because part of you — tiny and broken — exhales in relief. And Stark too. He hasn’t looked away since you walked through that damn door. His gaze is still piercing, still inquisitive, as if trying to read between the lines of your gestures, your voice, everything you’re still refusing to say.

He crosses his arms slowly, a nervous tic briefly tightening his jaw. You see it. He’s irritated. Not because you’re here, but because this problem — this guy, this mess, you — has come back to screw up his radar. And now it’s spilling into his space. Into his business. You sigh deeply, running a hand down your face. The fatigue settles again on your shoulders, no longer physical. You’re tired of having to explain. Tired of the past grabbing you by the collar to remind you it’s not done with you. And seeing Stark involved — concerned, implicated, ready to take it personally — just adds another layer of tension. Like your chaos might infect the fragile balance you were barely starting to build.

So you breathe, the words burning on your tongue.

— "Fine. I’ll go to the police if that’s what you want."

You finally look him in the eye, trying to keep your tone neutral, controlled.

— "But don’t make this personal, Boss."

You reach for the desk, for your phone still lying there, between you like a piece of evidence.

— "And give me back my phone."

Your voice is sharper than you meant, and you regret it instantly. But you can’t help it. The fear, the exhaustion, the maddening feeling of losing control of your own life. You want to at least keep that. That damn phone that, despite everything, still belongs to you. You extend your hand toward the phone, still within reach, like a small gesture of reclaiming control. But Stark doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift a finger. He just watches you, elbows resting on the chair’s arms, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s trying to read a lie you won’t admit. Then slowly, he raises his eyes to yours. And when he speaks, his voice is low, steady — but each word cuts deep.

— "You think the police will get you out of this mess?"

You clench your teeth. Of course he’d say that. Of course he thinks it’s naive. And maybe it is.

— "That’s what they’re for, right?" you mutter, without much conviction.

A short laugh escapes him. Bitter.

— "Yeah. I’m sure they’ll jump right on it. Sit you down in a room that reeks of disinfectant, ask you to recount the worst moments of your life to a cop already checking his watch. Hand you a form to fill out, then file it under personal disputes between consenting adults."

He straightens a bit, crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze sharp as a blade.

— "Meanwhile, that bastard keeps circling, ruining your life. Because guys like him know how to dance between the lines. How to slip through the cracks, manipulate doubt and lack of proof."

You look away, jaw tight. Because you know he’s right. Because you’ve lived it. Because you’ve tried. And each time, it only reinforced that crushing sense of powerlessness. And hearing it from him — with such precision, such clarity — it stings. Because there’s no judgment in his tone. Just harsh, relentless truth. Your gaze darkens. You feel a dull tension rising in you, like a barely restrained beast gnawing at your calm. Your fingers tighten on the edge of the desk until your knuckles turn white.

— "So what? I do nothing? I just sit here and wait for him to come back and ruin me again?"

Your voice is harsher than you meant it to be. Almost an admission of powerlessness disguised as rebellion. Stark doesn’t answer right away. He stares at you. His gaze doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. And maybe that’s what unsettles you the most — the way he looks at you like he’s already run through every scenario, every response, every move you might make. Then, without a word, he reaches out and grabs your phone. The silence between you is heavy, dense. He holds it in his palm for a brief moment, spinning it once between his fingers, before extending it to you. You reach out too, but he keeps the device just a second longer. Not enough to be aggressive, but just enough to make you meet his eyes.

— "You do whatever you want, kid."

The tone is neutral. Almost too neutral. But his gaze tells another story entirely. It says everything the words don’t: I’m giving you freedom, but not the option to self-destruct. You take the phone and shove it into your pocket with a muffled sigh, as he slowly stands. He walks calmly, deliberately, around his desk and leans against the edge, arms crossed, eyes fixed on yours.

— "But if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch him destroy you, then you clearly don’t get how I work."

You swallow slowly. He hasn’t raised his voice. He hasn’t threatened you. It’s not even a promise. It’s just a blunt fact. Unavoidable. And that’s what makes you shiver. There’s no violence in his tone, no anger. Just that icy certainty that he won’t back down. That he’ll go all the way. That he’s taken you under his wing, whether you like it or not. You slide your phone into your pocket, slowly, heart still pounding under the tension. You sigh. Not out of relief. Not yet. Just a breath to keep from bursting.

— "I’ll handle it."

Your voice is firm. You want it to be. Even though deep down, you know you’re mostly trying to convince yourself. Stark nods slowly, his gaze still locked on yours. But his expression doesn’t shift a single inch. No approval. No skepticism either. Just... a silent expectation.

— "Yeah. Do that."

But you know. You can see it in his eyes: he has no intention of just watching. He’s letting you take the lead, sure. But he’s not leaving you alone. And he’s not going to sit idle and see how it turns out. You say nothing more. There’s no need. You turn on your heel, leave the office without looking back.

A few minutes later, the Tower door closes behind you with a metallic sigh. And the crisp outside air hits your face like a slap. A clumsy attempt to shake off the tension that’s been eating at you since Stark handed you that damn phone. But it’s not enough. You inhale deeply. A lungful of icy oxygen that your chest welcomes like a wake-up call. You stare straight ahead. Matthew called. Stark picked up. And now, you don’t have a choice. You’re going to do what you said. Head to the police station. It’s not like you actually believe it’s going to change anything. You’re not naïve. But at least it’ll show Stark you’re trying to "handle it properly." Do things by the book. Check the box. Maybe he’ll back off. Maybe not.

Beside you, Happy walks with his usual heavy step, hands deep in his jacket pockets. He’s got that unmistakable gait — somewhere between professional alertness and total indifference to everything around him. A man used to everything… except playing babysitter.

— "Just so you know, I’m not your damn taxi."

You glance at him, half-bored, half-grateful, and shrug.

— "Yeah, yeah. I know."

You sigh softly, eyes locked on the black car parked just ahead. Of course Stark insisted you be accompanied. He could’ve sent a random security agent, some anonymous face with an earpiece and black sunglasses.

But no. He sent Happy.

Not that you hate Happy. He’s not a bad guy, really. He’s even kind of reassuring, in his massive, silent kind of way. But he’s got that "designated babysitter" vibe you have a hard time tolerating. That forced protective edge, like no one trusts you to walk down the street alone without collapsing. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even sigh. He just circles the car slowly before opening the passenger door for you with a short motion. No comments. No judgment. You get in without protest, sinking into the seat without trying to start a conversation. The door shuts with a dull thud, sealing in a silence neither of you wants to break.

The engine rumbles quietly, and the car rolls into the streets. New York slips by behind the tinted windows — people, lights, distant sirens. You don’t look. You don’t feel. Happy doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t try to fill the silence. But you can feel his eyes on you at every red light, quick glances to make sure you’re still breathing. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. But you feel the pressure rising in your throat. Your heart starts beating faster the closer you get to the station. Because this report… it’s more than a formality. It’s a step toward something you can’t quite name yet. When the silence gets too heavy even for him, Happy finally sighs and mutters in a neutral tone:

— "Why do you think Stark wants me to come with you?"

You don’t even turn your head. Your eyes stay glued to the buildings passing by outside, your reflection blending with the blurred lights of the city.

— "Because he doesn’t trust me."

Your voice is tired, almost resigned. Happy slowly shakes his head, eyes still on the road.

— "No. It’s not you he’s watching. It’s him."

You don’t need to ask who he means. The answer hangs between you like a bitter truth. Matthew. You inhale slowly, trying to calm the pressure building in your chest. But it’s not enough. Because deep down, you know he’s right. They didn’t assign you a bodyguard. They gave you a witness. A buffer. Protection, in case things go south. And if Stark doesn’t trust Matthew… then maybe you shouldn’t still be hoping this will all stop just because you’ve decided it should. Another silence settles in the car. One of those thick silences that doesn’t need an answer — because it’s already been given. You could argue. Insist that you can handle yourself. That Stark’s overreacting as usual, blowing everything out of proportion. But you don’t. Because you both know it’s not true.

So you let it drop.

When the car pulls up in front of the station, nothing has changed since last time. Same gray, worn façade. Same flickering neon signs buzzing like they’re not sure they want to do their job. Cops go in and out, talking, complaining. Some look too rushed to be helpful. Others too slow to be efficient. You stand still for a second in front of the entrance, hands in your pockets, heart clenched with familiar dread. Then you breathe in, deep, like you’re forcing your body forward. Happy stays behind you. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel him. Like a silent wall. Arms crossed. Shoulders square. Ready to step in if needed. And even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you is relieved he’s there.

A police officer behind the counter barely lifts his head at the sound of your steps. His tired eyes flick briefly over you before returning to his screen, as if your arrival were just another interruption in an endless routine.

— "Need help?" he asks in a flat tone, not fully lifting his eyes.

You take a quiet breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

— "I’d like to file a report."

The officer gives a vague nod, then reaches toward a stack of worn-out forms. He grabs one and slides it across the counter toward you, along with an old pen that’s seen better days.

— "Have a seat. You can fill this out while you wait for someone to take your statement."

Not another word. No trace of empathy in his gaze. Just the procedure. The routine. You take the paper and pen, then step back a few paces toward a row of faded gray plastic chairs. Happy follows, sitting beside you. He pulls out his phone, looking detached, but you know he’s scanning the whole precinct with practiced vigilance. He’s the type who never fully turns his radar off. You lower your eyes to the form and start writing. Name, surname, address… your hands barely tremble, but enough to slow you down. The ink drags across the paper in a way that irritates you. Everything feels slower, heavier than usual.

Then come the real questions. Reason for the report. Person involved. You pause. Your eyes freeze on that line. Your heartbeat pounds harder in your chest. A dull, persistent noise. The air seems to contract around you, forcing you to stay completely still.

You write: Matthew Reed.

The name feels too light for what it represents. Just seven letters. But the second you write them, something inside you tightens. As if writing his name on that paper brings him closer. Gives him weight again. You linger a few seconds, pen hovering above the next line. Rationally, you know this is the right thing to do. But a part of you still wonders if it’ll make any difference. If they’ll even do anything.You glance at Happy. He’s not looking at you, but he knows. He knows what writing that name costs you. He probably also knows that this form might end up as just another sheet in a pile too high. But you keep writing. Because now, you can’t back down. Minutes stretch like tar in the heat. The waiting is heavy, slow, and every second reminds you that you’re here because someone stalked you, hit you, threatened you. Eventually, a monotone voice breaks the silence:

— "Follow me."

You stand, a bit stiff. You glance at Happy. He doesn’t move but gives a small nod. A silent presence. Unofficial bodyguard. He’ll be there when you come out. You follow the officer down a dull hallway, lined with cluttered desks and flickering fluorescent lights. The smell is a mix of cold coffee and old plastic. The cop says nothing until he leads you into a small office with yellowed walls. He sits across from you with a sigh, like even this basic interaction is already too much. He takes your form, flipping through it with disinterest. His eyes are dull, mechanical.

— "So… Matthew, right?"

You nod.

— "Yeah."

He jots a few notes into his pad without looking up.

— "Tell me exactly what he did to you."

You take a deep breath. And you talk. You start with the calls. Too frequent, too insistent. You explain how he came back after months of silence, how you thought you could move on. You describe the night, the street, the shadow that tore you off your path. You talk about the knife. Matthew’s voice, acidic, suffocating. The ground against your back. The pain in your wrist. The fear. Not just of dying — of reliving what you thought you’d escaped. The officer listens. He takes notes. But his expression doesn’t change. No raised brows, no tension. As if he’s heard worse a hundred times, and your story is just another box to tick. Still, you keep talking. Because you have to. Because Stark looked you in the eye and said he wouldn’t let you drown in this alone. But you’re not sure these people will react at all.

When you finish, your throat is dry, your hands cold, and your heart pounding like your body refuses to accept that this is over — or that it’s not over at all. You watch the cop, hoping, maybe, for a word of sympathy. A clenched jaw. A real reaction. But there’s none.

He slowly sets his pen down, without a sound, and folds his hands on the desk in front of him.

— "Do you have concrete evidence that he resumed harassing you?"

His voice is calm, almost disinterested. Like he’s asking about a parking ticket. You stare at him in disbelief. For a second, you want to laugh. Is this a joke? You just described someone pinning you to the ground with a knife. And all he can say is concrete evidence?

— "I’ve got his calls," you say, your voice rougher than you’d like. "He kept calling. And Stark talked to him. He picked up."

At the mention of the name, the officer raises an eyebrow. A flicker of recognition, maybe, passes through his gaze — but it vanishes quickly. He shrugs it off like even Tony Stark is just another contextual footnote.

— "Written threats? Messages?" he presses.

You squint, breath short. You think of the phone Stark returned. The missed calls. The vibrations that chilled your blood just seeing his name light up again. You think of the alley. The pain. The hand dragging you to the ground. Matthew’s voice like a razor at your throat. The gleam of the knife, the damp pavement, the breath that caught in your lungs. You answer slowly.

— "I’ve got one. But it’s not much. He knows how this works. He leaves nothing behind. He calls, he talks, he… he threatens just enough for you to get the message, but never enough to pin him down."

You hear yourself talking, and suddenly you realize how hollow it sounds in a room like this. You realize that to someone like him, nightmares don’t weigh anything. No legal status. Just boxes to check on a form. And you already see the shift in his eyes. More distant. More doubtful. Like you’re not a victim. Just another guy making things sound worse than they are. He raises his hand to cut you off, his tone still flat, almost robotic.

— "Look. I won’t lie to you. What you’re saying is concerning. But we can’t do much with just phone calls and an old altercation."

You freeze. His detachment chokes you more than silence ever could. You hear the lights buzzing above you, footsteps from another officer in the hall, and your heart pounding hard against your ribs. You clench your teeth.

— "He threatened me with a fucking knife!" you snap, louder than you meant.

Your voice echoes off the office walls. The officer doesn’t flinch. He lets out a long sigh, like he’s heard that line a hundred times.

— "Did he injure you?"

You look at him, stunned. Your hands tremble slightly. Then, in a sharp motion, you pull up your sweater sleeve. Your right hand is still partially wrapped, a leftover brace on your wrist. Then you show your other hand, palm up. The cut, thin but still fresh, marks your skin where the glass dug in. You don’t say a word. You let him look. His gaze drops slowly to your wounds. He observes, but his expression doesn’t change. No flash of outrage. No moment of realization. Just silence. Calculation. As if weighing their "legal value."

— "Do you have a medical certificate?"

Your throat tightens. You clench your fists. He sets down his pen, looking tired.

— "I can write up an incident report. Mention the calls, your statement, the injuries. But for a formal complaint and investigation, I’ll need more than that. Concrete proof. Witnesses, video, recorded threats. Otherwise… it’s your word against his."

You feel your stomach twist. Everything you’ve endured — the nightmares, the panic, the blood, the fear of running into his shadow — reduced to that: "your word against his." You open your mouth, ready to spill everything you’ve held back for weeks — the terror, the loneliness, the constant sense of being stuck in a nightmare. But he stops you. With a look. Cold. Resigned.

— "I’ll be honest with you." His voice is low, almost tired. "If this guy’s smart, he’ll never go far enough for us to arrest him. But he’ll always go just far enough to ruin your life."

You freeze. Not because it’s shocking. No. Because it’s exactly what you feared to hear. And now it’s real. Stated. Cold. Unfiltered. The raw truth. Institutional powerlessness. The admission that you may never truly beat someone like Matthew. Because his violence isn’t always physical. It’s a slow poison. One no one sees until you’re already on the ground. You feel sick. Your stomach contracts. A bitter taste rises in your throat. The cop slides the form toward you, his gaze barely compassionate. Just… tired.

— "Do you still want to file your report?"

You lower your eyes to the page. The paper looks blurry. Your pen trembles in your fingers, a small witness to everything boiling inside you. You inhale slowly. Very slowly. What’s the point? You ask yourself for the hundredth time. But it’s not enough to stop you. Not this time. Because if you don’t sign, you’ve got nothing. Nothing to stand on if that bastard comes after you again. So you sign. Not out of hope. Not out of faith. Out of necessity. Because it’s all you’ve got left.

When you step out of the station, the dim lights and gray walls seem even duller than when you walked in. It feels like the very air has gotten heavier, saturated with the same grim sense of helplessness you just swallowed down. Happy’s waiting, leaning against the car, arms crossed. It only takes a few steps for him to read your face, your shut-down expression, the tension in your jaw. He lifts an eyebrow, not even remotely surprised.

— "I’m guessing that went well."

You shoot him a sharp glare, exhaustion and anger tangled in loaded silence. He gets it. And more importantly, he doesn’t add anything. Not now. You take a deep breath, trying to contain the pressure burning in your gut.

— "Take me back to the Tower."

He nods without arguing and opens the door. No comment. Just a simple gesture. Practical. You slide into the car and close the door a little too hard, like slamming your failure between the metal and your silence. Happy starts the engine without a word, and you leave that goddamn place behind. It was all for nothing. And you already know who’ll be the first to point it out. The city drifts slowly past the window, bathed in the last orange hues of dusk. Streetlamps flicker on one by one, casting pale glows on sidewalks still scattered with people. Strangers walk by, cars pass — everything looks normal. Too normal. Like the world’s just quietly spinning, oblivious to how you feel.

Inside the car, the silence is thick. The kind you don’t break without reason. Happy drives steadily, hands firm on the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hasn’t said a word since you slammed the door, but you know his mind’s working as hard as yours. He’s tense. Not because of traffic. Not because of you. Because of what you just brought back. You stare ahead, but you don’t really see. The scenery slips past in a blur, distant and dull. Streets, lights, shadows — all just a silent film on a dirty screen. It was all for nothing.

The report. The waiting. The form. That cop and his jaded face. Just enough listening to pretend, not enough will to act. You replay his expression, the vacant stare when he asked if you still wanted to sign — like filing a report was just a cosmetic choice, a tolerated formality no one intends to follow up on. And now you’re on your way back. Empty. With that bitter sense that all you’ve done was make a pointless detour. That Matthew will keep going. That he’ll come back. Again. Your stomach knots, a heavy lump lodged under your ribs. The pressure doesn’t ease. It pulses. It gnaws. The engine hums softly, like a muffled comfort — or a stifled threat. Meanwhile, the city remains calm. Beautiful. Unbothered. Like nothing happened. Like it’s telling you: not my problem.

Then, everything shatters.

A deafening blast breaks the haze — a sharp, brutal, animal sound. The passenger window explodes into a shower of glass that slashes your arms, your cheeks, your neck. Shards scatter in silver bursts across the cabin, like a swarm of icy splinters. You flinch, but too late. The shock knocks the breath from your lungs. Cold night air whips through the car like a lash. Harsh, biting, violent. It sweeps away the artificial warmth inside, leaving a silence drowned in panic. Then you see it.

The weapon.

Black. Heavy. Slow but certain. Like a hand that already knows how the story ends. It slides through the jagged opening, its silhouette crisp against crossing headlights. Its barrel is pointed straight at Happy’s temple. No scream. No word. Happy is frozen. So are you. Your muscles won’t respond. Your body’s on high alert, but no signals are getting through. The world has shrunk to that black, cold, obsessive circle — that piece of metal that could change everything with a twitch. You hear Happy’s breath, shallow. He stays still. Because he knows. He knows this silence. The one before everything breaks.

And in one suspended heartbeat, you understand: this isn’t an accident. This isn’t random. Someone was waiting. Someone wants this to start again. The voice cracks like a whip. No hesitation. No error. It’s filled with rage — raw, uncontrolled, nearly hysterical. This isn’t a veiled threat. It’s a command shouted by someone already committed to doing harm. He’s not here to steal. He’s here to dominate. To break something — or someone. Your heart slams against your chest. A jarring, uneven, brutal drum. Adrenaline jolts you out of your daze, but instead of empowering you, it crushes you, numbs you. Your breath catches in your throat, burning. Stuck. Every fiber of your being frozen between two impulses: run or obey.

Neither wins. You stay paralyzed.

Happy says nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. He knows. He knows one wrong move — even the slightest twitch — and that finger will squeeze. He stays calm, or at least tries. His hands are visible. His eyes locked on the weapon. On the man. On the trigger.

— "You’re gonna lower that gun and think about what you’re doing, man."

His voice is deep, low. A wall between the attacker and you. No aggression, just a reach for reason — buying a second, maybe two. He speaks slowly, like stepping on glass. But the man doesn’t listen.

— "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The scream is feral, amplified by the panic flooding your veins. Then — the blow. A dull, sharp, awful thud. The gun slams against Happy’s temple, metal crunching bone with desperate force. The sound echoes through your chest like it was your own skull. Happy grits his teeth. His face contorts, but he doesn’t move. Then he tilts his head. Just enough to look at you. A second. A fraction. And in his eyes, you read everything he can’t say: Run. Save yourself. Don’t be stupid.

But you still don’t move. Because fear has you nailed to your seat. Because your body is betraying your mind. Because one thought loops in your head:

It’s him. It’s Matthew. He looks for a move. But the other is faster. A brutal hand seizes your collar, yanks you with sharp violence. Before your brain can even process it, your body is ripped from the car. Your shoulder slams into the pavement. A blinding flash. A silent scream stuck in your throat. The impact is harsh, dirty. Your head hits the curb — a dull crack followed by instant vertigo. The world tilts, everything blurs. A piercing pain erupts in your arm, like your nerves just short-circuited. You try to move. Try to run. But your body refuses. Then comes the weight. Crushing. A knee drives into your ribs, collapsing your chest, suffocating you. The taste of blood fills your mouth — metallic, sharp. Cold night air rips through you as something icy touches your chin. The barrel. You know it by feel. By weight. By the silent threat it carries. Your throat tightens. You choke. His breath is ragged, uneven. He reeks of rage, sweat, and wild panic. He’s shaking. Not from fear. From tension.

— "You thought you’d get away?!" he spits, voice rasping like a growl.

His bloodshot eyes lock on yours with concentrated, searing hatred. You want to speak. Scream. Beg maybe — you’re not even sure — but no sound comes. All you feel is this goddamn certainty drilling into your skull: this time, he came to finish it.

Matthew.

You don’t need to see his face. Even with the mask, even in the dark, you recognize that voice. That hatred in every syllable, that sick fire burning through each word. Warped by rage. Twisted by the need to crush you.

— "You think he can protect you?!"

He spits the words like venom, each syllable soaked in scorn. His breath is shaky, too close to your face. You feel it — hot, trembling with caged violence. His weight suffocates you. Your lungs can’t expand. Every breath is a struggle. Adrenaline pulses in your skull, fries your nerves, electrifies your muscles. You fight back. Your arms reach for leverage, your legs kick to push him off. But he’s heavier. More grounded. He always was. He always knew how to pin you down. And he proves it again. A hand strikes — quick, dry, brutal. Your cheek explodes in pain, heat flaring across your jaw. Your skull smacks the concrete again. A white flash crosses your vision, followed by queasy blur. The taste of blood returns — bitter.

The barrel. It trails across your skin, like an obscene caress. From forehead to chin. Then it stops. Presses beneath your jaw. Forcing you to look up, to meet his eyes, even masked. You’re exposed. Helpless.

— "You’re coming with me. Nicely."

His voice is calm now. Too calm. Like a predator certain the prey can’t escape. Pressure. A warning. A finger ready to squeeze. The silence around you is chilling. City noise fades — distant, indifferent. Cars pass. People, maybe. But no one sees. No one hears. Or worse — no one stops. The world keeps turning. But you’re frozen. Suspended between two heartbeats. And deep down, you know: one second is all it’ll take. But you’re stuck. Pinned to the ground. Crushed under him. Under his fucking gun. Every second stretches like a blade hovering over your throat. There’s no escape. You know it — in one beat, you obey or he pulls the trigger. And no one can stop it. Not in time. Not here.

The gun doesn’t tremble. It’s steady. Inevitable. Like it’s part of you now. You feel the tiny pulses in his finger resting on the trigger, each one a promised end. Your breath is ragged, reduced to weak spasms. Your throat too dry, chest about to burst. Your heart hammers so loud you hear it in your ears. THUD. THUD. THUD.

And far off, almost unreal — Happy’s voice. A shout. A command. But the words don’t reach you. Everything’s fog. Blur. Matthew yanks you upward, his grip choking your neck. You gasp. You stagger. Your body won’t follow. But he doesn’t care. He drags you like a hollow carcass, a prize already claimed. No mercy. No pause.

Your back slams into a parked car. The impact rips a muffled cry from your throat. Metal shrieks. Your shoulder scrapes against it, tearing your jacket, your skin. The pain stings — sharp, burning. You lose your footing — your leg collapses, your knee hits asphalt — but Matthew doesn’t slow. He holds you upright by force, refusing to let you fall before he’s done. And suddenly — the gunshot. CRACK. A dry, tearing sound that splits the air. A sound that freezes your blood. You don’t know where he aimed. Not even if it was at Happy or the sky. But you hear the screams. The rushed footsteps. People scattering. Eyes turning away.

The city fades. And you stay there. Trapped in a scene no one dares to interrupt. A nightmare too real. No one’s coming to save you.

taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix if you want to be part of it here

[drdemonprince]

Your advice to the letter-writer whose friend is a former abuser is interesting to me! I largely agree with the specifics, but I'd have added advice to be careful with how the former abuser treats the letter-writer. I might also advise them to be careful whenever the former abuser describes conflicts, as they might be likelier than average to use a woe-is-me framework. I would recommend caution with anything the abuser suggests they do that might cause them discomfort or humiliation, even if it sounds righteous in theory. I realize this is not very fair of me. The former abuser shouldn't have to live with increased carefulness and suspicion from their friends. Maybe it's not a real friendship if you're always wary about your friend potentially turning on you. But purely pragmatically... a lot of former abusers do abuse again, even if they had changed, sincerely, for a while. And "my friend who knows my history and stands with me, even losing some other friends in the process" is a prime target for Abuse II: Abuse Comes Back But In A New Enlightened Way. Deciding to have solidarity with a former abuser is a very moral thing to do, but it's also a trait some abusers are great at warping for their own benefit. Again, I know I'm being unfair, but I keep seeing this happen. Sometimes the friend gets sucked into a narrative where they eventually blame the former victim and become increasingly protective. Other time they say very clear-eyed things but ultimately still end up physically or sexually or emotionally mistreated.

I guess my question is, you say you believe the abuser fundamentally changed, so what does that look like to you? Are you able to fully relax around people who've abused in the past? Abuse is the result of circumstances, but it's also a sort of skill; how do you trust people to never use that skill again?

Great things to be aware of, honestly, thanks anon for the nuanced and careful view.

I like your framing of abuse as a skillset rather than a type of person -- and it's a skill that a whole variety of people wield, including sometimes those who are identified by most not as abusers, but as crusaders for justice or even supposedly for victims' rights. Having been abused and having also learned to be a canny social manipulator, I do see abuse as a skill that gets taught in dysfunctional groups and family systems, and which we can all potentially fall back on when we're backed into a corner.

Knowing how to recognize the skills of abuse being utilized (and maybe even more importantly, how you feel when a person leverages certain tactics against you) is really important for self-preservation in general. Being friends with someone who has a known abuse history that they are explicit & contrite about, in some ways, puts you in a safer position than if you were interceding with a more covert abuser who uses such tactics under a banner of benevolence. But it's also true that many people who come to be known as abusers were initially known as charming, and right thinking, and moral -- and it's very possible for someone who has done abuse to present themselves as such but not mean it. We can't ever really know the full depths of someone else's heart and mind, nor do we have to -- we can look to their actions and the skills they use, particularly when they are frustrated or feeling attacked.

[sysmedsaresexist]

Today we're once again reminded of the levels of cruelty people are capable of.

I missed most of the drama with the bait accounts, but I want to offer some positivity and solace to those affected.

Many of you actually cared about the fake child behind the screen. You wanted to help, you sent kindness and support, and I watched many of you worry in private on discord-- everyone was very realistic about the claims. Obviously they were probably wrong, but goddamn, they needed help.

Don't be embarrassed or ashamed that you fell for it.

You are a good person, who sees good in the world.

You aren't gullible or easily manipulated.

You are still capable of trust, and you should be so proud of yourself for manging to hold on to that trait after everything you've been through.

Don't let this do further damage to you. Don't be angry with yourself, don't lose that faith in the good of humanity.

Don't let sick people trick you into thinking the world is full of only horrible people. Don't let yourself become more skeptical, because that's what they want.

Continue to believe survivors

In Canada, we have a saying.

"Better that someone abuse the system, than for someone who needs it to not have access."

Stay with me, I'm going somewhere with this.

When we talk about Universal Healthcare with Americans, this topic comes up a lot. "But people will abuse the system."

Yes, but more people actually need and use the system appropriately. You can't allow bad people to harm everyone. Everyone loses in that case.

As proof:

We pay less in taxes than Americans, and still get free Healthcare. I take home more money than you, and still get more out of it. The myth that our waitlists are months long is fake and orchestrated by American insurance companies.

Consider, for a second, how your background plays into your beliefs and skepticism regarding these topics. Maybe I was just raised to be more trusting, I don't know.

But I certainly don't think the mindset is harmful.

You can read interviews on the isstd website with clinicians that were working during the satanic panic. One interview stood out to me in particular.

Imagine for a second that you have a patient sitting in front of you. They tell you that they have dreams about being abused by a satanic cult. They give you details of these dreams and you talk through them together. For now, you're focused on how these dreams affect them. Are they losing sleep? Is their daily life affected? Anxiety? They begin to tell you about their paranoia, and how people they recognize are in the dreams.

You probe a bit deeper.

They wonder aloud if maybe it happened in real life.

How do you respond? Really think about how your response will come across.

This was the satanic panic.

The ISSTD didn't find their patients themselves. Doctors from across the world referred their patients to the ISSTD's treatment program in Chicago. The doctors at the ISSTD trusted the referring doctors, who had already done the majority of work and background gathering (meaning the ISSTD met these clients long after they had made their claims, rather than "implanting" those memories themselves). Police were involved trying to sort through all the information to find real culprits. Everyone was terrified. No one knew what was happening or who to trust or believe. It looked real.

In the back of every doctor's mind was the question, "What if they're telling the truth?"

Many doctors didn't believe their clients, but telling them that to their face would be bad practice.

This large scale hysteria was something no one was prepared for. They were flying by the seat of their pants, hoping for the best and that an answer would fall from the sky.

Yes, many of the claims were fake. Whether they were consciously made up, or stand-in pseudomemories for real abuse (a well-documented thing), and the rare cases mixed in that were genuine-- doctors tried to take their clients' claims at face value.

Imagine you tell your doctor about your abuse and they say, "that sounds a bit extreme, I don't think that's possible."

Programmed DID existed before the panic, it exists to this day. Just because you can't find the research doesn't mean it isn't there.

By claiming something specific isn't real, you also discredit the abuse leading up to it.

Let me put it another way, who cares if programmed DID is possible? Organized and ritual abuse is real. Trafficking, CSA films, war crimes, conversion groups, churches. DID is real.

Grey Faction and TST want you to stay in the mindset that it's more important to weed out fakers and malingerers than to trust people in the hopes you help just one person in a real way. They want you to be skeptical of everyone and everything in order to maintain their public image, because if you look too hard, you'll see the terrible things they have done.

GF has a bad habit of being like, "The TST doesn't take part in LARGE SCALE MURDER AND CANNIBALISM, that's not even real, it was debunked during the panic," as if to say anything less severe isn't worthy of note and also must not be real. It's surprisingly effective, and by connecting more absurd ideas with RAMCOA and the ISSTD, they manage to discredit huge swathes of the field.

Some people like to think they took the red pill, and that they've ascended to a higher level of intelligence with a new, better ability to look at things impartially, when they're really just assholes falling for bullshit. They hurt real survivors and still think they're in the right.

It's vile behavior done for cheap kicks and internet brownie points. Even 4chan types wouldn't go that far or be that pathetic.

Who else could look someone in the face and say, "I don't believe you."

They want you to think they're better than you, but which is better?

Outward and vocal skepticism and dismissal, or quiet, thoughtful reflection with the longterm goal of helping this person find their truth?

Some of you would make much better doctors than others.

The bad people aren't the ones "faking" or lying. Those people at mentally ill and still deserving of help.

The bad people are the ones who want to dismiss every claim because one person once lied about it.

Don't lose your faith. Don't let this set you back. We need more people like you.

I'm proud of you for caring about people.

What happened will further stigmatize survivors, it did real damage to people. You're not alone.

Don't let them win, you did the right things.

Stay safe, everyone.

We survived this kind of discourse once on a much larger scale. We'll do it again.