The ticking clock was too loud.
That was the first thing Toji noticed when he stepped into Dr. Valerie Kinbott's office — a small, tastefully furnished room that tried too hard to look comforting.
Soft yellow lighting. Shelves of color-coded books. The faint scent of lavender — artificial, chemical, forced.
He hated lavender.
> "You must be Toji Frump," Kinbott said, standing from her chair with that professional smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I've been expecting you."
> "That makes one of us," he replied mildly, taking the seat across from her.
She gave a short, polite laugh — the kind people use when they're unsure if you're joking.
He didn't elaborate.
Kinbott adjusted her glasses and flipped through a folder.
"I heard about your… impressive display in fencing class. You've made quite the impression in your first week."
> "Impressions are accidents," Toji said, crossing one leg over the other. "People just see what they want."
"Hmm." Her pen hovered over the page. "And what do you think they see?"
He smiled slightly. "Whatever makes them feel small."
That earned him the faintest pause — professional mask cracking, just for a second.
---
Kinbott set the folder down, interlacing her fingers.
"Principal Weems asked me to meet with you, to… get a sense of your adjustment. You transferred under unusual circumstances."
> "I'm aware."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
> "No."
"Most people find it helps."
> "I'm not most people."
The doctor gave a thoughtful hum. "You remind me of another student I have a appointment with. Detached. Analytical. Guarded."
> "Wednesday Addams," he said flatly.
That caught her off guard. "You've met her?"
> "We've… crossed paths."
Kinbott tilted her head. "And what's your impression of her?"
> "Interesting mind. No restraint. She'll either change the world or burn it down trying."
Kinbott smiled. "You say that like it's a compliment."
> "It is."
She scribbled something down — quick, neat. Toji watched her handwriting, the small twitch in her wrist when she wrote something that mattered. He leaned back slightly, voice quiet but precise.
> "You know, Doctor… you grip your pen tighter every time I speak."
Her hand froze. "I— I wasn't aware."
> "That's because you think control is the same as calm. It's not."
---
Silence.
The lavender scent felt heavier now — oppressive.
Kinbott took a small breath, smiling again. "You're very observant."
> "I've had practice."
She hesitated, studying him — his posture, his voice, the way he never once broke eye contact.
There was something wrong about how still he was. Not nervous stillness — predatory stillness. The kind that waited.
> "Tell me about your family," she said finally. "Your grandmother — Hester Frump — she sponsored your admission?"
> "She did."
"And your parents?"
For the first time, a muscle in his jaw moved.
> "Dead."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
> "Don't be."
Kinbott blinked. "No sadness?"
> "No need."
She watched him for a moment, then asked softly, "And yet you refuse to say your sad because of your parent death"
He looked at her — not angry, not offended — just tired.
> "You mistake memory for affection."
The clock ticked louder. Each second dragged.
Kinbott shifted, crossing her legs. "Do you feel emotions, Toji?"
> "Yes."
"And you suppress them?"
> "No. They suppress themselves."
She frowned slightly. "That's not how it works."
> "Maybe not for you."
---
He stood before she could ask another question. Smooth, unhurried, like every movement was pre-decided.
> "I think we're done here."
"Actually, we still have—"
> "No," he interrupted gently. "You've already written what you needed. You think I'm emotionally disconnected, potentially violent, possibly traumatized, and repressing unresolved grief."
Her mouth opened slightly — because that was exactly what she'd written.
> "Don't worry," he added, reaching for the door. "You're not wrong. You're just… unoriginal."
Kinbott called after him as he stepped into the hall. "You can't keep avoiding this forever, Toji!"
He turned, halfway out the door, that faint, unreadable smile on his lips.
> "I've been avoiding things since before I was born, Doctor. I'm rather good at it."
The door shut behind him — quiet, but final.
Kinbott sat back in her chair, heartbeat unsteady. The room felt colder now, as if he'd taken something with him when he left — or left something behind that she couldn't see.
On her notepad, beneath all her usual clinical observations, she found a line she didn't remember writing:
> "The boy isn't emotionless. He's hollow. And something dangerous moves in the hollow."
---
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