"........,"

ִ ࣪𖤐 CONDUCT YOURSELF PROPERLY...

Or the Doctor may just have to take more... direct action.

And by that, I mean, don't forget to vote, comment, and leave your "delightful" thoughts.

It's not just for my ego, you know - it's for science.

Yes, science.

Totally.

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰ 🧪 ꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . .

THE DOCTOR.

Because that's just what he goes by, no need for names here - was finally ascending the stairs of the Asylum after spending what might've been a millennium (actually a week or so, but close enough), hunched over some unspeakable contraption in his underground lab.

His back? Oh, that thing was done for.

At this point, it was the definition of "structural integrity: zero."

The blue-haired menace didn't just sit; he petrified himself in one position for hours, becoming one with the damn chair, and not in the philosophical sense.

With the first stretch he made as he climbed the steps, a spine-crunching sound erupted through the hall.

It wasn't just a "crack."

Oh no.

This was a whole "GGGGGGRRRKKKKCCKCKCKK," most likely the sound of his bones trying to scream for mercy.

It was like his skeleton was attempting to dislocate itself from his body.

If you had ears, you were a witness.

If you didn't, you probably developed them just to cringe.

"They better not have burned the place down by the time I arrive..." He muttered to himself, massaging his neck with one of his arms (...?).

As he reached some point, his breath came out in a low hiss, sounding a bit like an ancient snake that had forgotten how to hiss properly.

He stretched, his body making another series of explosive, almost heroic-sounding CRACKS as if he'd just solved all of physics by adjusting his posture.

He took a moment to adjust his mask, too, fingers fiddling with the lenses hidden within, wondering if he'd finally find the right pair of specs to make all existence look a little less... painful.

But of course, he knew that wasn't how they worked.

Not that it stopped him from trying.

The Asa was basically a walking chiropractic horror story at this point - prosthetic arms from the elbow down, left leg, a cybernetic eye that somehow made him look even more mysterious, and, of course, when unmasked, the occasional glasses perched on his nose like they were too tired to actually help him see.

Forget experimenting with science, the real miracle here was that this man could still function with a body that made more creaks and groans than an ancient haunted house.

"Up we go," he grumbled to himself, sounding less like the dignified genius he pretended to be and more like someone who'd fought a staircase in a losing battle.

Upstairs, though, in the heart of the asylum, Billy was doing what Billy did best: existing in a way that made zero sense to anyone.

Since, you know, the guy was the living embodiment of "What-the-actual-hell."

Wearing only his signature Speedo, swimmer's cap, and snorkel, he stood against the wall - no, he became the wall.

If someone walked by right now, they would see nothing more than a man-shaped lamp post with occasionally time-traveling skin.

The Doctor finally made it to the top of the stairs, his back still crackling like a bowl of cereal.

"Billy," he rasped upon laying eyes on the said man, already exhausted from the effort of climbing one flight of stairs, voice low and mildly homicidal. "How long have you been... standing there?"

Billy slowly turned his rainbowy eyes toward him, blinking with the kind of deep, cosmic insanity only an eldritch being could master. "Time is irrelevant, Doc. I am the stairs. I am the concept of standing."

He scratched his chin, which, for some reason, made the sound of a squeaky window. "Also... I think I might've eaten a toaster. Or was it a microwave? Meh, either way, it was crunchy."

The Doctor just stared, the unblinking posture of his mask making him appear even more judging than usual. "You... ate a toaster? Just... where Archmagos has been?"

Billy grinned, his teeth glinting like they belonged in a toothpaste commercial from hell.

"Oh, Archy? Nah, he's fine. I only chewed on his feelings. That man built me. I'm practically his son. He just doesn't want to admit that this-" He gestured at his nearly naked body, "-was his finest work."

Lord IL Dottore - ahem, excuse me, Lord Master Sir Crunchy-Back Himself - exhaled a long, weary sigh that could've powered a wind turbine.

"Of course. My greatest assistant made... you. Why am I not surprised? Remind me to dock his pay. Again."

Just then, Archmagos Toaster, or as Billy lovingly called him, "Father," shuffled into that particular hallway.

His robes were disheveled, and his eyes gleamed with the same crazed brilliance that allowed him to look at a bald man in a speedo and snorkel and think, "Yes, this is my finest achievement."

"Ah, here you are," Archmagos said, his voice dripping with unearned pride.

He looked Billy up and down, as if admiring the flesh-and-time monstrosity he had made. "I see you're still... er, functional. Good. Any more existential crises today?"

Billy nodded solemnly. "Only three. One involved a blender, the second was when I questioned whether gravity was just a government conspiracy, and the third... well, I decided I'm not just Billy. I'm Billiam now. Fancy, right?"

The Doctor facepalmed so hard his prosthetic, gloved fingers made a clank against his mask. "Archmagos, what possessed you to create this... this thing?"

Tost grinned, wiggling his eyebrows like a man who knew too much and cared too little. "Doc, you said, 'Make something that can thrive in absolute madness.' I delivered. I gave you Billy. Or, uh, Billiam, apparently."

The Doctor rubbed his temples, feeling a migraine slowly creeping in.

His single, healthy eye twitched as he fetched a bottle of custom-mixed pills from his coat pocket, popping the lid with a flick of his thumb.

Without even pausing, he tilted his head back and swallowed the entire bottle's contents in one smooth, disturbing gulp - no water, no hesitation.

Just an easy swallow as if downing twenty-something tablets was his afternoon tea.

He didn't even flinch.

Honestly, his gag reflex was on vacation.

Like, please, he was way above such human limitations.

"Right, you two-" Wiping a gloved hand over his mouth, he turned his attention to the two chaos agents before him: Billy, the eldritch swimmer-cap-wearing NPC of a man, and Archmagos, whose proud grin still lingered as if Billy were his magnum opus. "Isolation Chamber. Now."

The menacing calm in his voice could've frozen lava.

There wasn't a shred of gentleness, despite his deceptively polite tone.

Of course, "gentle" was a foreign concept to him.

He never was gentle.

Rarely tried to be.

He wasn't inviting them to a picnic; he was marching them off like an executioner with a clipboard.

Billy just grinned as if he'd been complimented and, without a word, pranced off toward that forsaken chamber.

Meanwhile, Tost looked back at the Doctor, gave an exaggerated, wiggly eyebrow wiggle, and then sauntered after Billy, practically skipping as if the Isolation Chamber was the hottest club in the Asylum.

They shuffled down the hall, two guards - whose sole purpose was that - flinging open the massive iron gates to the isolation Chamer which could only be described as the grand hall of despair itself.

Four stark, blinding white walls, the type that screamed, "abandon all hope, ye who enter here," loomed around them, and the faint, ominous hum of the flickering lights permeated the air.

The room was devoid of any furniture, save for a few rusted metal stools bolted to the floor.

This was a place where silence didn't just exist; it thrived.

Billy and Archmagos took their places, backs pressed against the walls like a couple of mournful statues, each staring off into the void of pristine nothingness.

Meanwhile, the Doctor resumed his walk down the Asylum's dim, empty hallways, his gaze scanning every nook and cranny like a hawk searching for any hint of prey.

He wasn't just looking - he was daring something, anything, to reveal some kind of imperfection and give him an excuse to start his day with a swift act of ruthless problem-solving.

He was one peeled paint chip away from "offing" the entire place and its inhabitants.

Then, the faint shuffling of footsteps caught his cochlear implant, and he cast a quick, disinterested glance over his shoulder, already sensing the presence of that one figure that had just fallen in line beside him.

"My Lord," greeted a low, tired voice.

It was Lunar, his ever-loyal assistant, clipboard in hand.

At 27 years old, the young man had the kind of appearance that made you question your own taste in people.

He was tired - eternally so - but somehow, it only added to his charm.

His short-medium, curly brunette hair was a deliberate mess, sticking out at odd angles, falling somewhere between "I woke up like this" and "I haven't slept since the Ming Dynasty."

The soft curls framed his face like a Renaissance painting come to life, accentuating his heterochromatic eyes - one a vivid green that could rival an emerald's gleam, the other a piercing blue that seemed like it had stolen a piece of the sky.

His skin, warm and smooth, bore the soft brown hues of coffee kissed by a splash of cream.

Freckles and faint moles dotted his cheeks and neck like constellations, subtle but impossible to ignore.

The faint bags under his eyes betrayed a chronic lack of sleep, but they did nothing to detract from his overall beauty - if anything, they only made him more relatable to anyone who'd ever stayed up late binge-watching questionable content.

Standing at an average height, Lunar wasn't intimidating, but he didn't need to be.

His features were soft and delicate, almost feminine, in a way that made people stare a little longer than they should.

The mix of his calming presence and striking appearance gave him an almost ethereal vibe, like a sleep-deprived angel sent to babysit the madhouse that was the Asylum.

As he walked beside the Doctor, flipping through the clipboard like it held the secrets of the universe, he spoke in a low, smooth voice that somehow carried both exhaustion and professionalism.

His speech had that resigned-yet-deadpan warmth, like he'd given up on everything except maybe breakfast.

"Good to have you back, my lord," he began, not even glancing up as he skimmed the notes. "Though I assume your ascent from the depths was more painful than enlightening."

There was a flicker of dry amusement in his tone, the kind that suggested he was well aware of the Doctor's tendency to overwork himself to oblivion.

"Nevertheless, it must be said that the Asylum's a little too... unstable when you're downstairs."

The man being addressed, in response, let out a gruff hum of acknowledgment, but Lunar was already rattling off updates on patients with the kind of efficiency that only someone thoroughly done with everyone's nonsense could achieve.

"Patient #0523 tried to flood his cell again. And, patient #0047 decided to climb the walls. Literally. This one defied gravity, dare I say."

He paused, his lips quirking into a faint, lazy smirk that somehow managed to be endearing as he continued flipping pages.

"We've reinforced the ceilings, but patient #0607 somehow escaped through hers - still trying to figure out how. Number #0226 lost a tooth trying to eat the floor tiles... #0143 decided the plate he was eating off was talking about him and is currently staging a protest in the West Wing..."

The Doctor let out a small grunt at the sheer stupidity, barely paying attention, until Lunar added, "Also, Caelum - one of the rookie doctors in the Red Ward - uh... decided life wasn't for him anymore. He took the meaning of his name too seriously, I guess. Sad stuff, y'know. So, yeah. Thought I'd let you know before HR starts sobbing into their paperwork again."

The aforementioned paused, his foot hovering mid-step for a second before he resumed his pace, expression unreadable.

His voice was quiet, more restrained as he spoke his next words.

"Some die young, and some die younger."

The moment passed in silence before Lunar cleared his throat and returned to his clipboard, barely missing a beat.

Truly, that calm demeanor of his contrasted sharply with the absurdity of the Asylum, and somehow, that made him all the more captivating.

It wasn't just his looks - though let's be honest, they were enough to turn heads and spark several inappropriate daydreams - it was the way he carried himself.

Calm, steady, and just sarcastic enough to remind everyone he wasn't here to take anyone's bullshit.

The clipboard then traded hands like it was some sacred artifact, but Lunar wasn't done with his antics.

He leaned in slightly, that playful glint in his mismatched green and blue eyes practically screaming, "I'm about to make your life a little worse, and I'm going to enjoy every second of it."

"Ah, right..." he drawled, dragging out the words like a man savoring his next line. "We also have a new patient. Now listed under the number #■■■■. Got admitted just recently and fell into a coma - or, well, that's what they want us to believe. Honestly, anyone with more than three brain cells could tell they're faking it. Badly. Like, amateur-level bad, hehe~"

The Doctor barely tilted his head, already regretting letting Lunar finish his thought.

The brunette, however, wasn't about to be stopped.

From the depths of his pocket, he produced a phone, the screen faintly glowing like the eerie light from Pandora's box.

"So, me being the dedicated assistant I am,"-here, the sarcasm was thicker than the air in the Asylum's dampest corner-"I took the liberty of researching their... little online presence. They go by [Your Name]."

His smirk deepened, his voice dipping into conspiratorial amusement. "You'll want to check their device, my lord. Let's just say... what's on there isn't for the faint of heart."

The taller male, ever the picture of calculated composure, accepted the phone with two fingers, holding it at arm's length as though it might spontaneously combust - or worse, infect him with something far beneath his intellectual standards.

The other handed it over with the smug satisfaction of a man who'd just unleashed chaos and knew it.

The Doctor, ever-curious but clearly doubting the necessity of this endeavor, began scrolling.

"...Brother, eugh. What is that?" His voice cracked in a rare moment of unfiltered disbelief.

He squinted at the screen, his gaze narrowing as his lips curled in visible offense.

The longer he looked at the contents, the darker his mood became.

His gloved fingers hovered over the mobile like it might leap up and bite him.

Finally, with all the dramatic flair of someone closing a cursed book, he handed the phone back, practically shoving it into Lunar's chest, as though afraid it might taint his reputation just by proximity. "Right. That's... enough of that. Whatever it is, keep it. Destroy it. Lock it in the deepest vault of this building - just keep it out of my sight."

Even his mask seemed to wince as he shook his head, his steps resuming in silent judgment, as if walking away from the horror would cleanse it from his memory.

Lunar, unfazed, grinned as he pocketed the phone like it was some personal trophy. "Oh, don't worry, my lord. I'll keep it on file... for, uh, professional reasons, of course. We'll get them to 'wake up' sooner or later, I'm sure."

The Doctor muttered something incoherent under his breath, likely a prayer for whatever sanity he had left.

Whatever was in that phone... it was something even his sense of morbid curiosity couldn't handle.

Lunar stashed his clipboard - now entrusted back to him - under his arm and straightened, his tone light but laced with the tired resignation of someone perpetually overworked. "Should I inform Lord Pantalone of your return?"

The older man waved a hand dismissively, his focus already back on the dimly lit halls. "No, I'll see to it myself."

The younger nodded, but not before throwing one last, smug glance over his shoulder. "Well, good luck with that. He's probably mid-drama anyway. I've got my own assignments to deal with... you know, for him."

The Doctor paused mid-step, a thought flickering through his sharp mind.

'Him? This late at night? What's that cheeky fox of a man up to now?'

But before he could spiral further into speculation, the sound of Lunar's retreating footsteps brought him back.

Shaking his head, he muttered, "Fools. All of them."

His footsteps echoed through the place as he turned a corner, only to pause mid-step, his sharp gaze landing on a figure ahead.

A petite woman shuffled down the corridor, her movements slow and oddly aimless.

Her cat tail swayed behind her like a metronome set to a particularly lazy tempo, a telltale sign that this late-night wanderer was, in fact, sleepwalking.

Ah.

Ismene.

The Sleepwalker.

Of course, it would be her.

Standing at a mighty 5 feet and 1 inch, Ismene's height was only "intimidating" in that oh no, I might trip over her kind of way.

She was a unique mix of Black and Greek, with a honey-brown complexion that glowed even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the Asylum.

Her round face was framed by an impossible cascade of dark mocha brown curls that tumbled all the way to her mid-thighs, like she had just walked off a shampoo commercial - except, you know, in her sleep.

Her body was a blend of pear and hourglass, with scars of varying sizes dotting her thighs and right arm like a roadmap of questionable life choices.

Freckles sprinkled her skin in patterns so random, they might as well have been designed by a chaotic toddler with glitter.

Not to mention her birthmarks, just noticeable enough to draw attention to her neck and thigh, and a smattering of moles strategically placed like an artist's finishing touch.

Truly, she was walking proof that you could be both "nature's masterpiece" and "a mess" at the same time.

But the pièce de résistance? Her eyes.

Known as Nomad, they gleamed with shiny freckles, giving her the look of someone whose pupils had been bedazzled by a particularly eccentric jewelry maker.

The Doctor sighed, his towering 6'5" frame looming like a protective shadow as he approached her.

Her cat ears twitched lazily atop her head - an American Curl and Maine Coon, more of the aforementioned than the latter hybrid situation that screamed adorable yet mildly chaotic.

She was the embodiment of a stray cat who'd somehow been promoted to a Household spoiled one, but right now, she looked entirely too vulnerable.

"Ismene," he muttered under his breath, watching as she nearly walked headfirst into the wall.

He sped up his stride, catching up to her just as she made an unconvincing attempt to turn the doorknob of a broom closet, tail swishing in slow confusion.

"Fascinating," he drawled, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You've discovered an alternate dimension within our cleaning supplies. I trust it's to your liking?"

No response.

She blinked - well, squinted - at the door like it had personally wronged her, before turning on her heel and beginning to shuffle in the opposite direction.

Before she could wander into yet another hallway of doom, the Doctor stepped forward and draped his long, pristine coat over her shoulders with all the flourish of a gentleman in a period drama.

The coat was comically oversized on her, the hem trailing along the floor like a royal cape for a very confused queen.

"Come, little one," he said, gently guiding her by the shoulder. "Let's get you back to your ward before you accidentally overthrow the hierarchy of this entire facility."

Ismene mumbled something incoherent, which the Doctor took as grumbling.

She stumbled a bit, and he caught her arm, his expression softening slightly despite himself.

As they walked, her tail swayed against his leg, and he raised a brow. "Careful, or I'll start charging you rent for that tail's occupancy in my personal space."

Still, she kept sleepwalking with the kind of determination that suggested she could overthrow a government in her dreams if given the chance.

The other suppressed a chuckle, marveling at how someone so small of her personality could somehow exist within his meticulously curated madhouse.

When they finally reached her room, he opened the door and guided her inside.

She flopped onto the bed with the grace of a sack of potatoes, the coat still draped over her like a protective shield.

The Doctor adjusted the blanket over her with a surprising tenderness and stood back, watching as her tail curled lazily around her leg.

"Sweet dreams, angel," he murmured, shaking his head as he left the room.

He had barely stepped out of the said space when he ran smack dab into trouble - or rather, two very chaotic patients who seemed to materialize out of nowhere like bad omens, both looking like they'd walked in from two entirely different tragedies.

The first one, Turn1p, stood leaning casually against the wall like he was auditioning for a "Too Cool for Asylum" magazine cover.

His black wolf-cut hair looked like it had been styled by both a professional hairdresser and a strong windstorm, giving him an effortlessly disheveled look.

His dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief, offset by the glint of chain earrings swinging from his ears.

Scars and bandages littered his tan skin, suggesting either a penchant for danger or an inability to walk through doorways without hitting them.

He wore an oversized white shirt that looked like it had been stolen from a man twice his size, paired with green cargo pants that screamed "practical but chaotic," and a star belt chain dangling like it was holding the universe together.

Then there was Mr. Mangosteen.

A mangosteen plushie with lighter purple nub limbs and an unsettling sharp-toothed smile that suggested he ate emotions for breakfast.

No eyes, just vibes.

He was tucked firmly under Turn1p's arm like a malevolent little sidekick.

The other patient, taller than the last, Axentrious - or Axi, because clearly their name was too long for everyday use - stood slightly behind, giving off the aura of a gothic aristocrat forced to shop at a discount store, a walking Greek tragedy with a face sculpted for despair.

Their medium-length blonde hair faded into a gray-blue hue, like a melancholy sunset that had given up halfway, falling in disheveled waves that probably screamed, "I've stared into the void, and the void owes me child support."

One crimson-red eye burned with a fiery intensity, glowing like a cursed jewel, while the other stared blankly ahead, blind, dull... but still managing to look unimpressed.

A massive scar stretched from the corner of their said eye's brow down to their bottom lip, like their face lost a knife fight and refused to comment on it.

Their two-toned lips - dark on top, light on the bottom - looked like they'd been meticulously painted by someone with a lot of time and zero emotional stability.

The outfit they had on was deceptively simple yet reeked of quiet wealth - a rich-kid-gone-wrong vibe, complete with an aura that screamed, "My parents are dead, and I hate everyone, but especially you."

Axi glared at the Doctor with such visceral hatred it could've peeled paint off the walls.

The man in question adjusted his mask dramatically, fixing them with a glare that suggested he had better things to do than deal with their nonsense - which, of course, was incorrect because he thrived on nonsense.

The blue-haired menace hissed, "Well, well. If it isn't my two favorite disruptors," his voice dripping with the kind of condescension only someone who refers to themselves in the third person could muster.

Turn1p grinned lazily, hugging Mr. Mangosteen tighter like a beloved child. "Aw, Doc, you say that to all the unhinged geniuses around here."

Axi crossed their arms, their lips curling in disgust with enough malice to wilt an entire garden. "Don't flatter yourself. You're the least favorite person here, including that guy who thinks he's a bird."

The Doctor smirked. "Ah, Axentrious. Always a pleasure to see you. Still blaming me for all your problems, I see?"

Axi's red eye twitched. "You are all my problems."

Turn1p snorted, casually spinning the plushie in his hands. "Don't mind Axi, Doc. They're just mad because you're, like, a walking narcissist with god-complex issues. But hey, we all have our quirks, right?"

The addressed male gave them both a slow, deliberate once-over. "You two do realize it's well past curfew. What are you doing skulking around the halls like a couple of rebellious teens loitering outside a gas station?"

Turn1p grinned wider, showing off teeth that rivaled Mr. Mangosteen's as he shrugged. "Eh, not really. I was bribed with mangosteens to not set the East Wing on fire. Again. Also, we're bonding, obviously. Therapeutic activities, you know?"

Axi rolled their eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out. "I was dragged into this nonsense. I just follow him around because I have nothing better to do besides hating on you."

Turn1p held up the plushie. "Don't listen to them, Doc. Mr. Mangosteen says they're having fun, even if they don't admit it."

The older man tilted his head, staring at the stuffed fruit like it was an affront to his intelligence. "I should have that thing incinerated."

Turn1p gasped dramatically, clutching Mr. Mangosteen as though shielding him from mortal danger. "How dare you? He's a national treasure!"

Axi snorted. "More like a cursed object waiting to happen."

The Doctor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why am I even entertaining this conversation? Go back to your rooms before I decide to assign you both to actual therapy. Loiter if you must, but do it somewhere that isn't directly in my path."

Turn1p threw an arm over Axi's shoulder, who promptly shoved it off. "Fine, fine. We'll leave you to your brooding, Doc. Don't miss us too much."

As they sauntered away, the man shook his head, muttering, "This Asylum is a circus."

From down the hall, Turn1p called back, "Don't forget to feed your ego, Doc! It looks hungry!"

The male in question didn't respond, though his twitching eyebrow spoke volumes.

Nevertheless, he found himself wandering toward the infamous Red Ward.

He strolled through the dimly lit halls with a purpose.

Not that he would disclose said purpose to anyone (least of all you), but let's just say he was on a mission (to hate - cough - on kuya).

As he passed past a door labeled '#0207', the sound of something that could only be described as aggressively loud arts and crafts warfare assaulted his ears, that mind you, were FUCKING mostly deaf.

He stopped mid-step, narrowing his eyes at the nameplate:

#0207 - NICHOLE SMITH

He couldn't help but notice that right below it, in a much smaller font, someone had scrawled:

"Beware the glitter-bomb menace."

Next thing, the Doctor rapped his knuckles against the door with just enough force to imply, "I am important; pay attention to me."

At the action, the muffled chaos inside came to an abrupt halt, replaced by the unmistakable sounds of stumbling, shuffling, and the distant thud of something - if not someone - hitting the floor.

"Ow, damn it!"

Ah, there was your clue.

Finally, the door creaked open, revealing Nichole Smith - better known as The Doctor's Moonbeam, which sounded more like the name of a failing indie band than a patient in his asylum.

The female was a vision of calculated chaos.

She stood at an impressive 5'10" (a height she no doubt used to assert dominance over shorter patients).

Her short, shoulder-length white hair, styled in an almost-wolf cut, had faint green tips and a few strands that suggested she either got bored halfway through dyeing or ran out of budget.

A pink bow sat proudly atop her head, holding up just enough hair to say, I'm cute, but I might stab you. 🤗

Her eyes were hazel, leaning heavily into forest green territory, with cat-like slits that screamed, I see all your secrets, and I will sell them on the black market.

She wore rectangular black glasses, perched slightly askew, likely from her recent fall - the kind that made you look smart enough to ace a math test but mischievous enough to cheat on it.

Nikki's "patient uniform" was... unorthodox.

Originally white, it had been forcefully converted into a walking Valentine's Day card with some blue and black accents here and there.

Pink splatters, pink bows, a pink skirt - if it could be pink, it shall be pink.

Yet somehow, it worked, like a fever dream that was oddly pleasing to the eye.

Her pale skin had a ghostly hue, her cheeks, and lips more blue than rosy, giving her the appearance of someone who could haunt a mansion or sell you Girl Scout cookies, depending on the day.

And let's not forget to mention the star-shaped birthmark on the back of her neck, along with faint freckles splattered across her face like someone sneezed while painting.

She was the result of Pinterest DIY with zero supervision.

The shorter figure grinned up at the blue-haired other, completely oblivious to his unimpressed stare.

"Oh, Hi! I left you the drugs under the bed as planned! Now, where's my glitter?" She chirped, her whole frame lighting up like she hadn't just face-planted trying to open the door, before her brain finally registered who really was standing in front of her.

Oh, crap.

It was him!

The smile faltered, and her eyes darted toward the ceiling like it might offer her an escape plan.

The red-eyed man's grin was too wide to be reassuring, his arched eyebrow a bad sign, too.

"Miss Smith," he began, his voice dripping with the kind of faux patience one reserves for particularly annoying children, "why aren't you sleeping?"

His eyes quickly darted to the inside of the room where-

Oh, dear.

There was Ethan.

Poor, poor, innocent Ethan, whose face had been Picasso-ed, sitting on a pink beanbag chair, glancing at the other with the desperation of a man clinging to the last thread of his sanity.

The scrawny male's features were caked in makeup so thick it could stop a bullet, complete with uneven blush, eyeliner wings that could take flight, eyeshadow in colors that should not coexist, and bright pink lipstick that missed its mark entirely as well as what appeared to be eyebrows drawn on with permanent marker.

In addition to all of the above, his nails were painted in every color of the rainbow, and his hair was tied up in pigtails that could only be described as a sloppy catastrophe.

His eyes screamed, Please save me, telling the real story, but his mouth remained silent, likely fearing for his life.

The Doctor raised a single brow, his icy, calculating gaze, beneath his mask, sweeping over the scene.

Nikki threw her hands up like she'd just been accused of a crime. "Sleeping? Pfft. Who needs it? I'm thriving!"

The older man gave her a long, pointed look. "Have you eaten? Drunk water? Taken your medicine? Or have you just been terrorizing the asylum for the past 48 hours?" He listed these off like a disappointed parent reading from a checklist. "I was under the impression this was a rehabilitation center, not the backstage of a clown convention. Care to explain?"

"Uh..." Nikki tilted her head, her pink bow bobbing like a clueless puppy, pretending she didn't hear the second part. "Define... 'medicine?'"

"Moonbeam." His voice was a warning now, low and sharp.

"Okay, okay! I ate!" She said quickly, crossing her arms defensively. "Does glitter count as hydration?"

The taller man pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like Why am I cursed with these imbeciles?

Behind her, Ethan mouthed the words, Help me. Please. She's unhinged, while attempting to shuffle toward the door.

Nikki, sensing his betrayal, grabbed his arm and yanked him back inside.

"Don't mind him," she spoke sweetly, leaning casually against the doorframe, clearly unbothered by the glitter stuck to her hands. "He's my project."

The other man's crimson gaze flicked between the two, then landed back on her. "If I find out you've been keeping him hostage-"

"Hostage?!" She gasped, clutching her chest like he'd just accused her of murder. "Ethan loves it here! Tell him, Ethan!"

Ethan gave the faintest of nods, clearly against his will, a whimper escaping his lips, his painted fingers trembling.

The poor guy looked like he'd sell his soul for a single sip of water.

"See? I would never!" She lied, badly. "That was offensive, Doctor. I'm hurt."

Ethan croaked, "She threatened to shave my eyebrows off. And, fed me frosting for dinner."

The other sighed, the sound of a man who had long since given up on understanding the lunatics he'd surrounded himself with.

"Just the kind of responsible behavior I expect from someone who once tried to hypnotize a nurse with a disco ball," he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a silky menace. "Now, little Miss, either you get back into bed, take your medicine, drink some water, and stop using glitter as a food group or I start using you as a test subject. Your choice. I'll be back to check on you."

Nikki gulped but managed a cheeky smile. "Can I at least glitter-bomb Aki on my way?"

The Asa sighed. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

As he turned to leave, she called after him teasingly, "Goodnight, Dad!"

The "Dad" in question didn't dignify that with a response, but the sharp click of his heels echoed his irritation as he walked away.

"Nikki... you are the reason I drink. One of these days, I'm going to have you locked in a room with nothing but beige walls and a single chair. And I'll laugh."

Nichole whispered to Ethan, "I think he likes me."

The guy just stared at her. "Do not talk to me. I'm never trusting you again."

The blue-haired menace with a tendency to bite found himself loitering outside the door to Kuya's room, hesitating like a man contemplating whether to disarm a bomb or poke it with a stick.

For a moment, he raised his hand to knock, but then lowered it, his crimson eyes narrowing.

What if the fox was sleeping?

That would only open the door to a tirade of whining, accusations, and possibly another borrowed glitter bomb.

He sighed deeply, already regretting his choices.

Maybe he should just leave.

Turn away, pretend this little mission never happened, and go find something less hazardous to his sanity.

But as he took a step to retreat, an oddly cheerful voice chirped out, "You got this! Don't give up now, Asa!"

The Doctor froze mid-step.

Wait... that didn't sound like him.

Was he... encouraging himself?

He turned his head, slowly, like a man who knew he wasn't going to like what he saw.

Sure enough, Nikki was poking her head around the corner, her grin wide and unapologetic.

Behind her, Ethan was sprinting down the hallway like his life depended on it, makeup smudged and bow flying off his head as he fled the scene.

Nichole gave the Doctor an exaggerated thumbs up. "Go get your man!" she cheered, her voice echoing down the hall.

The taller man muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, I need a break, and turned back to the door.

Without further hesitation, he pushed it open - only to stop dead in his tracks.

The room was... empty.

No Kuya.

Just a massive fish tank in the corner, big enough to make any aquarium jealous.

Floating inside was what appeared to be a human-sized koi fish, its shimmering scales glinting under the artificial light.

Except... no, that wasn't just a fish.

It was a person.

A very sleepy person, drooling as he snoozed away in his half-human half-tail form, koi-like fins twitching occasionally.

The Doctor blinked.

What fresh aquatic nonsense was this?

Did he and Kuya have a sleepover?

He stepped closer, his heels clicking against the floor, and knocked on the glass with all the authority of a man who had absolutely no time for whatever was going on here.

The koi-human twitched, then opened one orange eye, blinking sluggishly like he'd been rudely awoken from the best dream of his life. (Judging by the drool, it likely involved his strong sharkmer husband, Kaiyo.)

"Ryoko," the Doctor began, his voice steady, polished, and just dripping with impatience, "where is my-" He paused for a split second, caught himself, and then corrected, "Where is Kuya?"

The koi-man, still half-asleep, turned his head slowly, looking around the room as if he'd just been informed that walls existed. "Kuya?" He mumbled, his voice soft and melodic, like a lullaby. "Oh... huh. I didn't realize he left. We were talking, and then I got tired, so..."

The other pinched the bridge of his nose for the third time that day. "So you have no idea where he is."

"Mhm, correct," Ryoko replied cheerfully, his tail giving a lazy flick in the water.

He seemed entirely unbothered, content to float in his little glass castle like the world wasn't burning around him.

The taller man sighed, long and dramatic, because apparently, even the koi fish were useless today. "Ryoko, do you understand how inconvenient this is?"

Ryoko tilted his head, his koi-like fin ears flaring slightly, giving him the appearance of a very elegant yet profoundly confused goldfish. "Is it inconvenient?"

"Yes," the Doctor deadpanned. "It is."

Ryoko shrugged - or at least the underwater equivalent of a shrug - and drifted lazily in a circle. "I'm sure he's fine. He's probably out... flirting with the Regrator, or setting something on fire. You know how he is."

Before the koi-man could float off into another dream about his husband (probably involving underwater picnics and aggressively romantic bubble-blowing), the door swung open with enough force to make it rebound off the wall.

In waltzed Kuya and Akira, locked in what could only be described as the kind of conversation you'd overhear in a rom-com's reel.

"You're such a tease," Kuya purred, his fox ears twitching with faux indignation, though his tail swished like it had its own set of emotions.

"Oh, stop," Akira replied, his tone dripping with exaggerated modesty, as though he hadn't just compared Kuya to the moon five seconds ago. "You know I only tease because you're so irresistible."

The Doctor, still standing by the fish tank, immediately regretted every desire that had led him to this point.

He stared at the duo, hoping maybe if he blinked hard enough, they'd disappear.

They did not.

In fact, they only noticed him more.

Akira froze mid-step, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto the blue-haired man.

For a moment, it was like one of those dramatic slow-motion reunion scenes.

Akira's lips parted, his voice catching in his throat as he breathed, "It's... you."

Before the Doctor could utter a single syllable, Akira was across the room in an instant, grabbing him with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for reuniting with long-lost soulmates.

With surprising strength for someone who spent most of his time looking pretty and stealing coats, Akira lifted him off the ground.

"It is really you!" Akira cried, twirling the man like he was a particularly fashionable ragdoll.

Kuya clapped his hands like this was the best show he'd seen all week. "Oh, how romantic! Spin him again, Aki!"

"Put. ME. Down," the Doctor hissed, his voice calm in a way that was far more terrifying than shouting could ever be.

His crimson eyes glinted with the promise of severe consequences.

Akira stopped mid-spin but didn't let go.

Instead, he just stared at the shorter man like a lovesick puppy who had somehow acquired a Godzilla-sized crush. "But I missed you..."

The Doctor's expression didn't change, though his voice dropped an octave. "If you don't put me down right now, I will replace every cup of coffee you ever drink with decaf."

That did it.

Akira set him down gently, albeit reluctantly, looking like someone had just told him puppies and kittens weren't real.

Once his feet were firmly back on the ground, the Doctor straightened his chest harness with all the composure of someone who hadn't just been treated like laundry on a high-speed cycle.

He adjusted his cuffs, cleared his throat, and grumbled something under his breath as he glared at the oddly taller man, "Absolute fools. I'm surrounded by fools."

The room fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Ryoko softly snoring bubbles in the fish tank.

Kuya broke it first, sidling up to Akira and whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, "So... did that reaction just confirm he likes being manhandled?"

"Out." The Doctor's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade, his masked crimson glare could have melted steel as he pointed toward the door.

The foxian blinked, his ears twitching in confusion. "But... this is my room?" he said, tilting his head as if genuinely questioning the concept of ownership.

"I don't care." The other's voice was as calm as it was venomous. "Out. Go to my room or something,"

Kuya gave an exaggerated shrug and started toward the door, Akira following him with an amused grin plastered across his face.

But just as they passed the Doctor, the purple head leaned in with the speed of a striking snake, planting a soft kiss on the older man's cheek.

"I missed you, too, Doctor," he purred, tail swishing playfully as he strutted out, leaving the man in question frozen in place.

Akira, ever the loyal chaos accomplice, patted the Doctor on the head with an obnoxiously knowing smile before disappearing out the door, leaving it to creak shut behind him.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for Ryoko's lazy snores.

The Doctor stood there like a statue, one hand reaching up to touch his cheek as though confirming the betrayal had truly occurred.

Then it hit him.

His ears burned a deep crimson, the flush creeping down his neck and threatening to take over his entire face.

His gloved hand shot up to cover his mouth as his eyes darted around the room, landing on nothing but the snoozing koi-man.

"Little fuckers," he muttered under his breath, his voice muffled but carrying all the force of a man betrayed by the universe itself.

With a deep sigh that carried the weight of a thousand inconveniences, the Doctor stalked toward the fish tank, twirling a few whitening locks of his wavy blue hair in an effort to reclaim his shattered dignity.

The tips of his ears, however, remained an undeniable shade of scarlet.

— CRRREEEEEEEAAAAAK .ᐟ

Without warning, part of the wall crumbled inwards.

Dust and debris cascaded onto the floor, leaving a jagged hole behind.

Through the gaping wound in Kuya’s once semi-respectable room, Archmagos peeked his head inside, his face smeared with a mixture of soot and what appeared to be pudding.

Behind him, Billy’s wild grin was unmistakable, though it was mostly obscured by the rear end of Tost, who was shimmying through the gap like an unholy groundhog.

The Doctor froze, his brain attempting to process the absurd tableau before him.

Tost’s voice broke the silence.

“Uh… hi, Doc.” He waved sheepishly, his body still halfway stuck in the hole. “Haha… just a quick question! Which room is this, exactly? Asking for science.”

The Doctor didn’t answer immediately.

He walked toward the two with all the ominous grace of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.

His red eyes glowed faintly as he loomed over them, his shadow swallowing the wall-hoppers in darkness.

“Uh… nice weather we’re having, huh? Ha... Ha... ” Tost added nervously, sweat dripping down his forehead as he stared up at the furious Doctor.

There was a long, pregnant pause.

Next, like a storm breaking, a sound shattered the stillness of the Asylum:

❝ AAAAAAEEEEEEEOOOOOWWWWWUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! ❞

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰ 🧪 ꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . .

❝ AUTHOR'S NOTE .ᐟ ❞

GUYS.

HELP.

I—😭😭

What even is this chapter??

I sat down to write something coherent, but apparently, the chaos gods said, “Nope, not today, loser!”

This is pure, unfiltered madness.

I was trying to get all the characters introduced so we could actually start the plot, but there are too many of them!

It’s like trying to fit clowns into a tiny car, and I can only stuff so many into one chapter before it explodes.

Also, if it feels worse than usual or not as funny as you were expecting… yeah, my bad.

My mood has been somewhere between “meh” and “I want to fight the sun” while writing this, so the chaos might not have landed as intended.

I just feel like shit.

BUT it is what it is, and you’re stuck with it now.

Enjoy the insanity or don’t – I’m already halfway into writing the next update and wondering why I do this to myself.

Anyway, love y’all.

See you next chapter, where maybe – MAYBE – we’ll have some semblance of a plot (or at least someone to fix Kuya's wall).

Peace out. ✌️

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰ 🧪 ꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . . 

❝ CHARACTERS FEATURED .ᐟ

"Kuya" and "Ryoko" and "Kaiyo" as – [-KUYA-]

"Akira" as – [TaekyoshiAkira]

"Nikki" as – [Tofuu-chann]

"Lunar" as – [UltimateShipp3r]

"Ismene" as – [Raemon_Shirogami]

"Turn1p" as – [00P13S_1TS_T0B1]

"Axentrious" as –[CRAZYLADY_YALE]

"Archmagos" and "Billy" as – [NormalToasterLover]

And [Your Name] as you!

I hope they acted as accurately as possible! As good as you wanted them to be! (😭)

"........," 

❝ NEW RELATED WORK TO CHECK OUT .ᐟ

"𝚁𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎. 𝓐𝓷 𝓐𝓼𝔂𝓵𝓾𝓶 𝓢𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂." by [Shirleyis_okay]

HELP! IT WAS SO GOOD! I HAD SO MUCH FUN READING THAT! THE WRITING STYLE ATE! 🙏😩

"........," 

❛ W O R D C O U N T:

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