blue lullaby

richard trager

100% will get to know you over wine! be careful though. it may taste sour. and you may black out after a few minutes. but that’s not trager’s fault — no, no! it must be an error on the restaurant!

yes. trager will dress for the occasion. he wants to impress you, a lot. suit and tie; maybe leave the first two buttons unbuttoned? anything to get your attention!

“did you know i’m a doctor? and i’m pretty damn good at it.”

can dance decently, he’s one of those people that just move randomly with their partner. go with the flow type shit. he might have practiced for it earlier but it’s still mid.

is it insane to say that trager is a whore doesn’t have a type

eddie gluskin

we already know what i’m gonna say.

he would absolutely love to get to know you over wine! however, he’s the type of guy to serenade you instead of taking you out. his mother said he has a great singing voice. eddie is fine with anything as long as it gets him closer to putting a ring on that finger.

i know i said earlier that chris might marry you on the spot if you have a good date, but eddie is taking that with somewhere between a 75% ~ 29% rate of success.

yes. he will dress perfectly. he calls it 007, 0 stains, 0 holes and 7 stitched fabric on the vest. what? he doesn’t have anything else. he wishes he does. (im sorry for that 007 joke i will go to the shame corner)

“i’m.. looking for a wife to spend the rest of my living days with. i value trust and.. honesty, over those vulgar displays..”

sure bro

he can dance pretty good. he probably practiced from that rotating figure of two people dancing contraption that i don’t know the name of.

he already says his type in-game; an obedient wife who loves him and only him. the traditional wife, who is loyal to him and accepts everything he has to offer. a gift to be unwrapped, and savored.

frank manera

if that wine ain’t blood, frank is not your blud.

moment of silence because i’m keeping that in

if that wine isn’t blood, frank is coming back home. he came to that date for two things. you, and food. it’s a 50/50, maybe a 49/51. and his food is human. you’d have to meet up in some niche ass restaurant to actually get him to eat.

in terms of clothing.. considering how we see him in whistleblower, i’m tempted to say it. but, he will wear something that is enough for the occasion. average, like chris, but he cares less about it ngl

it might seem crazy but frank is an eater no matter the gender! im sorry.

question: does frank make sexual eating jokes? probably does. he thinks it’ll charm you. it probably will if you’re still reading this.

no dancing. unless more food????? feedmefeedmefeedme

idk why i made frank a gluttonous beast here (cause he is)

miles upshur

he would absolutely get to know you over cherry wine! getting charmed by miles is fairly easy, he has the looks and the humor for it. yeah and he’s an aspiring journalist, too. what more can you ask for?

he prefers trager juice tho

oh, what’s he gonna wear? leather jacket + jeans. no more no less.

if he really likes you, he’d yap. like actually yap. he usually writes his thoughts down, but when faced with someone he can talk to, all those thoughts rain down.

claims he hates doctors

“mhm. the best investigative journalist out there.”

miles is surprisingly good at dancing. is being a journalist giving him random passives?

oh, and.. is he missing two fingers?

“i can bet the rest of my fingers you’re coming home with me tonight.”

miles upshur the man you are ❤️

jeremy blaire

being a dog for murkoff can get a little lonely.. maybe, just maybe he’d want to get to know you over cherry wine; probably reserve an expensive restaurant, all fancy and stuff just for you. maybe roses on the table?

i could see blaire being a tsundere, he just gives off that vibe

yes, jeremy will dress up for you. he will look perfect. his suit will be graced with not even the tiniest speck of dust, to the point you could probably see those cartoonish sparkles on it.

hes a fucking tsundere i can see it it’s right there in my head

as he said; no one can know, he would never tell you about his job because it’s obviously gonna make you mad and you’ll leave. then he’ll be lonely beating the shit out of his software employees again :(( sorry waylon

question: would he play golf with you? does he laugh loud and heartily like a corrupt rich guy would? yes.

no, he will not introduce you to trager.

can he dance? eeehhhh. sure. he can dance, just a teensy bit. mostly won’t know what he’s doing but his confidence is enough to intimidate even you!

i don’t see blaire having a preference; perhaps someone richer than he is? all he thinks about is that bag but the REAL question is does it get a little lonely and he actually wants a peaceful quiet life with a family of 3-100?

waylon park

i can actually see waylon as canonically enjoying a date with cherry wine. he’s the most normal out of everyone here (he’s alive and hiding from evil corporation) so i guess it’s normal.

ofcourse, he’d dress up for the occasion. he nice with it yk

how do i write for a mf who already has a wife inlore

waylon is also surprisingly average at dancing, he’s keeping up with you on the dance floor and he’s having a lot of fun.

100% a romantic don’t talk to me (wait please dont go)

he is already planning to have 2 kids in the future and he is definitely not planning to get traumatized by a big dude trying to marry him when he already has you

will tell you how much he HATES his job even though he’s a software employee for a big company called murkoff

“why?”

“it’s kinda complicated..”

most normal dude on this entire post it’s kinda alarming

"father" martin archimbaud

this is a character i was surprisingly excited to write about

very classy! he’d love to get to know you over cherry wine. (he won’t drink anything that’ll fuck him up, i see him as someone who refuses to get drunk.) so, just like chris, he’d have alternatives like water or coke.

will dress up for you :)) he might not look like it, but he’d use anything at his disposal to make himself presentable to you! he wouldn’t want to lose a potential partner now, would he?

dancing.. he would love to! martin is mostly clueless about whatever he’s trying to dance, but he is trying! he’s a natural, though and probably surprised you the first time you invited him to dance :)

seeing someone willing to be with him and even taking the time to talk and get along with him makes it easier to forget all about the callings of something beyond him; since martin often entertains the delusion in his mind that something akin to a God is coming. but you make it better.

martin would love to fingerpaint with you, maybe a small flower with his fingerprints as the red petals while the yellow center is in the shape of your thumb. he loves it. he will fall inlove on the spot if you do this; please do this.

he 100% thinks you’re a reward of his endless devotion to the Lord.

“you.. you are a gift from the heavens; a reward from.. God. oh, thank God...”

it’s easier to forget about his obsession with God when an angel is in front of him <3 (peak)

leland coyle

beer and pistachios and law propaganda and the promise of a warm place he’ll be trapped in to keep him safe and he’s absolutely coming to that date. oh, and did i say cigars? yeah, that too.

i could honestly see coyle coming to the date in his uniform. like, police uniform. to show authority, to scare ya a little!

he’s the biggest showoff ever. his badge will blind you from how many times he’s letting it shine. like deadass he loves being a cop.

coyle prefers to have a date in the middle of a thunderstorm. maybe in a restaurant where he can see the harsh strikes of lightning outside?

“can never go wrong wit a little lightnin’. finger o’ God, so they say.”

can dance! surprisingly. his whole thing is being charming and a very talk-his-way-out-of-shit guy so he can obviously dance. i mean, he’s had 3 wives.

he might also prefer someone like a traditional wife, obedient and pretty to look at, just like eddie. someone he can come home to after a long day of work to beat love. or.. maybe he wants to be the wife??? (this is the part where i shamelessly plug my malewife coyle fic)

mother gooseberry

mention drugs and she’s right there with you on the table.

on a serious note, she’s a bit insecure about eating, especially when her hand puppet is currently telling her that she’s a cow who deserves nobody.

“you great slatternly slut!” blah blah blah talking goose

she would love to get to know you over cherry wine, though. unless it has some sort of negative effect on teeth that i don’t know about because i didn’t research anything. mother gooseberry would be a sweetheart, though!

yes, she will dress for you. a nice gown she just bought a few days ago because she wants to impress you somehow.

doctor futterman does not approve of this date but you are quick to politely shut him down. mother gooseberry is watching and you better not punch that puppet.

she is very insecure, as mentioned, and being face to face with someone who actually wants to get to know her after seeing her appearance is making her feel a bit better.

“phillys, your date’s ugly!” “daddy, don’t be like that!”

im gonna uppercut that little shit. you understand franco now

unfortunately does not know how to dance. she knows how to entertain kids but not a waltz.

anyone is fine, as long as they aren’t easily ticked off or one to not yell at her. she already has a hand puppet like that.

franco barbi

yes, he would get to know you over cherry wine. woah, woah, wait... where’s that foul smell coming from?

“it’s my signature! wolf’s milk.”

brother eugh

you have to endure that stench for the rest of the date by the way; it’s not exactly desirable but it’s tolerable (right?)

he will wear his usual dapper attire; franco is very comfortable with his clothes that he wears everyday.

franco is also very insecure and likes to say random things to (what he believes will) impress you. it’s his first time actually being on a date, and not just hooking up with a whore he paid to enjoy him.

it does kind of caress at his brain when he thinks about someone he doesn’t have to pay to dominate him.

stepmother tendencies aside, franco would obviously prefer someone who would humiliate him. or, to describe it in this era, goth girls he can call mommy to step on him and spit on his face.

he would love 2026

i think franco would either be average at dancing; like he’s keeping up a little or really fucking bad at it. i’m leaning towards the latter.

it all started when he first moved in, you were coming back home from work when the journalist was carrying boxes into the former-vacant room next to yours. each box had notes ontop of them in blue pen, some which you could read as ‘Kitchen Supplies (glad i remembered about the white-blue spoon)’ and ‘Hard Drugs’ half open. documents and files were inside of that hard drugs box, possibly from him. what a clever way to make people stay away from your things, huh.

“hey, you looking at my.. uh,” a voice alerted you, and there he was; miles upshur, standing by his door. “looking at my drugs,” he mumbles, almost whispering that part out. it’s damn near midnight and he probably does not want to deal with people actually thinking he’s bringing drugs into the apartment. “nah, man. all yours,” you answer, looking back down at the boxes infront of his room. “you new here? i just got back from my shift.”

“yeah, just moved in a couple minutes ago. think there’s still some boxes at my jeep, but i got the important things first.” he’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. with what seems to be a leather jacket perched on his shoulder. “important things include ‘Rugs’? yeah, sure.” you’re looking at the small box. the word rugs is actually written on it. “well, it’s a priority to stay comfy. i was just about to make some juice, think you want some?”

“no thanks, i’d be down tomorrow, though. i feel terrible.” and that was the case; your back hurts like it just got cracked (pause) and your teeth are aching like you got curbstomped. “yeah, 14 hour shifts got that, it’s why i became a journalist. you should rest, though. i might end up becoming a suspect if you pass out here.”

“also, where do you work?”

“oh, i work at mount massive. it’s the asylum right over there.”

“nice, go ahead. i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

it didn’t even take a week for miles and you to immediately click; as if you both had met years ago. he was quick to share about evil companies he wrote about in the past, even saying that he has ‘spidey senses’ for corporations doing illegal shit. “oh, i write in blue pen because it’s more vibrant against the page,” as if a black pen is any less visible. “well, look at it like this; black ink won’t be seen in black paper, but blue ink can-”

yeah, he’s a dumbass. but he’s a literary-competent (flame me in the comments for this) dumbass. is that right? i mean, he can write; he could probably read too, he can expose shit, and he can record. on his camcorder. hell, he’s a journalist.

okay, that’s still dumbass.

‘miles is stupid’ propaganda is supported and tolerated. not by miles though.

“my handwriting is better, look, it literally looks like text on a screen with a font! it’s consistent as hell!” he’s holding up a page where he wrote your name and his name on it (with a blue pen) to show you his beautiful handwriting.

“astounding! bravo!”

“i’m gonna squeeze you and turn you into juice.”

coming home from shifts just to see him waiting for you infront of his apartment just suddenly brings your soul back to your body and you’re ready to laugh again. just something about this damned journalist makes you happy.

“hey, man.” you greet, just coming from the stairs. that climb up was excruciating, you felt like you were 60. “i got great news,” miles was holding a document in his hand, wearing that same leather jacket + white t-shirt with jeans combo. “someone emailed me about a corporation doing nasty stuff.”

“this is my chance to get back up; to finally show the world another great story.” camcorder in hand, his jeep’s headlights were on where its parked. how did you not notice that? “you’re going alone? no police, no nothing?” you ask, clutching your bag in hand. you were tired, but intrigued.

“well, yeah. but this’ll be great. i’m going tonight, wish me luck.” you nod, dapping him up one last time as you watch him descend down the stairs. you stay outside for just a few minutes to watch him get into his jeep. well, hopefully he comes back home in one piece.

buzz, buzz

it sounds like a swarm of bees are right outside your door. it’s been a couple of days since miles hasn’t returned, but you figured that maybe he’s going through legal processes right now. the noise is making your head hurt, and you were starting to decide whether or not you’ll go out there.

“fuckin’ bees.” you get up, damn near dragging yourself to the front door. peeking into the peephole, you don’t see anything; not a single bee in sight.

maybe it’s the sleep making you brave, but you open the door and.. no bees. you look to miles’ apartment only to see the door open until it thuds closed. is miles back home?

you were honestly too sleepy to check, and you figured that he did come back. stupid dude didn’t even knock at your place. must’ve been tired or scared to disrupt you.

tomorrow morning, a small note is present on your doorstep.

‘hey, man. i’m kind of sharing a body with a guy named billy. he just killed his mom a few days ago.

you won’t believe me, so i guess i’ll just say that i’m going on a forced adventure with this guy.

also, quit your job for me (• 3•)

by miles. and billy.

— the walrider’

even then, you could still hear and somewhat see miles entering his apartment after that day. does he really not like you and he chose to make up this bullshit ass excuse to cut contact? he didn’t even bother making up an actual excuse.

also, what the fuck’s a walrider? is that some sort of criminal?

well, i guess you got a walrider next door.

a/n . wait is billy technically there too?

waking up at whatever ungodly hour, with the house engulfed with darkness and chris nowhere to be found. you were still on the couch, and the only room with light was the bathroom, which has the door wide open. loud, guttural sounds of vomiting can be heard inside. you get up to go to the bathroom, and, sure enough, chris was inside, throwing up on the toilet. “..nightmares?” you ask, announcing your arrival so that he doesn’t get surprised. he was panting, a hand over his own belly. “..red.. on red..” he grunts, wiping his mouth with his hand. you pat at his back as he washes his hands on the sink, and he seems to be tearing up. he continues washing his hands for a few minutes, almost as if trying to wash away the blood on his hands.

you watch him as he lets the water spray on his hands more and more. “...judged by the blood, not the words.. words lie. blood is red. on red..” he was crying now, his tears almost rivaling that of the tap water. the therapy he was attending said he was getting better, and he is; he isn’t lashing out everytime he gets reminded of his kills anymore. but this happens every night, and it feels as though it’s eating you up from the inside. chris was very thankful that you proposed the idea of letting him stay at home, where he’s safe, where he can do house chore duties; not duties of bloodshed by the leaders he follows. you could only pat his back, and he reaches up to close the tap. “..little pig,” his voice cracked, and he wraps his arms around you, his chin resting atop your head. he was still crying, his hand tapping at your head to attempt to relax himself.

“orange juice?” you whisper, your hands rubbing at his back gently.

chris is sitting on a chair at the table as you make him orange juice. it wasn’t much, and to be honest, you were scared it might make him throw up again, but it made him feel better. chris was definitely very childlike, despite being a man bigger than you could ever hope to be. he has his pig plushie in hand, hugging it to his chest. “little pig.. are.. you going to work tomorrow..?” he asks as you place his orange juice infront of him. “well, i do have work tomorrow, but..” you lean in, kissing his nose. “i could get a day off for my pig-lover.” you take a sip of your orange juice. he seemed happy, placing the pig plushie on the table to drink his orange juice.

it’s not much, but you are very happy with your wife; even if he seems ‘annoying’ or ‘disturbing’ to others. he is yours, and you’ll keep making him all the orange juice as he needs.

“there is no exit. there are only trials.” and easterman was right. try living a normal life without getting triggered by ‘spider, eye, lamb’ and killing everyone in your vicinity. everything became trials; even trying to hook up with someone reminds you of easterman. and somehow, blood drenches the bed, instead of your own bodily fluids.

let murkoff make you strong.

but you are getting better. he said so. he is nurturing you, growing you into a better version of yourself; a whole new you, ready to take on the corrupt, dangerous world. only he loves you. only he understands you. he protects you. God is dead, and easterman is here. he is your saviour. he will baptize you; in his humiliation, in his hurtful love—in his embrace. there’s blood in the water. and that’s freedom. it doesn’t hurt. it’s for your own good.

accept the therapy.

“poor thing, what the hell did they do to you?” a grim chuckle. “dr. wernicke’s familiar with it, i believe. i’ve never seen an outbreak so bloody in my life.” another laugh. “like they were trained for this.”

you were strapped to a chair, with two.. what seems to be doctors infront of you. they are wearing face masks, and their uniform makes it so that only their eyes and forehead are visible. one of them catches your eyes blinking awake, and they start talking again. “alright, go ahead. i’ll be waiting to start it.” the voice soon disappears with a click of a door. the other one stays, leaning in to examine your face. you could only watch as he moves out of your sight, licking some part of your head you can’t feel.

it felt like 3 seconds, but the doctor’s already out. everything’s spinning; feels like turning on intense motion blur in a video game. what seems to be TVs turn on infront of you; with imagery you can’t quite explain. it feels like watching a divine being form; one without shape and without language and without sense. incomprehensible.

soon enough, you snap out of it after the patient beside your cell is screaming like he’s being electrocuted by coyle. huh? looking to your right is your.. besides-cell-mate, being grabbed by a ghost? you’re way too high. maybe those special pills you find in trials are fucking you up now.

standing up with no sense of security, you look around the room to find a camcorder. nice. you walk out of your cell, passing by the screaming patient. the hallways feel familiar, but not really. dead bodies on the ground, almost acting like decoration. makes you see red. on red. on red.

reaching a particularly dark spot, you find a night-vision feature on your camcorder. nice. feels very familiar. you just wish you could just pull the camcorder down in order to activate night vision. the cells are empty, splattered with blood. well, okay.

— chris walker

chris is a duty driven guy; he (attempts to) kill anyone who can be a potential host for the walrider. he’s also been exposed to the morphogenic engine like you, but you can’t really make him sit down and tell him “hey, uh. don’t kill me. the walrider (probably) does not want my former-homeless ass.”

you will and did attempt to throw a brick (if you can find one) at him in hopes that he’ll get stunned but.

you also collect the murkoff documents; for a better grade because ofcourse you do. this goes for everyone.

chris definitely reminds you of the jaeger, so you avoid him at all costs.

— father martin

he reminds you of liliya.

you may or may not have killed him (either in the crucifixion or not.)

the only savior you know of is easterman (and probably amelia if the therapy isn’t working.)

— dr. trager

he probably reminds you of easterman; he’s so nice and so comforting and so careful with you. and he also cuts off your fingers but easterman does that too! (indirectly...)

trager may or may not know of your involvement in the trials (depending on if he was informed of Project LATHE 2 and if he knows easterman at all.)

trager is just a nice, money-worshipping fellow. that calls you buddy. how nice.

you either kill him first or he does.

— eddie gluskin

oh my goodness! did you hear that? shh.. “darling.”

i’m trying to think of a prime asset that reminds you of him, but i can’t think of any. if anything, he reminds you of the ex-pop that have suspect voicelines. you know, those ex-pops that call you sweetheart and make you feel loved.

however he definitely reminds you of a prime asset!

yes, you have learned your lesson with chris walker. no, you don’t fucking try to throw a brick at eddie. stop. (you did. it... worked.)

— frank manera

otto’s weapon.

oh and i guess he’s a cannibal too. you probably tried to throw bricks at him to see if it affects him aswell. mission completed! you probably gave him brain damage.

— the twins

they’re chill, they’re kind of just naked, but you’ve seen more dicks in the trials than in this asylum. unfortunately.

huh... otto and arora? but if they’re both male? ok i’m reaching way too far.

— miles upshur

no, you will not try to kill him. unless you get triggered. but, come on. what is in the asylum that screams “spider eye lamb” to you? or maybe it’s all the dead bodies and death? he has the same camcorder as you. you might see him as a fellow reagent and go imposter mode.

— waylon park

same as miles, he reminds you of a fellow reagent and you might try to kill him. but you were interrupted by gluskin before you could do anything so.. bye waylon

— add ↓

theres just so many things to be triggered for in the asylum as a former reagent, the variants there will definitely remind you of some people you’ve met before..

also imagine easterman’s face when murkoff tells him that his precious project LATHE 2 is getting discarded for project walrider. that’s all lol !! thx 4 reading

“ol’ ginny only purrs for me,” he grumbles, searching around a generator. he could hear it all throughout the basement. walking past a closet he didn’t check, he stops for a moment. his hand rubbing at his belt coming up to push down his aviators; observing, watching, looking closely. infront of him is a wall—with a poster taped on it. a sight. it gets him.. let’s not go there. “well, won’tcha look at that,” he grins, “masterpiece. work of art.” he praises, as if he’s in a museum. it probably feels like that for him.

the poor reagent hiding in the closet isn’t even breathing anymore, just hoping leland would leave like he always does. but he’s looking; actually looking at the poster like it’s hypnotizing him.

— add ↓

leland is making the “light work, no reaction” face when he finally meets the artist of those posters (he requested it) around the trials. he practically begged easterman to let him see who this talented artist is. the moment he sees you, he’s putting on his best poker face. his eyes are smiling but thankfully, he has aviators!

“hello, mr. sergeant coyle.” you greet, holding your hand up. leland almost immediately shakes it. “could finally see the.. the maker of those posters,” he nods, leaning in ever so slightly to look at you. you could almost see his eyes. “you are hella talented, friend,” his hand retracts and settles back on its natural habitat, rubbing at his belt. “thank you. to be frank, you are the only prime asset that has requested to see me.”

“heh, i am a man of admiration; especially f’talent,” he grins, his cigarette bobbing. “i was wonderin’..” here we go... “could i request fo’ a poster of my own? i can pay you with.. heads or.. uhh,” he shrugs. “i think i got cash.”

“prime asset leland coyle wishes to commission me?”

“yes. confirmed.”

a few days after, you give him a piece of himself with lightning in the background. he loves it. he taped it to the car-battery behind him before he realized that it could get burnt so he just tapes it to his sleep room if he has one :)

what would otherwise be a quiet, inaudible tapping; due to the eerily silent night, it echoed through the room from your window. opening your eyes to look, a blinding light met your sight. “ugh..” groaning and slightly annoyed, you shield yourself with the blanket as if the tiny, miniscule holes on that fabric’ll block out the fucking sun.

a small voice soon addresses itself, “hey, it’s me.” the light is soon gone, leaving black dots in your vision. oh, it’s your nightly visitor. sitting up rather slowly, practically dragging yourself up in bed, you come face to face with the dark silhouette outside your window.

“mmh.. what time is it?” your voice is strained from sleep, and your hair’s a bird nest. it’s troubling to open your eyes as they automatically shut back down. “2am.”

2 am.

it took you a minute to absorb that information into your spongy brain.

tap, tap.

he’s trying to get your attention.

“ruined your beauty sleep, didn’t i? sorry, gotta do what i gotta do to stay anonymous.” he turns on his flashlight again just to mess with you. “..i would’ve appreciated flowers at my front door with a note.” you scoff, holding one of your hands up to block the light.

“but i wanna talkk..” he almost whines it out.

“yeah, yeah. just stop shining the fucking sun on me.”

“so what did you want to talk about?” you add, “you know.. since you went through the trouble of visiting.”

“uh.”

“soooooo.. what’s your opinion on the socio-economical status of our country right now? me personaallyyyyyy,, it’s like something i want to write about and reveal to the public!”

“yeah, you’re miles, aren’t you?”

“..no, no—i’m not miles, who even is that, lol?”

“who says lol in person?”

“certainly not miles, whoever that is.”

this is awkward.

you already know who this is.

“so.. you come here often?”

“you’re outside my bedroom window, miles. at 2am.”

“who’s miles!!!???”

like every other visit, miles your secret admirer will soon disappear into the night, staying away from your life (unless he’s your co-journalist that loves to talk about corrupt companies he wants to expose, but surely not, right?) until the next day.

it took him a while. a long while, actually. all in order to finally let you in; let you get close to him without him flinching or shifting away, or even letting you hug him without any problem.

and, he felt a change.

you changed him.

ghost.

now simon.

simon loved you so much. his precious little thing—the being who lit up his shitty, gloomy life. he valued you at such a high level; no one could compare. absolutely no one. ofcourse, no one would compare to the beautiful sight that brought color into this grayscale life, the artist who brought life to his stale story, the painter who colored his life, the star who would shine brighter than he ever did, the glasses that had the perfect magnification for his blurry eyes; showing him the beauty of the once unseen world.

he knows, it’s silly. a big, mean lieutenant crushing on this rookie. it’s hilarious. he should be the cold, aloof boss; not this lovesick motherfucker who can’t get enough of a sweet rookie.

and, despite this love for you,

it won’t always backfire.

even when he wants it to.

bells are chiming, people are excited, flowers are thrown around—it’s the big day everyone has been waiting for. your wedding day.

simon waited for you, wearing his best suit and finally showing his scarred face; it’s a big event. he finds himself unconsciously fixing his tie, even if he doesn’t need to. his heart is pounding out of his chest, and he feels a mix of happiness and.. something else in his veins.

then, everyone cheered.

when simon looked over his shoulder at the entrance of the church, there you were—all in white, walking down the aisle. a beautiful sight, even for a picky man such as he. and he almost sheds a tear, though he doesn’t; he can’t show vulnerability, not now.

you look up at him with that signature smile, and he feels the world stop.

...

and then, you pass him, flowers in hand, as you walk towards your groom. the lucky bastard; johnny.

and, well, even though the painter discarded his portrait, simon couldn’t care less. he was still created by this talented and beautiful painter, and his life was filled with color. thankful, yet a bit envious.

the painter is.. ofcourse, showing off their best artwork, yet, this discarded masterpiece will forever remember what the painter has done to bring them to life.

simon. the colored grayscale.

“watch, newbie, these are the pros at work,” he murmured pridefully, angling his giant scissors so that both of the blades are between miles’ right index finger. “n–no, no, please,” miles panted, squirming on the chair out of fear. “okay, okay, just watch, ignore our uncooperative patient,” trager snarls, “keep your eyes on me, newbie.”

snap!

an agonizing scream rang in your ears, miles was squirming, trying to wiggle his tense hands out of their restraints. “hey, buddy, there’s no use trying..” trager whispers, angling the scissors to his ring finger. “no– fuck!”

gory sights like these are common to you—for fuck’s sake, you’re trager’s trainee. he wants you to be just like him, a giant scissor–snapping maniac. he even gave you a pair of scissors of your own! though, he shrinked it a bit.. so it’s smaller than his, but larger than your average scissor. you guessed it, he gave you garden shears.

“alright, you do it on his other hand now,” trager stepped aside for you, tilting his head at the poor man. approaching miles, you held out your shears, snapping them to test it—just like how trager would do it.

okay, index finger first, ring finger next; pause before cutting the ring finger for more pain.

you angle your shears at miles’ index finger, submitting his left hand to the same fate trager put onto his right one.

at this point, pools of crimson red were huddled together at the front of miles’ chair as you and trager worked on him.

everytime miles would squirm and wiggle under his restraints, trager would pull you back quickly, just incase miles would reach you and deal some unwanted damage—and everytime, trager would let out a dissatisfied “tsk” at the poor man.

“hey, you wanna finish him off or d’ya wanna give me the honor?” trager suddenly asks you, the loud snap! snap! snap! of his comically large scissors filling the room. “uh.. okay, go on..”

“ohh, buddy, you’ll be getting a free way out today,” he laughs at miles, snapping his scissors. “and that escape, my friend, is—”

“n–no, no, no!”

“death.”

→ his s/o cooks his lunch, and will sneak in some snacks in his bag. when searching for his lunch, he’ll just see that there’s two chocolate chip cookies wrapped up in plastic and a notepad with his birdie’s handwriting on it; ‘so you can have some food during recess ♡’

→ when his s/o goes to visit the school? oh, fuck. it was when he was rushing to go because he woke up late and he was sure the children were waiting for his history classes that he forgot to bring his folder with all of the paperwork he had. you went to the school he was working at, dressed in casual yet a bit formal clothes...and asked the guard if you could go inside to deliver a folder to one of the school staff. you wander around a bit, asking the students that passed by if they knew where professor riley was. eventually, you find out he’s currently teaching a grade 7th class, section Edison. as he was rambling on to the class about how great the uk was, there was a soft tap on the door. the students turned first, then he did, catching sight of you. despite that skull mask blocking most of his face, everyone could see how his eyes widened. “oh, lovey— excuse me, class.”

→ you give him his folder and he thanks you, giving you a small kiss to the forehead—pushing up his balaclava first to expose his scarred lips. he quickly pulls it down afterward, and suddenly the entire class yells, squealing at the cute sight. grade 7 students getting all giddy over their scary history teacher fiddling with someone.. yeah.

→ best believe he put the class on timeout after you left.

prof. john “ soap ” mactavish

usually called professor mactavish / mr. mactavish

→ probably a research teacher, usually science stuff in his class, really. i mean, shit, it’s a grade 7 class—stuff like scientific attitudes, inferring and other hilly doobies are to be expected. before he was deployed for this mission, he had to experience captain price’s brutal way of teaching. i mean, you can’t be a teacher if you don’t know shit from the subject, right? so captain price wanted to teach him first—all about this science stuff. let’s just say johnny could be the best science student right now, with a few bruises on his face from captain price’s punishments...

→ definitely makes friends with some students in the sections he’s teaching—section edison? everyone’s waving at him when they spot him wandering in the halls. section ptolemy? yeah, they all get happy and excited when mr. mactavish walks in. he especially likes the noisy kids, even if they’re seen as troublesome by most teachers including simon. in john’s own words, “the noisy ones’re funniest...like me.”

→ since he and simon teach mostly the same sections, they like to catch up with each other a lot. there was this rare occurrence that happened in section copernicus, where simon went overtime to teach more history; it was 4 minutes after the initial time he was meant to leave. john walks in the room, confused when he sees simon still in the class. “oh, johnny,” simon says casually, closing his laptop, signaling to the class to shut the hell up. “my bad, needed t’get a lesson in,” simon explains while john shakes his head, bumping fists with his lieutenant. the entire class was dead silent, amazed by the imagery of years of friendship and comradeship shown in 7 seconds of interaction.

→ john doesn’t really like to bring his s/o to the school, especially knowing the school’s background. however, he does bring his partner to field trips with the children and likes to daydream that his students were his kids and his s/o were the bearer. man. it’s peaceful, beautiful. just him, his beautiful baby, and his beautiful babies. a bunch of grade 7 students causing chaos on whatever place they went to visit while he spent his own time getting romantic.

→ his students definitely ship you guys hard, even if he rarely brings you over to school excluding events.

→ you, your husband, and his students are like one big family—the father, the bearer, and of course, their 35 grade 7th kids.

prof. john “ bravo 6 ” price

usually called professor price / mr. price

→ he’s probably a values education teacher, claims he’s doing God’s work (he’s really not, he’s just having fun with the students whom he now sees as his offsprings—though he’ll never admit that because he’s a bit embarrassed about it; especially to his students that look up to him.) “you call’n me old? i’m old, but i ain’t yall’s father.”

→ treated like the father of the class (he is) and he absolutely hates it.

→ gets absolutely pissed with his students because they’re too fucking loud and silly but he loves them, 100%

→ would definitely take a long time before he opens up to his students—at the start, he’s not strict, not kind, just teaches and doesn’t show any affection. when he opens up? calls everyone his child. “my child, shut yer fuckin’ mouth”

→ he won’t mind bringing his significant other to school, even before he opens up to his students. if there’s an important event or he’s busy and can’t keep his students company, he won’t mind calling up his sweetheart back at home.

→ one time, he was busy; needed to attend a meeting. now, section edison had no values education substitute because kyle was absent, so...he called you.

→ “i know, sweet’eart, it sounds kinda silly, but i’ma need you to come on over here—the children don’t got company,” his gruff voice echoes throughout your room as it emits from your phone. “mmgh.. fine,” you huff, and he spews out a couple of apologies and stuff about thanking you before hanging up.

→ now, let’s just say... his students really liked you and thought you were a substitute, but you told them you were price’s significant other.

→ and then the poor old man gets shipped with you everyday in section edison. too bad, so sad.

sub. kyle “ gaz ” garrick

usually called professor kyle / mr. kyle

→ would probably be professor price’s substitute, so, he teaches values education too.

→ price is usually gone for meetings, so kyle is a reoccurring substitute coming to teach the students.

→ instead of fatherly, i think kyle would prefer to be seen as brotherly by his students—i don’t know, he just seems like the chill brother you go to for help when your parents ground you.

→ there’s somewhat of a family dynamic in class—father price, brother kyle, and the little siblings; the students of the class.

→ would 100% introduce you to his students, like an older brother introducing his significant other to his little siblings. (his "little siblings" loved you.)

→ “they’re so cool!” “woww!” “i ship you guys!” “yiieeeee!”

→ it makes kyle’s heart melt to see his students supporting your relationship—he truly does feel like an older brother.

→ one time, he was presenting to the class via laptop and suddenly, price calls. “oh, wait a minute, class. i need’a take this call.” kyle said, approaching the laptop and hitting answer on the call. “ye bastard!” price suddenly yells, gruff voice echoing through the now-silent classroom. “yer sugar plum called me sayin’ they miss ya,” price scoffs, “feels like ’m a father with you, boy. get yer romance up.”

→ kyle freezes, “uh, price, ’m still teachin’,” he mutters, eyes on the ground—embarassed. “oh, you still teachin’?” price asked, “tell my lovely students i’ll be teachin’ tomorrow.”

→ ... “they already know, your voice was..” kyle shrugs. “oh, did they hear the first part too?”

→ “of–fuckin’–course they did.”

prof. alejandro vargas

usually called professor alejandro / mr. alejandro

→ 100% a language teacher, of course he teaches spanish.

→ a "spanish or vanish" typa teacher. do NOT mispronounce any spanish near this man.

→ seeing a language lesson on their schedule gets students sighing and huffing and puffing in disbelief. they all know they’re cooked

→ alejandro has a little baton on his desk during lessons—no, he doesn’t pick it up at any time in the class, but it’s enough to scare the shit out of students in the class. he will even go as far as to placing the baton on the desk in a way where everyone can see it.

→ DEFINITELY a terror teacher, probably throw him in the bins of scary teachers along with simon and könig.

→ now all of his students can speak spanish fluently! yay!

→ not because of passion or the actual will to learn.. but.. because of mr. alejandro.. he’s scary.

→ he invites his significant other over to the school to show off his students speaking fluent spanish. “see, mi amor?” he grins.

→ “ale, were these kids taught safely?” you ask.

→ “well, no one needs to know that,” he shrugs. “all i can see are a bunch-a spanish students!”

→ you’re the significant other of the TERROR teacher named alejandro who protects the children from him.

phillip graves

usually called professor graves / mr. graves

phillip’s is very unserious and done from the bottom of my heart because i hate him with a passion

→ an english teacher (america image insert)

→ really fucking evil—gives surprise quizzes weekly at random times (passing score should be 2 mistakes only)

→ has his favorites in the class.. but his favorite is either the one with the most aura or the one who speaks english with the most american accent because he’s a biased scoundrel, a knave and a fiend.

→ jokes in the class, but they’re all unfunny or old people jokes. often cringier than it is funny. FUCK off, phillip.

→ he’s teaching poetry and shit but he claims he could do better than shakespeare cause he’s an asshole

→ NO ONE probably likes him...they all like english but not the teacher. definitely.

→ when his students fail a quiz he makes them dance to girl in the mirror or something... “get those moves up or i’ll make you dance a harder song!” then he moves it to soda pop 💔 (based on true experiences, my english teacher was like this)

→ loves his significant other but he IS a dick so his students lowkey start feeling bad for them when phillip introduces them

→ his students all assume that he bottoms, and one of his students got a dare to ask him if he does bottom.

→ “hey mr. graves,” the student approached, and phillip looked up at them as he was on his laptop. “yeah, kid?” he hummed. “do you bottom.. like, getting pegged or fucked?”

→ “...repeat that for me?” phillip mutters, his voice getting a bit lower. “do you botto—”

→ that 7th grader was found with an F on his report card EVEN THOUGH he performs well in the class. phillip is just petty like that, i lowkey respect it

prof. könig

usually called professor könig / mr. könig

→ one of, if not the scariest teacher.

→ he teaches math (Lord have mercy😭) and he is NOT playing with anything when he teaches.

→ evil fucker—the least amount of quizzes the classes he teaches got were 4 quizzes in a week. that’s 5 days of school, so he only didn’t give a quiz on one day. (passing score is 3 mistakes.)

→ AND math is fucking dogshit so almost all of his students fail because well.. scary teacher and scary subject.

→ at least simon is funny and makes dad jokes but könig?? no.

→ everyone is locked in during his class, no one is talking to their seatmates, and everyone is behaved.

→ doesn’t have favorites. if they listen, they’re fine i guess, but if they don’t they get könig asking only THEM for the entire class. “darwin, what’s the answer to the equation?” .... “me? uh, is it 36.5?” ... “nein, it is not.”

→ when his significant other sees the class for the first time, this was.. well.. expected. quiet, sitting properly, only talking when spoken to. könig wasn’t great with kids, but damn was he great at disciplining them.

→ “uh, hey class..” you mutter, a bit intimidated by the silence. they all greet you, synchronized. “damn.”

→ “okay, class, today, mr. könig will let everyone have some fun,” you announce, and all of them listen up—kids.

→ “i won’t give quizzes this week, so just review with your friends for the quarterly exam,” könig grumbled.

→ the class finally erupted in cheers of happiness, reward and.. freedom?

→ könig watches them, seeming to not mind the noise at all. sneaky fuck thinks he can hide that he loves being paternal to children?

well, you’d be thankful for even a simple goodbye from him.

wandering downstairs, finding an empty plate on the sink and the lack of human presence, you infer that your husband has already gone off to work—like he usually does, moving fast to eat breakfast like he can’t wait to scurry off and bury himself under more work. it has gotten to a point where he can be classified as a masochist.

i guess you’re eating breakfast alone again this morning.

♬ ~ ♬

6:03pm, kento usually comes home at midnight, so you’re pretty much alone in the house for the entire day. you decide to treat yourself a little, getting a bag of chips and turning on the tv to play a movie. maybe a generic romance movie would do?

the movie is still playing an intro, yet you can feel the overwhelming weight of your eyelids, threatening to close and lull you into a deep sleep. you try to fight, but you eventually succumb to the much needed rest, and the last sight you can comprehend was the movie starting.

waking up, you find yourself back on your bed, with a familiar face watching over you. it was kento—is he back home early? “you’re awake, dear,” he mutters softly, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. you yawn, looking up at him properly. woah, it’s been a while since you got a good look at your husband’s face, since he leaves for work before you wake up and comes home when you’re asleep. still, he looks as handsome as ever.

“are you still tired? you can sleep some more,” kento cups your cheeks to get a good look at your face, and you can practically feel yourself melt, relaxing in his presence. it’s been too long, way too long that you start to feel unfamiliar being in his grasp. wrapping your arms around him, he makes you rest on his lap, wrapping his own around your waist.

“c–can we just.. stay like this..?” your voice came out as a soft whisper, like you’re silently begging for something you desperately need. his grip on you tightens, and he pulls you impossibly closer to him, “ofcourse we can, darling.”

tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, and you feel yourself succumb to this unfamiliar force of your heart—like a dying flame getting fed more firewood to grow bigger, to achieve its former spark. like an unfinished story finally feeling ink on its paper skin, like crops waiting for the rain.

and yet, the world seems to be so cruel.

waking up, your groggy eyes immediately darted to the clock—10 pm, the movie ended three hours ago and paused on the tv.

what a fucking dream.

your body was on the couch, and you let out a long sigh—of relief? relief that you won’t fall for your delusions now that you’re awake? of defeat? knowing that you two will never go back to the way you were before?

you know that you both will never be the same as what you were when you both met each other for the first time.

oh, God—how do you even try to make the both of you meet all over again? to go back to when you both were just friends? the painfully slow burn of your hearts’ flames—now all too cold.

the front door creaks open, and the room immediately reeks of alcohol and perfume—a strawberry perfume you were unfamiliar with. your husband stands at the doorway, tie messy, shirt unbuttoned halfway, sweat dripping from his face, and he’s clearly drunk as fuck.

“..kento?” the worry is evident in your soft whisper, and the silence is deafening as he refuses to speak, lips colored with a lipstick you know he never uses.

usually, there’s two or more trainers in these journalism camps, but i guess for our categories, sir gelo is in-charge.

“oh, also, when the photojournalists arrive, please distribute these papers to them... uhm.. you,” sir gelo points to you, making you nod and take the papers.

zippers being opened can be heard as everyone starts taking out yellow pad papers, pens already on the table. alright, let’s start.

atleast 40 minutes into the article, you find yourself reaching your conclusion. finally. you had to search for so long to find an opening for it to flow with the article perfectly, and it paid off well. writing the last sentence, you let out a small sigh of relief as you let your pen hit the table and your back the chair. other students are already done too, while some are still writing. you decide to put your stuff aside, pulling out your phone to wait.

just then, someone knocks on the door before it pushes open.

you look up, only to be met with a beautiful man. goddamn, who is this?

“hello, uh, sorry to bother, but sir gelo instructed the photojournalists to train here too,” he spoke, standing aside to let his companions walk in before him. he closes the door behind him, and they sit on the table in front of the table where the feature writers are. where you are.

having a small love-at-first-sight crush on someone you don’t have a chance on is so dumb, i know. it’s like having a mall crush; you know you’ll never see them again, but you still appreciate their beauty. plus, a crush is just admiration, right?

the photojournalists were whispering to eachother, cameras on the table with a lace meant to act as a necklace for them to put their cameras around their neck safely.

standing up from your place, you hand the papers over to the guy who caught your eye earlier. “here, sir gelo told me to give it to the photojournalists,” i inform, and our fingers brush together as he utters out a thanks and takes the documents from me. “thank you, we should start now,” he announced to his group, and they all stood up, leaving the room to.. you assume it’s to take pictures, they are photojournalists after all.

right, you didn’t even know what that guy’s name was, yet you had the complete audacity to drool over him already. it’s fine, though, it’s normal—i mean, your friends get crushes from the mall all the time.

you sit back down, looking around to see that most of the writers that are left are almost done with their own works too. you pull up your phone, checking the time to see 4 minutes left before the deadline sir gelo gave. wow, it really is nerve-wracking to be a writer here. you have to think of what to write, actually write it down, and make sure it’s coherent; all in the span of an hour. some categories even have an assigned number of paragraphs, whereas some reaches 17 paragraphs—maybe even 23 paragraphs.

after a while, the photojournalists have come back—earlier than sir gelo, oddly enough. they are all holding the pictures they took, sitting down on their respective chairs on their assigned table. they each pull out bond papers of a4 size, pens and glue. their job is pretty simple, take pictures and stick those pictures to a clean sheet of paper, then give it a title and a short description. but the picture needs to be perfect, ofcourse—they need to implement a lot of the methods their trainers have taught them on their photography. in photojournalism, your words matter, but your picture matters more.

atleast....it’s what you’ve heard.

sir gelo enters after a while, and everyone except for the photojournalists were done with their work. “don’t worry, i’ll check your works last, i’ll start with sports writing,” sir gelo nods at the three grade 9 representatives for sports writing english. they follow sir gelo to the desk, putting their stacked papers on it. “alright...” sir gelo mutters, grabbing a green pen.

you braced yourself—sir gelo was known for his experience with training journalism. he was good at this, which meant he was blunt and was very loud to voice his opinion on if he thinks your work is fresh shit or good.

“..what the fuck is this? didn’t this happen on the second set? why is it written here as the first set? this is false information,” he begins, and everyone just stays silent, some pulling out their phones to focus on something else rather than the poor souls (and the poor papers) about to meet the wrath of his mouth and green pen.

“i said not to use the same action word more than once in a paragraph, it’s redundant!” he exclaims, scoffing. “this work is short, too. get it out of my face before i rip it apart.”

yup. average journalism training.

“okay, this work at least follows all my instructions, but it’s just.. well, it’s average—this is what should be the minimum of your sports writing; not redundant, truthful with data, and long enough for readers to process,” sir gelo murmurs, writing messily on the paper. “put some creativity in it, it’s so lifeless.”

oof .. guess what? the news writers are next.

you look down at your work with a bit of doubt.. you’re a feature writer, and your works will be checked later—but being a feature writer is all about creativity in words; expressing yourself however you want while also following strict rules, think of it as getting told to draw anything you want, but you’re strictly, only using toilet paper and a pencil that’s snapped in half. you have to be creative while performing on a tight rope, basically...

the other feature writers are all either double-checking their works for any mistakes or just laying their head on the table to rest. yeah.. this is the average journalism experience.

“do you really want to compete in DSPC?” sir gelo suddenly asks one of the news writers. “this work is lacking so much; there aren’t any quotes, there’s barely any information, and this is better off called an elementary student’s best essay.” sir gelo clicks his tongue, “fucking hell. you’re grade 9 already, why are you writing like a 4th grader? i could probably get a freshman in here and they could make a better news article than whatever the hell you submitted,” he huffs.

you could see the writer looking down..in shame? in spite? in anger? their mouth was shut, forced to just listen as sir gelo practically breaks down their work ’til it’s shreds—all with his words.

he puts the papers away as if they were trash, side-eyeing the next writer’s work as if he’s expecting it to be just as bad. his eyes scan the paper, and you can feel the writer trembling in their shoes, waiting for sir gelo’s reaction. that’s really just it—write what was taught and see if your trainers hate it with their lives or actually see it as average. trainers are obligated to be blunt and hurtful here, you better get used to it.

i mean, in your experience as a campus journalist, you’ve seen a few students cry from the trainers’ words alone.

yeah, it’s insane pressure put on a couple of silly highschoolers who probably just joined journalism because they liked writing fanfics. (...not me.) still, joining journalism is like signing a contract that shows exactly this; verbal torture. but receiving the awards are so rewarding too, like you just won the lottery. you’ll really feel the pride seeping in when you hear your name mentioned in the top 7. it feels amazing. but in order to actually feel that; you have to get through months of humiliation by your trainers depending on how often they train you.

but oh, guess how bad your heart dropped when sir gelo called the feature writers in. shit, shit, shit. you prayed to the gracious Lord that he will take it easy but considering how he reacted to the sports writers and news writers’ works, you’re all probably done for. get ready for the most brutal reaction ever...

...

your papers were sent over to sir gelo’s desk of doom, hands trembling as the three of you sit on chairs surrounding sir gelo. “mmh, solid titles, pretty good so far..” he murmurs, his eyes softening as he reads one of the papers. “the only problem with this one is the conclusion, it’s too short, but your use of words and information is already good,” he mutters, picking up your paper next. “this title is a bit metaphorical, which is fine, but it may lead readers away from your topic,” he huffs, reading more of your feature article. “okay, your title is pretty bland, but you have a nice transition from body to conclusion, it flows well, this is a pretty good feature article.” he nods, picking up the last paper. thank God. “okay, you’re all above average, everything’s fine. oh, wait—are you three the feature writers i trained last year too?” you three nod, and sir gelo chuckles, “oh, so that’s why you three already have some experience. good stuff, but it can use some more improvement. for you two, i suggest making everything flow together coherently, it gives a better understanding for the reader.”

the photojournalists whisper among themselves, already done with their works. they’re impressed—sir gelo isn’t one to easily praise a student, so they were surprised he actually acknowledges you three have potential. most of the time he just rips your work apart by his brutal words even if he sees a freckle of a mistake. “damn, they must be experienced as hell,” one of them whispers to the handsome man you were crushing on, making the man chuckle. “yeah, yeah, just focus on your work, it won’t be their fault if you get brutally mauled by sir gelo,” he huffs, glue stick in hand.

sir gelo lets the feature writers sit, calling in the photojournalists. the four of them sit on chairs surrounding sir gelo—the usual. papers get passed to sir gelo, and right now, he looks relaxed and like he’s unlikely to just judge your work. he randomly picks a paper, reading the name and then first checking the pictures glued to the bond paper. “beautiful pictures, choso,” sir gelo praises, nodding. “mhm, yeah, this is good. i like the pictures, and your titles are very flowery to read—you know? like i’m reading a poem. this is good, but you could use some improvement on the descriptions.” sir gelo smiles, handing the paper back to who you assume is named choso. “thank you so much, sir,” he mutters. as sir gelo looks away to pick up another paper, choso playfully sticks his tongue out at his fellow photojournalists—probably winning some type of bet about who will get praised by sir gelo, granted, all of the photojournalists are classmates in the same section, so it would make sense that they are all friends aswell.

over the next few months, the news writers and sports writers had sir gelo switch their training places; now they’re training in the junior laboratory in the other building while the feature writers and photojournalists stay in the third floor research lab. sir gelo heavily encourages teamwork with each other, even if one is a photojournalist and the other is a feature writer, so some of choso’s friends have made a move on your friends—whom are both women. one of them is mahito, who’s mostly seen as weird, but he manages to keep a conversation with your friend—you could even say he’s rizzing her up. (oh God,, i’m using brainrot words again) you’ve been thinking of befriending choso for a while now, but you’re still too shy to go up to him and give him tips on how to improve his descriptions since you’re pretty good at creatively giving information in your articles. eh, maybe one day.

during training, you were already done with 20 minutes left on sir gelo’s given deadline, your pen on your yellow pad paper filled with words. your friend had also just finished after you, resting her head on the table. bored, you rest your head on your palm, unconsciously staring at choso, who’s back was turned to you. before you could look away, you hear a teasing voice in your ear. “ooh, you like kamo?” your friend giggles all giddy, squealing silently enough only for you to hear. “who?” you respond, turning your head to look at your friend instead. “choso kamo, the guy you were staring at. y’know, the one who has messy buns?”

oh... kamo.

would fit perfectly after your name.

“mmh? sorry, i was just zoning out. i didn’t get enough sleep last night,” you huff, playing it cool. “ohh, i thought you fell for that boy—everyone i know has a crush on him, he’s a total heartthrob.” she states, tapping you on the shoulder as if she was relieved. “what about you, you like him?” you ask, almost as if pointing her own gun at her head. “huh? i have a boyfriend, so obviously not. my boyfriend’s better in all aspects, even if i think he’s kinda cute, my baby az is cuter.” she cups her face with her hands, closing her eyes like she’s thinking about her boyfriend. “uh-huh.. also, how did i not know about kamo being famous? didn’t you say almost everyone likes him?” you ask. “well, you just ain’t updated—that boy is cute, smart, and treats everyone kindly. i understand the single people who love him.”

“damn, the first time i saw him i wanted to be friends, he seems cool,” you mutter, and really, it’s a silent plea for your friend to just introduce you to him herself—it’s way too awkward if you try to befriend him alone. “oh! he’s like, my acquaintance—he’s friends with my boyfriend, do you want me to introduce you?” fuck yes. yes, you do. she might be friend of the year. “oh, sure,” you nod, trying to hold in the giddy smile about to appear on your face. “mkay, but maybe later after training, they’re still working.” she points out, and you agree—this is the best day ever.

sir gelo has come back from checking the sports writers and news writers’ works, coming to check the feature writers and the photojournalists’ works. as usual, he was satisfied with everyone’s work since everyone here had joined journalism last year or somewhere before. ofcourse, sir gelo will still train you guys until it’s nigh-perfection. he lets you guys go back to your respective classrooms, and you start to tidy up your things in your bag; spotting your friend approaching choso. oh, is it happening so soon? then, in the corner of your eye, you see choso’s brown eyes land on you, accompanied by your friend’s finger pointing at you. he smiles, nodding at your friend.

“oh, yeah, they seem nice, i’d gladly be friends,” choso nods, making your friend smile. “perfect, do you wanna go talk to them right now?” she asks, and choso considers for a bit, before replying, “yeah, sure, we have free time anyway.”

← ↑ ↓ →

talking to a handsome man is definitely a horrifying experience for everyone; you have to make sure you’re all tidy, can’t let them see you get messy or let them see you all ugly and unkept, right? well, yeah. throughout the expanse of your conversation with choso, you kept fiddling with your hair, fixing it lazily and also adjusting your shirt, making sure it fits on you just right. it’s the fear that this man, way out of your league, notices you in some way—some way more than just acquaintances.

it was awkward, atleast for you. probably stumbling over your words as choso kept a charming smile, listening to your helpless excuse of a sentence, sounding like you just drank 3 bottles of strong alcohol. his arms were crossed over his chest, scanning your face over with his eyes—God, you were definitely gonna die right here, right now. you fiddled with your fingers, wishing your friend was here to just excuse you and get you away from this embarassing situation. why did she even have to go somewhere now when you’re talking to choso? well, fuck, you’re alone now.

“you like writing poems?” choso asks, corresponding with your earlier statement and seemingly intrigued. “seems fit for a feature writer.. also, i heard sir gelo praise your skill in creative descriptions, you must be experienced.” he looks straight into your eyes, and you smile nervously, nodding. “y–yeah, i joined as an english feature writer in 6th grade, won second place, t–then i won first place in 8th grade—i only got fifth place in 7th grade, so, yeah..” you mutter, huffing. “huh, you were an english feature writer for three competitions in a row? you even got the chance to compete in RSPC two times, that’s impressive.” he nods, interested. he then grabs his bond paper; his work from earlier, showing it to you. “also, could you do me a bit of a favor? i’m really inexperienced with creative descriptions, and you seem very skilled at it, so i would very much appreciate it if you were to help me—o–oh, and i’ll even help you with stuff you need too,” he holds out his open hand, expecting you to shake it with yours as if that wasn’t a death sentence for you. trembling, you shook his hand, “yeah, i’ll try to help as much as i can.. thanks..”

“perfect, thank you so much,” he smiles, his hand lingering on yours before he pulls away.

tutoring the choso kamo seemed like an impossible duty, but you managed. teaching him how to make short yet creative descriptions in his work. now that you knew about his reputation, you tried to play it safe by keeping distance—some of your classmates even caught on the fact that you were something with choso; they spotted you and him together when he insisted to walk you to your classroom despite how many times you refused. girls in your class now give you suspicious glares whenever choso calls you over for training. while your research teacher was teaching, the tv on and their presentation on a slide showing the different— “excuse me miss, i’m a grade 9 photojournalist, may i call on a student? sir gelo calls for them for journalism training,” choso suddenly knocks on your classroom’s open door, leaning against the doorframe and his eyes on the teacher. people in your class immediately start to hide themselves away from choso, as if he were too majestic to see their faces. damn.

“yes, sure, which student is it?” your teacher asks, and choso’s gaze lands on you—the chair you sat on etched onto his memory. “come on,” he whispers loudly, gesturing for you to come with him. you quickly pack up your notebooks and pens, bringing your bag and exiting the classroom with him—not before hearing some whispers of your classmates’, though. “don’t be sad, i’m sure they don’t have anything romantic going on with kamo,” one of your classmates whispered, trying to comfort a girl who liked choso. fuck that, then; as if you already didn’t know that you both are just friends.

arriving at the research lab, sir gelo invites everyone to take their seats. every feature writer and photojournalist was there, awaiting what he was going to say. “i’ve already announced it to the sports writers and news writers, now it’s time to tell you guys. everyone has been doing great in training, but now, the real competition starts. at saturday, you guys need to be at the school by 7:00am, we will be picked up by our school service and brought to the DSPC location, at Balibago Integrated High School. get ready, okay?” sir gelo nods, standing up. “everyone may now return to their respective classrooms, thank you.”

damn.

okay, you can do this.

months of training—remember?

yeah, you can do this.

6:32am, you’ve arrived at your school, with other students already there. you sit at a bench, pulling out your phone to wait. suddenly, someone yells your name from somewhere, making you turn your head. it was your friend, scurrying over to you and sitting down on the bench beside you. “heyy, you ready?” she asks, grinning and obviously excited. “yeah, i’ve been reviewing my work that sir gelo liked all night.. i really hope i can get 1st–3rd place for RSPC this year.”

“yeah,” she nods, chewing gum. “also, i’ve been noticing something. you and kamo are getting along well, huh?” she mutters teasingly, that same grin on her face. “keep it up and i’ll have to plan weekly double dates with you both and me and az,” she chuckles. “we’re just friends,” you huff, “i’m pretty sure that with all of the people fawning over him, he has a secret partner already.” you mutter—but really, you did have a theory that choso already had a significant other behind your back. he was too pretty to be single.

6:53am, you see choso enter the gate. bag on his back, phone in hand and he scans the court, before his gaze lands on you. he starts approaching, making your friend chuckle; “just friends, huh? well i’ll leave you two be. invite me to your wedding, yeah?” you huff, pushing her away playfully as she starts to walk away, and choso quickly replaced her on the seat beside you. usually, you’d keep your distance with choso, but you let him be this time. “you reviewed, didn’t you?” he suddenly asks, eyes glued to his phone. you nod, and he chuckles, “it’s not an exam, you know? reviewing isn’t the same as actually honing your skills. but, i guess all of us are different.” he huffs, “you really wanna win this, do you?”

“yeah.. i do. maybe even winning the RSPC one day,” you sigh, “if i don’t place this year, it just means i got worse.”

“hey, it’s fine. your work is great, and i trust you. you can win this. you know what? we can win this,” he mutters, looking away from his phone to grant you eye contact. “you helped me so much during training, and i hope to repay you by winning. so, make sure to push yourself to your limits later to come with me to the top.”

you felt better, but you had your doubts. but, maybe he’s right. maybe you just need to calm down. choso kamo himself is pushing you up; telling you to give it your best and you will—you swear you will. only your best, only your limit. doubting yourself will only make you do worse, and you should know that firsthand. fuck. but you can’t stop worrying. there’s no real consequence for losing DSPC, you can join again next year, but it’s different—you basically just made sir gelo believe in you during training but then let him down with an underwhelming work in the real competition.

7:02am, sir gelo calls every photojournalist and feature writer to the van waiting outside. you all step inside; you’re sitting between choso and another photojournalist, all three of you on your phones. your eyes kept drifting to check what time is it, anxiety overwhelming you. stop overthinking, this will just make you do worse.

7:56am, you all arrive at Balibago Integrated HS, where the DSPC competition will take place. you line up at a desk in the court with a sign that says ‘Feature Writing English’ on it, waiting for your turn. as you reach the front, you are given a pen and you are to sign on a box next to your name. writing your signature quickly, you walk off to sit on a bench with the people from your school—your team. you pull out your phone, looking at some tips and tricks on writing. you felt so fucking anxious today, and it wasn’t something you can ignore, not at all. the horror of losing felt overwhelming yet confusing—why the hell were you stressing over an annual competition you can join next year for another chance?

...

you sigh, getting up to go to the bathroom. the layout of the school was quite similar to yours, despite being a highschool far away from your highschool, washing your face with the cold tap water. your wet hands rubbed your face, trying to snap out of this anxiety. “i.. can do this.” you huff, taking a deep breath. you walk outside of the school while the competition still wasn’t starting; some of the students from other schools were also outside, their uniforms varied from one another, showing the different highschools they all went to. infront of the school was a beautiful view of the city and the bright, morning sun—tall buildings stretched, yet they couldn’t reach the blinding ball in the sky.

“don’t move,” a familiar voice suddenly says. you freeze, staying in place.

“perfect,” you hear shuffling from behind you, causing you to turn your head. “oh, choso,” you mutter, looking up at him. “sorry, just had to get a little souvenir,” he grinned, showing you his camera—it was you, standing on the right side of the picture, your silhouette emphasized by the blinding sun’s light gracing the road and buildings. “pretty, yeah?” choso asks, letting the picture sink in. “..mmh, yeah.” you nod, leaning in closer to his camera for a better look before pulling away. “pretty,” you confirm, and choso chuckles, that same charming smile on his face. “that’s practiced precision, baby,” he grins, face absolutely flushed with pride—he was good at what he does, and he definitely knows it, with how much sir gelo praises his photography. “well, gotta practice before the big competition right?” you smile softly, turning to look up at the view you were staring at earlier. “yeah, i’ll even keep this picture as a little remembrance to tease you at lunch,” he looks at you, as if challenging you. “mm, that picture is good, i might even tell you to give it to me instead,” you laugh.

“all students may now go to their designated categories,” a loud speaker announces. choso then perks up, waving at you before walking off to a desk with a sign that said ‘Photojourn. English’ while you went up to the desk you signed papers at earlier. the teachers carrying the signs then began to walk towards a building in the highschool, the line of feature writers following them. the feature writers were directed to a classroom with a handwritten sign that said ‘Feature Writing Highschool’, next to a classroom that had a sign with ‘Feature Writing Elementary’. oh, how you remembered the days you competed as an elementary student—still as a feature writer, ofcourse.

you took your seat on one of the front chairs to better hear and see the video that will play on the tv—the video you’ll have to make a feature article on. you already set your yellow pad papers on your desk, pens at the ready. the proctor enters the room, explaining the rules. “we will make you watch a 10 minute documentary, and afterwards, we will give you an hour to make your feature article. the minimum paragraph count is 15, any work with a paragraph count below 15 is immediately going to get disregarded by the judge—she made these rules. your article must be on a yellow pad paper, written with black ink. now, be creative, and good luck.” the proctor opens the laptop on the desk, the tv connecting with its screen. a video is then played, then paused and rewinded to the very beginning.

“you need to watch the video first before writing the article,” the proctor mutters, playing a 10 minute video. the video was all about the poor families who have suffered under the hands of typhoons, and other chaotic forces of nature. this was one of the common topics for a feature article, and luckily for you, you had great knowledge about this already.

you didn’t think—you just wrote, your hands felt as if they were dancing on the yellow pad paper, the pen following every graceful movement as you wrote mindlessly. like your mind just shut down and let you write freely.

you review your work with 4 minutes left—24 paragraphs, creative entries, and a comprehensible flow throughout the article. perfect. you felt much better now. like you were actually confident. looking around you, some students were still on their 6th paragraph; with 4 minutes left. you sigh, just making a few moderations to your title.

“okay, submit your papers now,” the proctor announced, and people started to pass their papers forward. you turn your head to look back, taking a stack of papers and then passing it to the student ahead of you.

okay.

you can win this...

the proctor lets everyone leave the classroom, claiming that they will pass the papers to the judge who will determine if your work is worthy of placing in the top 7.

you leave the classroom with your bag, going back to the court. on the way there, you see plenty of students; who you assume are photojournalists with their camera taking pictures of random parts of the school, some taking pictures of beautiful flowers, some taking pictures with other students—until you saw him. “choso,” you call out softly, making him turn his head to you; he was taking a picture of flowers. “hey,” he mutters softly, “we started a bit late, they gave us an hour to take pictures related to the topic,” he huffs. “oh, lucky, we got straight to the point,” you chuckle.

“mmh, yeah—while i’m bored, you wanna take a picture?” he asks, pulling his camera up in a way that would be a selfie if it were a phone. “oh, sure,” you nod. choso smiles, turning to look at the camera as he wrapped an arm around you and gripped your shoulder firmly, posing you beside him. you smile up at the camera, hearing the shutter. “perfectt,” choso hums, pulling away from you. “so, you’re done with your article, right?” he asks, and you nod; “yeah, i’m just hoping my article can actually be comprehended, i zoned out a bit while i was writing,” you huff nervously.

after a while, choso had to come back to his designated classroom with the other photojournalists while you waited for the results of who won what. you sat on a bench with some of your other teammates, waiting for the photojournalists.

choso, along with a long file of photojournalists walk out of their classroom, some laughing giddily. “hey,” choso calls out, sitting next to you on the bench. “in a few hours, we’ll get results, and i promise you, we’ll win,” he grins confidently, as if he had the results right in his hands right now and his name was on the top 1 place. “don’t be too sure..” you huff.

it was time to announce the winners. you all have been waiting for this very moment—the months of training, perfecting your work; the tension building up to what is going to unfold right now.

the feature writers were to go first.

top 7 up to top 4 were called, and they were given certificates. then, top 3. “from Emmanuel Christian Highschool,” the student’s full name was mentioned, and they rose up the stage, given a certificate and a bronze medal. top 2... “from Balibago Integrated Highschool—”

fuck. what if you didn’t place this year?

there’s only one more spot left. the top. the best. you’re so damn sure it’s not you. fuck, fuck, fuck. you should’ve just left, should’ve never participated anyway—now you’ll disappoint sir gelo and everyone else you trained with.

top 1. the best. the top. the champion of DSPC feature writing. “from Science and Technology Highschool,” and then you ascended. thank the Lord, God almighty.

the mere mention of your highschool brought you to your feet, standing up, as proud as you can be. choso clapped, chuckling at you from his seat. you walked to the stage with sir gelo, with sir gelo congratulating you. you stood in the center, the medal wrapping perfectly around your neck, its golden glint was enough to blind the crowd—beautiful, this victory was beautiful.

you were handed back your work, and you smiled hard as you saw the note of the judge on your yellow pad paper; “nice, really good flow. i’m expecting you to be a feature writer someday.” this was a fucking win.

you see choso in the crowd, pointing to himself, as if trying to say “me too,” like he was gonna win first place aswell.

going back to your seat, you held your certificate and a golden medal in hand, choso patting your back supportively. “mmh, told you you’d make it,” he chuckled. you smile, “ah.. this is the best day of my life.”

the newswriters were next.

then the sportswriters.

then the editorial cartooning artists.

then, the photojournalists.

“good luck, choso,” you mutter, patting his back. top 7 to top 4 was announced, and choso held a grin on his face. “top 1, i’m calling it.”

top 3 was from Cabuyao Annex Highschool, while top 2 was from Dita Highschool.

choso’s eyes lit up, huffing, holding his hand out. you look at him, confused. “shake it,” choso muttered, waving his hand towards you lazily. you sigh, shaking his hand.

“now, for the champion of the photojournalists,” the announcer speaks.

“from Science and Technology Highschool—”

choso rose to his feet, grinning as he walked with sir gelo to the stage—his tall frame towering over the teacher who was now congratulating him. he stood on the stage, golden medal sitting so prettily on his chest. he looked very confident and prideful, like he expected this. he was given his work, and he smiled.

coming back to his seat, he sighs, manspreading lazily. “what was your work? atleast let me see your winning piece,” you huff, leaning in closer to him. “mmh, you already see my winning piece everyday,” he smirks.

“you’re gonna make me guess it?” you sigh as he just smiles—it’s a yes. “so, i see it everyday?”

“mmh..” you huff—okay, this was a bit tricky. “just tell me what it is!”

he suddenly hands you the folded a4 bond paper, and you open it. the title was ‘My Favorite Love’, so that was his topic. choso suddenly stood up, excusing himself to the bathroom. you kept looking at his work—seeing your picture when you were staring up at the view, and the selfie choso took of the both of you. the descriptions were just him practically saying he fell inlove with you over the time he trained with you.

...

so, you’re his winning piece.

how beautiful.

you can be considered somewhat of a pro here, having worked for murkoff for about.. what, 7 years? yeah, you stayed for 7 years. wanna know why? well, you know too much—that’s all. murkoff won’t let you get away anytime soon.

you’ve had multiple patients, some are crazy, while some are on the verge of mentally breaking. seriously, you could not at all with eddie gluskin...that man was something else. crazy fucker liked to torture other variants as if he were an employee here too, and he tortured them disgustingly, almost making you gag when he told you about cutting a variant’s dick off. so when you found out he died because he chased around a whistleblower, you could dare say you were letting out sighs, knowing you’ll never have to talk to that deranged guy ever again. but, of course, when you get assigned to a patient, you can’t be picky. so, guess what your face was like when you found out you were getting assigned to chris walker?

“oh, good afternoon, higher ups wanted to assign you to another patient. this variant is a bit new here, but he’s feisty—all of them are. they wanted him to serve as a replacement for gluskin since he died,” one of your coworkers informed. a new patient? well, he can’t be worse than gluskin, right?

walking through the asylum, trying to find a certain chris walker’s room, you hear the screams of agony coming from all sides—God, what is this place? basically, going any floor higher than the lobby guarantees these noises already; the therapists are having a field day with their patients again. finally finding room 305, you knock softly before opening the door and stepping inside.

the first thing you noticed was the stench. it reeked of blood—the familiar scent of that red liquid was all too obvious now, considering you work at a mental asylum that tortures variants. the next thing you noticed; chris walker himself, a hulking man with a big belly, sitting on his bed with his elbows resting on his knees. he looked up at you, and his eyes made you shiver. who the fuck is this? “good afternoon, i’m your new therapist,” the words sputtered out of your mouth by themselves, your mind somehow too occupied with closing the door behind you. a clipboard, a folder, and a pen—that was all you had, since usually, every patient’s room has a hidden collection of torture items for the therapists to use somewhere. however, for this guy—this chris walker, you failed to see where the box was; the box filled with sharp tools. your eyes scanned the small cell, and you found absolutely nothing but blood stained on the walls, his bed, him, and a table and chair for questioning.

“tryna find somethin’, little pig?” he spoke, his voice deep and raspy, his words almost mushy due to his lack of lips...he probably ripped it out himself, considering the patients here. his eyes were on you, his broken nose making him look all the more grotesque. now you’re starting to wonder if the blood stains on the walls are his or.. others. “oh, it’s nothing, i’ll start with a few questions,” you mutter, keeping your composure as best as you could. you were essentially trapped in a room with a crazy, big chained man with no way of protecting yourself—nice. “you’re chris walker, correct?” you ask, as if it wasn’t obvious from the very start. he simply nods, his hands fidgeting with one another. yeah, why the fuck is he not chained up? usually, even if it’s just a questioning session, variants are tied up or chained. fuck, this just makes it all the more worse.

you read the folder containing his information, eyes scanning over the words as if they were gonna save you from this rock of a man. you probably went over the same sentence five times out of pure fear, wasting more time than you should infront of such a threatening variant. seriously, you wanted to get out of this cell as soon as humanly possible before something worse happens to you—after all your time in this wicked place, you’ve practically seen everything, and even the most tame-looking of them all had some of the worse, gag-emitting stories to share; what more of a horrifying man that looks like he could crush your head with one hand? he’s probably as bad as he looks... unfortunately..

“okay, so, uh.. i see you were brought here because you got aggressive with a couple of murkoff employees.. oh, you were actually an employee before you got here..” fuck. holy fuck. yeah, you were definitely not getting out of this cell alive. not only was this man hulking and pushing 7’0, he was also a former murkoff employee; a former murkoff employee who experienced torturing variants and probabl- definitely watched some sessions from the therapists. holy crap. you continue to read the folder as if it was going to do anything to save you from this man except for just fuel your fear more by finding out that... he was a former us military soldier assigned in Afghanistan—the place where they probably tortured lots of innocent people.

fuck.

“okay, uh, what is.. your connection to the little pig plushie–”

SLAM!

you froze, your words failing to continue as the loud sound rang in your ears; probably heightened by the fear you’ve been having for this man for a good minute now—he’s fucking terrifying. but right now, his hand is balled into an angry fist, which was then brought down on the table with a lot of force; you’re surprised the table is still standing. you didn’t need to ask, something that you said definitely triggered him enough for him to.. well.. do that and stop any other bullshit from coming out of your mouth. holy fuck, you’d be a lying little shit right now if you said that didn’t scare the ass out of you, because it surely did. “okay, uh.. my apologies. next question..” you manage to utter out somehow, completely avoiding eye contact with chris as you flip through your folder.

suddenly, thankfully, the alarm rang. alarms in the asylum usually meant a variant escaped from their assigned therapist and is now wreaking havoc along the halls. yes, you’ve never been happier during an alarm breakout. now you could get away from this awkward and very fucking scary situation with chris. just as you’re about to stand up, you hear it; “where are you going?” that same raspy, deep voice with slightly mushy words coming to haunt you. you freeze, turning your head to look at him, confused. all therapists on duty were to get out of their patient’s cell and down to the lobby immediately for safety. but right now? chris practically has a hand securely tight around your neck, disabling you from leaving him at all. “uhm.. i’m going to safety..? it’s an alarm breakout..” you mutter softly, fear slightly evident in your tone as you struggled to speak straight. maybe he was just uninformed of these alarms so he got a bit confused, right?

“no, stay.” your heart dropped. now, he was gripping your wrist with his large hand; dwarfing that limb effortlessly. this is practically a deeper peek at how much bigger this man is compared to you—compared to an average human. now, his hand is almost the same fucking size as your wrist; shit, you’re even lucky his grip isn’t that strong. if he really wanted to, he’d crush your bones like they were mere paper. you stay silent, sitting back down on your chair just to feel his hand leaving your wrist. God, what the fuck did they just assign you to? this giant of a man was exposed to the morphogenic engine, you’re surprised he even has the self-control not to just mutilate you right then and there—it’s clear he’s very fond of killing, based on his folder, so what excuses you from these wicked habits of his?

“uhm.. okay, why did you attack the two employees back before you were brought in as a variant here..? they were colleagues, right?” you ask, bracing yourself for the possible loud slam again—but nothing came. chris grumbled, like an annoyed child. “they were.. messing with my.. little pig..” he murmured, his words sounding slushed again. but he adds onto it, “they.. wanted to take me..” his voice, his tone—everything about him made you shiver. was your patient a mentally ill guy or a fucking beast? it was hard to classify him into those two, maybe he’s both. actually, now that you’re thinking about it...yeah, this man is a threat to you and everyone in this asylum. if he wanted to, he would probably crush your head within minutes.

you jot down notes in your clipboard, hands a bit shaky as you try to ignore the lingering fear coursing through your very being. it hurt to admit, yeah, but you were scared of your patient. very much so. your hands froze over your clipboard as you heard it again; that same raspy voice. “are you scared?” he asks, and you think you felt your heart stop. he knows—it’s pretty obvious, with the way you’re fidgeting and fiddling around with your fingers every time you’re not writing anything down, with the way you stutter over every single word when you try to speak, he probably noticed it earlier than you, yourself, did. you’re frozen in place, unmoving, forgetting to even respond. “...what makes you think that?” you reply after what feels like an eternity of overthinking, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

then, he chuckles. chuckles. as if this was all a big, funny joke to him—to be fair, it probably is. “are you serious?” he asked, and even if your head was down facing your clipboard, he could probably see the beads of sweat forming on your face. this was the worst situation ever... what the fuck was murkoff thinking when they assigned you to this beast? “poor thing,” he muttered, tapping the table lightly to get your attention, causing you to raise your head slowly. “mm.. would you like a bit of comfort?” chris asked—suspicious enough.. he didn’t say it mockingly.

the halls felt better now, ofcourse; the screams and the variants occasionally crying for mercy were still there, but the blood dripping from the walls from the past breakout was gone, the rotting smell of death and despair was also dealt with, and most definitely, the patients who escaped during the breakout was behind their cell’s bars again, getting special torture treatment from their therapists for their bad behavior. murkoff cleaned up quick, just like usual. well, that’s none of your business now—because currently, you just came from your favorite patient’s room for a daily session, clipboard in hand as you return to the lobby; chris was as behaved as he was today, with a few scares to mess with you—that cute fat prick. submitting your clipboard to the lobby, you were now going to another patient’s room; schedule calls.

murkoff higher ups were to read your report in a minute, yet you just wrote what you observed, like a good, honest therapist would.

“what the fuck is this?” one of the higher ups said out loud, making everyone else in the room turn to them. “what seems to be the matter with the report?” the others ask. the initial higher up scoffed, reading your report—practically yelling your report to everyone in the room. “chris walker, patient 305, is filled with fat. he is very soft to touch and there are plenty of meaty places to grip, especially his big, round stomach. biceps are also pretty fat, aswell as his pectorals. refuses to answer questions; gets violent if i do, he’d rather we keep eachother company instead. likes physical touch a lot.” the room is then filled with a deathly silence—the lack of sound hurting their ears; only papers being ruffled can be heard. then, one of them laughs, his hand on his tummy as he laughs his heart out. “ohh, that therapist is fuckin’ perfect, who wrote the report?” he asks between gasps.

“...oh, it’s a high ranking therapist. what a fucking shame.”

“maybe they’re losing their shit too? i mean, all the people working here are anyway, right?”

“still, what the fuck is this report?”

“eh, let them be. they’re probably fucking chris and having the time of their life, and we get our amusement from this.”

“but we can’t just see this as a laughing matter, you prick. we need information about chris walker!”

“shh, shh, just let them be. chris opening up to them means we get answers.”

“hey, ya silly kids,” you call over, catching their attention. you open the door for them, “that’s enough, let’s go inside now.” your grandchildren erupted in a chorus of ‘aww’s before each stepping inside, one of them dropping the ball near the door which you just lightly kicked inside since your old back isn’t gonna help with getting that. you close the door behind you, sitting on the couch along with the other three.

“grandma/pa, why are you alone in your house?” one of the three asks, looking up at you with his now-curious big eyes. “mm, because your mother’s other parent already passed away.. they’re no longer with me anymore..” you reply, suddenly hearing the telephone ring from the kitchen counter. “i’ll get that,” you mutter, getting up and walking towards the loud ringing.

picking the telephone up and placing it to your ear, you quickly hear a familiar voice on the line, it’s your daughter. “ma/pa, i got great news,” she squealed happily. you were confused, everything was already going well—what else has she found again today? “what is it, dear?”

“do you know who kento nanami is?” hearing that name made you radio-silent, along with your daughter on the other line who was waiting for your answer. “yes.. why..?” you respond. “i got into contact with him, and he said he’s in the country right now!” she sounds happy, as if she knows who that man is—what he did. you glance over at the three toddlers in your couch before glancing down at the kitchen counter again.

“my dear, he happened.. so many years ago.. decades ago.. we’ve already moved on from each other, i don’t love him anymore.” you respond, huffing.

“no! he’s still single—no wife, no kids; he’s searching for you,” she says, and you can hear the faint voice of her husband speaking to someone in the background despite your old hearing. “oh, dear,” you chuckle, “so what? we’re both pushing 80, there’s no way he wants me back,” you hum with a smile—your daughter’s funny, you’ll give her that.

“ma/pa, i’m serious! he’s searching for you.”

...

now?

really, now?

after what he did?

a couple of decades ago, when you were still but a humble highschooler, you were known in your school by your nickname; Ligaya. (you can search the meaning of this word if you want) in the recent school year, there was an announcement that a foreigner from a wealthy country was transferring to your school, and specifically, your section.

you were tasked to tour him around the school and befriend him to make him more open in this school; his name was kento nanami.

“greetings!” you nod, watching him enter the gate you have been waiting for him at. “hm? oh, uh, greetings,” he responds, adjusting the glasses he wore. “it is my pleasure to meet you,” you lead him through the entrance, “does the school look fancy to you, or, well, however you’d desire for it to look like?” you ask awkwardly, but he answers. “indeed, it looks a lot like the schools back in my country, it makes me feel like i’m at home,” he lets out a small smile that was quickly replaced by him clearing his throat and keeping a straight line for a mouth.

“mhm.. it does look fancy, no?” you hum, walking him up the stairs. “very much... oh, uh, i’m assuming you were already informed of my name, but i would like to introduce myself properly... i’m kento nanami.”

“yes, i was informed of that, nevertheless, it is truly nice to meet you. you can simply call me Ligaya, it’s a nickname the folks around here gave me.”

Ligaya.

it felt perfect to say that word.

kento didn’t know what it meant—it wasn’t a language he knows.

but it just felt right to say.

felt right to utter out.

Ligaya.

his Ligaya.

over time, you managed to befriend kento, despite the man only knowing a little bit of english. to him, the big words you always used to say in a conversation with him didn’t matter, because he could see through this frustrating wall called a ‘language barrier’, seeing you perfectly matching his laid back personality, and don’t even get him started on that pretty smile you manage to flash to him every morning.

he was confused. how could one be so cheerful? if you were to give him eighty million yen and tell him to greet everyone with a bright smile every morning, he would probably reject it. i mean, fuck, he’s got that unmistakable black under his eyes that inform you he’s not the brightest.

still, you couldn’t care less, and he finds that oddly nice. for a man like him, it’s rare to find someone who could keep up. he finds himself listening whenever you ramble on about something random, even if you use those fuckass english words he can’t comprehend for the life of him; “is the food i prepared not delightful? my deepest apologies,” shut your mouth; he can barely understand the spells you’re spewing out. (YES, you speak like that because it’s the early times)

but.. maybe he likes that little mouth of yours a little, because he can’t help but listen anyway.

maybe, just maybe, you’re the only good thing in his boring, tiring life... or atleast you’re the only thing he appreciates.

his Ligaya.

it got to the point of no return—you’re both now dating, helping eachother with the academic problems highschool likes to throw at you as a very big and painful brick to your mental health. kento is smart, you can say that safely. he was very willing to guide you through books and lessons to give you even a slight idea of the subject... what a gentleman.

however,

as you both were enjoying the cafeteria food, (this is not the US, we have good cafeteria food here) sitting with eachother on one of the many tables in the wide room, kento suddenly gets called by one of the guards—a letter was given to him.

“oh, i must go, excuse me..” he nods, standing up to talk to the guard.

you wait for him patiently, chewing on your food silently as kento left with the guard.

...

weird.

you continued to eat your lunch, waiting until the bell rang.

ring , ring , ring

“students, please return to your learning!” one of the staff working in the cafeteria shouted, making the students leave one by one. yet kento is still not here... maybe he returned late and knew he wouldn’t have enough time to continue eating so he went to class already?

walking to your class, you sit down on your chair, looking around—kento is nowhere to be seen.

...

calm down, maybe he just went to the bathroom?

...hopefully.

it had been months since kento’s sudden disappearance. no student around the school knew where he went, and you have long since given up trying to search for him. he didn’t give you a letter talking about any of it, didn’t give you anything—you were searching for him in fear without any information about him whatsoever.

you don’t know who the guard that once talked to him the day he didn’t come back, so you couldn’t really ask him for information about kento—you didn’t know who he was.

after a few years of radio silent communication from kento, you’ve moved on—didn’t care about him anymore. an old lover who disappeared without a trace.

you married and gave birth to one daughter, who was now talking nonsense in your ear about how much a certain kento nanami wanted to meet you.

it’s been fucking decades.

decades before he came back.

...

well, it’s too late now.

you’re damn near pushing 80 and your highschool sweetheart wants to reunite.

what a joke ...

“sweetheart, i don’t love him anymore. tell him i’m doing fine, okay?” you sigh, unconsciously gripping the telephone as you hold it to your ear. “awh, come on..” she sighs, and you can feel the frown on her face despite just hearing her voice.

knock , knock , knock !

...

?

is that your daughter?

you get up to answer, the three toddlers meeting you by the door. “grandma/pa!! who’s that!?” they all ask—curious little babies. “i’m not sure.. let’s see,” you mutter, your hand clasping the doorknob as you turn it.

opening the door, you see kento.

along with your daughter.

“ma/pa!! it’s mr. kento!” she squeals, coming up to hug you. but you froze; eyes staring into kento’s as that uncomfortable familiarity hits you like a truck—his eyes are still the same, despite being wrinkled from age.

“Ligaya,” he spoke softly, a warm smile etched on his face.

“...kento, why are you here?” you ask, feeling your daughter slip away from your embrace and into the side.

“i was searching for you for so many years... i’m sorry i left you without a word, i wanted to give a letter, anything to inform you of my whereabouts but i couldn’t, forgive me.” he huffs, “i was told by my father to go back home, since my mother has passed. i’m so sorry i didn’t tell you anything.”

“...it’s alright, but why are you here?” i ask, scoffing. “we’re both pushing 80, i practically forgot about you,” you add.

“i just... wanted to see you again, Ligaya.” he smiles, “even though you already have a family with another, i still want to see your face again, even if it’s all wrinkled and old.”

“even now, you make me feel young.”

“like i was the man decades ago, giving you all the love i had. but because of one event, i lost you—i lost us.”

“and i’m sorry; so deeply sorry, my dear Ligaya.”

and like the world were to mock you for already choosing this path in my life; making you rethink your choices. maybe there was a time when you waited. . .