#... kinda

[inky-sun]

me and who

and then they cat napped together 🙂‍↕️

print(1) | print(2) ‪‪❤︎‬

[strangler-fish]

Do you ever think about how Vyncent and William are kinda doomed to outlive the rest of PD? (Elves have a much longer lifespan, and William is semi-immortal)

[squilko]

yeah sure, ill love this thing forever.

oh sweet pipi...s.....

some more self indulgent doodles of spamtenna fanbaby....

[crowliphale]

Ok ok NOW I'm done. For now

[arceespinkgun]

Sorry for this, but I've had this thought for a while (I bet Jazz would be embarrassed if he knew)

[wheneverfeasible]

In the DPxDC fandom I see so much of Phantom being a separate vigilante or whatever. Or stopping being a vigilante. Or being Ghost King summoned or whatever. But what if…

There’s so many “omg Danny is Damian’s twin or just looks like him” etc but what if we go with the whole “haha Bruce wants to adopt him” and like…he does. Danny becomes a Robin.

Damian maybe takes on another name, or leaves or whatever to find himself, or he’s dead for a while, or it’s before he arrives, idk. But the Robin role is vacant and Danny becomes the next official Robin.

But he’s also still half-ghost. He still has his past as Phantom/Invis-o-Bill. He just became Robin with the incorrect belief that he’s just a regular boy with a tragic past.

So here’s Danny, a technical meta, having to hide that fact because his new guardian has proven to not want metas in Gotham and he’s worried about what Bruce and the others will do if they find out.

Danny left one family where he had to hide such an important part of himself, thinking he could finally be true to who he is, only to have to hide it again.

So the question remains…can Danny ever truly be loved for exactly who he is?

[iennoganan-aha]

RAAA!! Dazai is so hard for me to draw for some reason :(

Oh well, happy birthday you shit

[gordonengineswifenirmal]

I love ridiculous stuff

Everyone meet just a normal goose :)

[dkfan07142]

Spoilers for deltarune chapter 4

I noticed that both Asgore and Toriel give Kris some physical affection while Kris just sorta...lets it happen with no reaction or return the affection

But with Ralsei and Susie on their own and without anything from the player, They do stuff like this:

Which shows that Kris really does care about their friends(and shows their relationship with their parents but that's a topic for another day)

[batfam-belfry]

today's episode of Bad Parenting Mentalities is brought to you by Bruce Wayne

[naurius]

I have brainrot disease that makes me think of Lin Ling every time I see the word Powerpoint, but obvs he's the PPT king so this is an AU where Nice switches with Lin Ling instead 🫡

ft my sister's drawing too bc I begged her to color it for me bc she's better than me 😗 thanks @pekky03

(og image sources)

[liketolaugh-writes]

There's a very important difference between 'things that should be taught in school but aren't' and 'things that are fine to leave you to learn by yourself.'

Things that you should learn in school (because they are universally relevant and can have serious consequences if you don't know them):

Common disabilities and signs that you might have them

What symptoms are frequently associated with serious illness that should be checked out immediately

Basic housekeeping skills (cooking, cleaning, utility maintenance)

Basic computer skills (of the sort employers expect)

What community resources are available in your area (food banks, libraries, aid programs, etc)

What is fine for people to learn on their own if they didn't learn it in school:

Interesting history

Any individual Book Of Great Renown

Whatever miscellaneous science unit got missed by your school's curriculum

I'm not trying to say science, math, and the humanities aren't important - they are - but any individual missing facet of them can be learned later. As long as you learn science, math, and the humanities, OP is right - there is so much more than you can learn in twelve years.

Some things, though, should be universal. And they aren't.

“I don’t learn this in school :(“

Hey here’s a question what steps have you taken to increase your education and knowledge since graduating?

[leycorice]

into me you see

sylus x zayne // ghost au // 5k words

after a failed hit leaves the underworld kingpin in a coma, his spirit lingers—trapped in a limbo where no one can see or hear him. three years pass in silence, drifting, watching the world move on without him… until one night, the new doctor came in.

cw: blood, violence, mention of child abuse

sylus has a good memory. great, even.

he remembers things others forget—names, numbers, scars, smirks. the way someone taps their finger when they lie. the way a man’s voice tightens before he kills. he catalogues it all, stores it away, pulls it out when it serves him. that’s why people fear him. it’s not just what he knows. it’s that he never forgets.

he remembers his own beginning too, clear as day.

long before he was the man, the myth, the nightmare in a black blazer.

he was just a child. unwanted. resented by the one who gave birth to him. his earliest memory wasn’t a mother’s smile or lullaby. it was floating in darkness, hearing muffled voices wishing he hadn’t existed.

his first birthday? silence. no cake. no candles. not even a name whispered fondly. just a cold room and two figures that looked through him like he was a ghost long before he became one.

violence came naturally to him.

he won his first fight at eight. three boys, all older, all bigger. they called him names. he didn’t argue. he let his fists speak. when it was over, he bled from the eyebrow and one knuckle was split to the bone.

but the other three didn’t stand back up.

he smiled through the bruises.

at ten, he saw his first corpse. two, actually. his parents.

they were laid out on the floor of their cramped apartment, blood pooling under them like shadows. his father’s hand was twisted awkwardly, frozen in death. sylus stared at it, waiting for it to twitch—for the slap to come. it didn’t. he looked at his mother’s face, expecting a sneer, a snarl, the familiar contempt to crack her lips. nothing.

silence. peaceful, for once.

that’s when he looked up.

a man stood there, tall, dressed in a long coat, wiping his knife clean with a handkerchief like it was part of a routine. a cigarette burned between his fingers, smoke curling upward like lazy ghosts. around him, men moved in practiced motion—dragging the bodies by the ankles, stuffing them into thick black bags.

the man stepped closer.

he knelt in front of sylus, level with him, eye to eye. he took a drag, then exhaled smoke straight into the boy’s face.

"your pa and ma owed me a lot of money, son," he said, like he was commenting on the weather.

"too bad they're not here to meet their dues."

he smiled, warm like poison. in the background, a thud echoed—one of the bodies tossed into the van.

"so." another puff of smoke. "that leaves the heir to pay up their mistake. what will you give me, hm?"

he expected crying. pleading. fear. something.

what he got was a grin.

a slow, crooked grin splitting across sylus’ young face like a crack in ice. his eyes didn’t shine with innocence. they burned with something older, something feral. he stood without a word, walked past his parents’ blood without flinching, and stood toe-to-toe with the man.

"let me join you."

the room stilled. even the man's crew paused, unsure if they heard right.

the man blinked. then laughed—a short, sharp laugh.

"you wanna work for the devil, kid?"

sylus shrugged.

"not much difference between him and my folks."

and that was the beginning.

from then on, sylus was trained.

not to play catch. not to ride a bike.

he was trained to kill, to steal, to lie, to manipulate, to disappear without leaving a single trace.

he learned how to cut a throat silently.

how to make a deal without showing a twitch of emotion.

how to read a room, sense weakness, exploit it.

most kids his age were worried about school uniforms and test scores. sylus was learning which arteries bled fastest. he could disassemble a handgun blindfolded before he hit eleven. by twelve, he was speaking three languages fluently—all of them useful for bargaining, bribing, and blackmailing.

and the thing was—he was good. too good.

smarter than the rest. quicker. more precise. he didn’t just follow orders—he understood why the orders were given, and how to get better results with less mess. some of the older trainees hated him for it. didn’t matter. they didn’t last long anyway.

when he turned thirteen, the man—the same one who wiped the blood of sylus' parents off a blade years ago—called him into his office.

it was night. always night. the city outside was still breathing, neon lights flickering against rain-wet windows. inside, the room smelled like tobacco, leather, and expensive bourbon.

the man sat behind a desk, flipping through a dossier with one hand, cigarette in the other. his eyes flicked up as sylus entered.

"happy birthday, kid," he said, not looking particularly celebratory.

he slid a folder across the desk. thick. bound with a rubber band.

"this one's yours."

sylus took it. opened it. inside—a photo. a name. details.

a target.

his first official kill.

not training. not theory. not clean-up. not a test.

real blood. real consequences.

the man watched him closely, like he expected hesitation. maybe even hoped for it.

but sylus didn’t flinch.

he studied the folder, flipped through every page with calm eyes, then looked back up.

"alive or dead?"

the man grinned, smoke curling between his teeth.

"dead. make it clean. make it quiet."

sylus nodded once.

"understood."

no questions. no trembling hands. no dramatic pause.

that night, sylus walked out of that office not as a boy, but as a blade honed and ready.

he found the target within two days. tracked his habits, his routes, his flaws. waited until the man was alone, drunk, vulnerable.

the hit was silent. efficient.

the body wasn’t found for weeks.

back at the base, no one said anything, but everyone knew.

thirteen years old. first solo kill. perfect execution.

the man poured sylus a drink the next time he saw him—not alcohol, but a high-end apple soda, chilled and fizzing in a crystal glass.

"you’ve got a good head on you, son," he said, raising his own glass.

"you're going to build an empire one day. just don’t forget who gave you the first brick."

sylus clinked glasses with him. took a sip. smiled faintly.

he wouldn’t forget.

but he wouldn’t owe, either.

not forever.

because by the time sylus turned eighteen, he had outgrown the leash they thought he’d never reach.

he wasn’t just another enforcer. he wasn’t muscle. wasn’t a blunt instrument to be pointed and thrown at problems.

he was smarter. sharper. he thought faster, struck cleaner, built deeper connections in the underground than the man who once claimed to own him.

and that man knew it.

sylus could see it in the way things shifted.

missions started getting messy. not because of sylus—no, he handled them all flawlessly, as always—but because someone wanted them messy. more risks. more exposure. information leaked. locations sabotaged. hits that should’ve taken minutes stretched into hours of cleanup.

then there were the “coincidental” ambushes. the sniper that missed. the poisoned wine that tasted just a little too bitter. the men who looked a little too nervous handing him sealed envelopes.

they were trying to get rid of him.

they were scared.

good.

so when the summons came—“the boss wants a word. just a drink, to talk, you know how he is”—sylus knew what it was.

he dressed sharp, as always. red accents. clean gloves.

the guards at the door stepped aside for him. they knew better. or maybe they were just tired of gambling with their lives.

inside, the man waited — that same smug calm, like nothing had changed. he poured two drinks, slow and deliberate, like old friends meeting over a shared past.

"you’ve come a long way," he said, offering one glass to sylus. "almost makes me proud."

sylus smiled — faint, polite. he took the drink, sat, and crossed one leg over the other with the poise of someone who no longer needed permission to be here.

"almost?" he echoed.

the man smirked. "don’t let it get to your head. i made you."

sylus lifted the glass, letting the deep red liquid catch the light. he stared through it — and through the man sitting across from him.

"no," he said softly, voice like silk over wire. "you just gave me a reason."

bang.

the sound was muffled, but final. a single shot, straight through the chest. the man’s smile cracked before his body hit the back of the chair, lifeless. the glass in his hand slid from his fingers and shattered against the floor.

sylus took a sip of his wine. smooth. slightly metallic.

he let out a small huff of amusement, placing his still-warm pistol gently on the table. like it belonged there.

“should’ve aimed better,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

a knock at the door.

it creaked open, revealing luke and kieran, the twins—sharp, quiet, loyal. they owed sylus their lives. he'd pulled them from the wreckage of their childhood and never asked for thanks. only results.

they stepped in, unflinching at the sight of the body.

“boss,” luke said calmly, “shall we clean up the place for you?”

sylus swirled the remaining wine in his glass, watching it whirl like blood in water. he stood slowly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

“no need,” he said, voice smooth as the drink. “it’s about time we move our business elsewhere.”

“to where, sir?” kieran asked.

sylus placed the glass down beside the cooling corpse. he adjusted his coat, already moving toward the door.

“n109 zone,” he said simply.

he paused.

then smiled.

“and perhaps a rename is due. onychinus. fitting for something built to survive in the dark.”

the twins exchanged a glance. they didn’t ask what it meant. they didn’t need to. sylus had spoken—and the world was about to bend around it.

he was eighteen. the youngest to ever take the throne of the underworld.

not inherited. not handed. claimed.

with blood, brains, and an empire ready to follow.

and by twenty-five, sylus had it all.

an empire that bent the city’s shadows to his will. wealth that didn’t blink at blood. influence that kept even the most powerful at a respectful distance. his name was enough to halt conversations. his glare could silence a room.

everything was in the palm of his hand.

and then, someone gave him his death.

it came quiet. clean. not with bullets or bombs or betrayal from a rival. but a knife—small, old, probably from a kitchen. lodged in his lower abdomen, sharp and precise. not a professional’s weapon. but it got the job done.

he didn’t scream. didn’t make a sound.

the first thing he saw was her—the girl.

young. too young. maybe sixteen. maybe less. her hands were trembling, her mouth tight with rage, her chest heaving like she couldn’t believe she’d done it. her eyes, though—they weren’t shaking. they were solid. steady. burning with revenge.

sylus looked down at her and saw himself. not in appearance, but in fury. in purpose.

he could guess. she was someone’s sister. someone’s daughter. someone connected to one of the bodies he’d left in his wake—a ghost of one of his old sins, clawing back up from the grave to take what the world wouldn’t give her.

she didn’t run. she just stared. waiting for him to say something, maybe. or curse her. or scream.

he didn’t.

he looked her in the eyes and exhaled through his nose, almost like a sigh.

then smiled.

because maybe… this was fair.

he stumbled back, hand over the wound, fingers hot and wet. collapsed into a growing puddle of blood that crept across marble tile like ink. his body was losing heat, fast. but the silence around him was louder than anything he'd ever heard. no sound. no shouting. no heartbeat.

his mind drifted.

sylus wasn’t a man of faith. never prayed. never believed in karma or redemption. but he had wondered, in quiet, sleepless moments.

how much longer?

how many more ghosts would crawl up from the darkness to collect what they were owed?

maybe this was the answer.

maybe this was the bill, finally due.

he closed his eyes, listening to nothing. then, somewhere in the distance—sirens. the wail of an ambulance. the thunder of footsteps. his men. late. always late for the things that mattered.

this was probably where his life should’ve flashed before his eyes.

but sylus didn’t have good memories.

no birthdays. no holidays. no warm hugs. just violence and shadows and voices giving orders.

except—

there was one thing.

a flash. a glimpse. a faint echo in the void.

a boy. small, quiet.

big glasses perched on his nose. hair always falling into his eyes. always hunched over a book too large for his frame, scribbling notes or muttering anatomy terms under his breath like a mantra. a stiff expression, serious even when the world around them laughed. someone so painfully out of place in that orphanage full of chaos.

what was his name?

sylus frowned, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. he tried to picture the boy’s face, but it kept slipping through his mind like water through his fingers.

who was he?

he tried to hold on to it, tried to remember. but the darkness crept in faster.

and then there was nothing.

just silence.

just black.

and sylus qin—the feared, the untouchable, the ruler of the n109 zone—was gone.

when sylus opened his eyes, he was staring at a white ceiling.

sterile. too clean. too still.

a soft beep... beep... beep echoed in the distance—mechanical, rhythmic. somewhere nearby, he heard the faint drip of liquid hitting plastic, drop by drop, steady as time.

his head felt light. not aching, not sharp. just... wrong. off.

he blinked, slowly, trying to place the feeling in his chest—not pain, not numbness. something in-between.

he turned his head.

he wasn’t in a bed.

he was sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway—one of those uncomfortable waiting seats bolted to the floor, facing white walls and flickering fluorescent lights. the kind made to outlast grief and long hours.

footsteps echoed in the corridor. nurses passed by, clipboards in hand. a doctor wheeled a cart. someone laughed—tired, low, like it belonged to a night shift nurse running on bad coffee and worse sleep.

no one looked at him. no one noticed.

sylus frowned.

something was wrong.

his hand instinctively went to his stomach—to where he knew the blade had gone in, where blood should’ve soaked through his shirt. but when he pulled up his coat—

nothing.

no blood. no scar. not even a wrinkle.

he stood quickly, his chair screeching quietly against the floor—yet no one turned. not a single glance.

his voice was low at first.

"hey."

no response.

"hey." louder now, stepping toward a nurse walking past. "you—what the hell is going on? where the hell am i?"

she didn’t stop. just walked past him, like he wasn’t there.

he reached out—a hand on her shoulder.

but his fingers didn’t land.

they passed through.

cleanly. without resistance.

like he was swiping through smoke.

he staggered back, staring at his hand. perfect. untouched. real. but not real enough.

his breathing slowed, deepened—not from panic. sylus didn’t panic. but this was unfamiliar territory. and sylus hated unfamiliar.

a nurse down the hall murmured something.

then another voice replied, quieter, sharper.

his name. he heard it.

“qin, sylus. room 407.”

he turned sharply.

down the corridor, two nurses stood outside a door. one flipped through a chart. the other sighed and muttered something about his condition not improving. they moved on quickly, professional and detached.

sylus didn’t wait.

he moved toward the room.

and what he saw inside stopped him cold.

there. on the bed. laid him.

hooked to wires, machines humming softly. pale, still, bandaged. like a puppet someone forgot to animate. the monitors pulsed in time with his heart, but it looked fake. like the body was trying to pretend it still belonged to someone.

sylus stood there, frozen.

"what the fuck..."

he tried again. reached toward the bed, trying to place a hand on the edge, trying to shake himself awake, or maybe just feel something.

but again—nothing.

his palm passed through the railing like mist.

he stared at his body, expression unreadable. not quite horror. not quite anger. but something heavy. sinking.

“am i dead?”

the silence didn’t answer.

and sylus wasn’t sure what scared him more—the fact that he might be dead...

or the fact that this didn’t feel like death.

it felt like waiting.

like being stuck in a place between worlds, where even the walls couldn’t decide if they remembered him.

he turned away, jaw clenched, mind racing.

sylus qin—king of n109—couldn’t touch a damn thing.

~~~

time passed.

slowly, yet cruelly fast.

sylus stopped counting the days. the first few weeks, he tried everything. logic, force, fury. he tried screaming, even though no one heard him. tried touching his body, slipping into it—lying down, sitting upright, hovering over it like some soul attempting possession.

nothing worked.

he stood beneath fluorescent lights until the buzzing became a part of his thoughts.

he waited for the light, or the darkness.

whichever one had the guts to take him.

but neither came.

the days blurred. nights bled into each other. no sleep. no hunger. just stillness. constant presence, without weight. without warmth.

he watched as luke and kieran came by. regularly at first. their movements sharp, careful. loyal even now. they never brought flowers—sylus would’ve hated that—but sometimes they'd bring his favorite vinyls, leave them in the corner like offerings to a god that wouldn’t wake.

they talked quietly.

one day, he stood beside them, unseen as always.

“we’ve kept it under wraps,” kieran whispered, checking the hallway as if someone might listen. “only the inner circle knows. we told the rest he’s on extended leave overseas.”

“how long are we supposed to wait?” luke murmured, staring at his boss—at sylus’ body, pale and still beneath the sterile white sheets.

“he’s been like this for almost six months.”

sylus said nothing.

he couldn’t.

he’d said everything in his head already. every curse, every plea. now it was just silence.

time bled out again.

six months turned to a year.

then two.

three.

he was 25 years old for the third time.

the restlessness had turned to numbness.

the fury faded into something dull.

not peace. not quite. but a resignation.

maybe this was his punishment.

to remain stuck. between life and death. between redemption and damnation. between every wrong he’d ever done and the forgiveness he never bothered to ask for.

he watched himself—that body on the bed—like a stranger. a replica. skin too pale, hair slightly longer, eyes sunken from years of nonexistence. machines beeped to remind everyone he was technically alive. but no one really believed it anymore.

he’d seen dozens of doctors. neurologists. sleep specialists. spiritual advisors. some brought in discreetly under the radar, others flown in from across the globe. all of them whispered theories like prayers.

brain trauma. delayed neural regeneration. psychosomatic lock-in.

a coma with no explanation, no exit.

none of their tests yielded anything.

none of their machines measured what sylus had become.

and so, he remained.

anchored.

tethered to that room like a ghost with unfinished business—except the business wasn’t revenge anymore. that had passed. it had been burned through, used up. all that was left now was silence.

he couldn’t leave.

any time he tried, he would simply blink—and find himself right back where he started. in that same chair. in that same goddamn hallway. watching himself.

"fitting," he muttered, scoffing as he looked at the husk of the man he used to be.

a king, reduced to an echo.

what a cruel punishment.

but one he’d earned.

~~~

sylus leaned back against the sofa again—or at least, the ghost of him did.

the fabric didn’t shift. no creak. no warmth.

no dent.

he sighed, eyes closed, counting the seconds like he always did when boredom threatened to rot his mind.

three... two... one—

“hey there, mr. boss! we’re here again!”

luke’s voice crashed through the sterile quiet, cheerful as ever. the door slammed open without a knock — standard.

“and i brought something for you!”

“luke, tone down your voice,” kieran muttered, walking in behind him with a far more composed air. he shut the door with a soft click, already checking the iv monitor like he could actually understand it.

sylus exhaled again. a quiet huff.

they were here again.

his loyal dogs. his headaches. his damn family, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

it was always strange—seeing them like this, speaking to his still body like he was just sleeping. like it was any other day.

it was pathetic. it was comforting. it was maddening.

luke and kieran had taken to these visits like clockwork. every other day. sometimes more when things were tense in the outside world. they brought books, music, sometimes the news. anything to keep the illusion going. maybe part of them still believed he'd suddenly blink awake and snap at them to stop fussing.

"we’re keeping things smooth," luke continued, dropping a black case on the small table and opening it with a satisfied grin. “business is steady. that bastard from sector e tried to sneak product past the border. we handled it.”

he pulled out one of sylus’ favorite handguns and began methodically wiping it clean, humming under his breath like a mechanic tuning a car.

“heard from the nurse a new doc’s coming in soon,” he added, voice lighter now. “some cardiac surgeon. big shot. maybe you’ll like this one. try to be cooperative, alright, boss man? he might just be able to wake you up this time.” he chuckled.

sylus scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.

“as if i could do anything about it.”

kieran, meanwhile, had taken up his usual place by the calendar pinned to the wall. a clean black marker in hand, he crossed off another day.

sylus watched him do it, eyes following the motion.

the days were bleeding fast.

april. again.

his birthday was coming. not that it mattered. he never told anyone the exact day. the only one who knew was long dead, a bitter corpse left behind in that old office chair.

but luke and kieran, annoying bastards that they were, had made it a mission to celebrate every day of april. they'd bring cake, candles, even cheap party hats, pretending not to notice when the hospital staff gave them wary looks. every year.

twenty-nine, technically.

still twenty-five, spiritually.

frozen.

nearly three years since he was stabbed and everything stopped.

he forced the thought away.

he had grown used to pushing things out of his mind. restlessness had dulled. resentment hollowed. there was no vengeance here. no action. just the waiting. just the observation. like a king bound to a throne no one could see.

he drifted toward his body again. looked down at it.

still pale. still alive. barely. breathing with the help of machines he never asked for. the bed never moved. nothing changed.

and yet—the outside world didn’t stop.

he heard whispers, sometimes. conversations beyond the door. murmurs of pulling the plug. of “reallocating resources.” the language of the medical system always found a way to sound clinical, never cruel. but sylus knew what they meant.

it wasn’t about the cost. his money could keep this room running for the next decade without blinking. luke and kieran handled that, made sure the hospital was well-fed and tight-lipped.

but it was the fear.

the aura of his presence, even comatose. the guards. the armed men who rotated shifts outside his door. the locked-down floor. the whispers among the staff—who the hell is in room 407?

they knew enough to know they didn’t want to know more.

and now, apparently, some cardiac surgeon was coming in.

another white coat. another expert.

sylus raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze to luke.

“cardiac surgeon?” he muttered to himself.

interesting choice, considering it wasn’t his heart that had been stabbed.

or maybe it was, in some metaphoric way.

the universe loved irony like that.

still, this one must’ve been important if the hospital agreed to it. luke and kieran wouldn’t allow just anyone through.

"let’s hope he’s not a talker," sylus mused, turning his attention back toward the ceiling.

sylus had zoned out again.

luke was still rambling—something about new suppliers, border routes, and how kieran needed to stop eating the pastries from the third-floor bakery because “they’re definitely laced with sedatives.”

kieran rolled his eyes.

sylus did, too. from the sofa he couldn’t actually sit on.

he rubbed at his temples. not that it helped. the headache wasn’t physical. it was this gnawing ache, deep and sharp, like pressure building behind his eyes. familiar, yet foreign. like a forgotten name on the tip of the tongue.

then came a knock.

the door slid open with a soft click of the security override—the guards outside had allowed it. so, someone important.

sylus opened his eyes.

he expected another aging professor or white-haired consultant. another tired face with a clipboard and a sigh.

but instead, in walked a man.

young. sharp. dressed in a dark coat over surgical formality. silver-framed glasses perched perfectly. his black hair was neatly parted, and his expression was unreadable—cut from stone, controlled. following just behind him was someone with brown hair, bangs brushed aside, and round glasses—younger, more expressive.

“oh! are you—?” luke stood up quickly, the usual confidence in his voice tempered just slightly by curiosity. kieran joined him with a nod.

the man spoke, calm and measured.

“dr. zayne li. chief of cardiovascular department. this is dr. greyson guan, my assistant.”

he gestured subtly to the younger doctor beside him, then turned his focus to the patient—to sylus.

“we’re here to see the patient.”

sylus leaned forward slightly, watching. something about that voice scratched at a wall in his head.

the four of them talked. greyson asked questions, clipboard in hand, and luke answered while carefully dodging details that could raise alarms. kieran kept his responses short, factual, but respectful.

nothing about weapons. nothing about empires.

just enough to sound like concerned family.

zayne stood mostly quiet, reading through vitals, eyes narrowed as he scanned the monitor. his fingers tapped once, lightly, on the screen. reading. calculating.

sylus moved in closer, studying him now.

there was something wrong about this. not bad, just... unsettling.

this man—zayne—felt familiar. not from the streets. not from the empire.

from somewhere before.

but every time sylus tried to reach for it, his head ached. a pulsing pressure built behind his eyes—a tight, blinding throb like something buried deep refusing to come forward.

“tch—” he winced, clutching his forehead. the ghost of him stumbling back.

the pain wasn’t imagined.

and it did something strange.

on the monitor, where sylus’ heart rate had been steady for nearly three years—always a metronome, never deviating—it spiked.

just for a moment.

zayne’s head snapped toward the screen.

greyson kept talking. something about possible somatic causes and neural echo theory—background noise to zayne now.

zayne leaned in, double-checked the rhythm, pressed two keys, and scrolled back through the data.

yes. there it was.

a blip. a response.

not normal.

not expected.

and not explainable.

zayne’s eyes moved to sylus' body—perfectly still. no change in breathing. no sign of movement.

but something had changed.

he said nothing for now.

but he didn’t look away.

~~~

it was late.

the halls of the hospital were muted now—lights dimmed, staff thinned. the nighttime quiet had settled over the building like a fog, soft and dense.

sylus had been wandering again.

a slow, aimless stroll through empty corridors and sterile silence. he’d memorized every hallway by now, every flickering ceiling light and every vending machine that still hadn’t been refilled in weeks.

it was his routine. had to be. staying in his room too long, staring at his own unmoving body, started to gnaw at something in him. made the walls feel tighter.

so he wandered. for hours sometimes.

but now he was back.

and what he didn’t expect was him—the new doctor—still in his room.

alone.

sylus blinked.

dr. zayne stood beside his bedside, head bowed slightly as he scribbled something onto a clipboard. his long coat was draped neatly over the arm of the chair, sleeves rolled up. he looked composed, focused—even this late at night, when most of the other staff had already clocked out or passed their shifts off to night nurses.

still working.

sylus hovered near the doorway at first, watching him.

"you’re still here?” he muttered under his breath, eyebrows lifting slightly. "don’t you have someone else to fix?"

he stepped closer.

there was something amusing about it—how serious this man looked, completely absorbed in a case that had already stumped half the world’s medical elite. sylus tilted his head. he almost respected the tenacity.

almost.

and then, like he'd done many times before with other doctors, he decided to mess with him. just a little. just to break the monotony. not that they could ever hear him—at most they might shiver or pause and brush it off.

he crept up behind him, leaning in.

the smell of ink and faint antiseptic lingered off the doctor’s clothes.

sylus smirked, low and quiet.

"boo," he whispered near his ear, barely a breath of sound.

he was already turning away, expecting nothing. maybe a brief shiver at best.

but instead—

the clipboard clattered against the floor.

zayne flinched. sharp. sudden.

his hand instinctively rose to his ear—the one sylus had whispered near.

and then he turned. fast.

their eyes locked.

sylus froze.

zayne’s stare was sharp, alert—not vague or unfocused like the others. he wasn’t looking through him.

he was looking at him.

right into his eyes.

sylus felt the weight of it. the shock didn’t show on his face—he was too trained for that—but inside, something coiled tight. the air between them shifted. no longer passive. no longer silent.

oh.

he straightened slowly, curiosity sharpening.

"you can see me," sylus said quietly. not a question—an observation.

a pause stretched between them — long, electric. no words. just the sound of the heart monitor beeping in the background, as if to remind them both the body in the bed was still there. still waiting.

zayne didn’t move. didn’t speak.

he simply studied sylus the same way he studied charts and anomalies — like a puzzle that shouldn’t exist, but did.

finally.

for the first time in three years...

he was seen.

[chocodile]

Hyden is an endless fountain of wisdom on any and all topics. Well, 'endless fountain of words' is maybe more accurate, the wisdom of what he's saying is often highly dubious. Do NOT go to Hyden for dating advice. (Response to Wispurrstar's Vincent on BlueSky, following up to this little comic: https://bsky.app/profile/wispurrstar.bsky.social/post/3loygptsfnc2g )

[aroacesetitoff]

Senku and Gen sealed their alliance with a bottle of coke and declared they would go to hell together and i havent been normal about their dynamic since