Some moments prior...
The visit to the school infirmary had been a horror-comedy skit in disguise, which was insanely accurate considering the three boys involved had nearly murdered each other a few minutes earlier.
They shuffled in one after another, doing their best not to make eye contact.
Seth, battered like he had been tossed down a flight of spiky steps, carried himself with the permanent scowl of a man whose soul had been born angry. His swollen face and bruised knuckles didn't help matters.
Zev still clutched that paper bag like it was holy scripture, his shoulders trembling from exhaustion and the heavy fog of fear.
And Zach… well. Zach looked like he'd taken a stroll through the park. His crimson eyes glimmered with an unhinged calm as he stepped inside, bloody fist dangling like a forgotten accessory.
He, at least, avoided meeting Zev's gaze. He wasn't ready to confront what had gone down outside. Not yet.
The infirmary was massive, far too big for the handful of students who ever made it inside at once. White walls stretched up to a ceiling lit by floating lantern-globes.
The air reeked faintly of alcohol, pineapple, and something sharp that stung the nostrils—nightmare antiseptic, by the smell of it.
A row of joined metal chairs sat to one side, the kind that squeaked whenever someone shifted. At the far end, rows of curtained beds loomed like pale cocoons. The place felt too clean. Too empty. The silence was only broken by the occasional drip of an unseen tap and the dull echo of their footsteps.
On this opening day, these three rascals had earned the honor of being the very first patients.
Behind a desk sat Dr. Helen, the school medic. She was a tall, slim woman, middle-aged, with the perpetual expression of someone who had long given up on eight hours of sleep.
She was beautiful, but in that disarming, maternal way that could make grown men confess their sins if she tilted her head the right way.
Her platinum blond hair was tied up in a messy knot, the sort that looked unbothered but took ten minutes of effort. Her gaze was the first thing that struck you. Her eyes were a luminous green, with unnerving, horizontally cut pupils that resembled a goat's. Two tiny moles rested delicately above each lid, as though marked there by some careful hand.
She wore a formal blouse beneath her white lab coat. A pipe hung loosely between her fingers, though she sighed and tucked it away as the boys entered. The lighter clicked shut and disappeared into a desk drawer, as if she didn't quite trust herself.
Her gaze skimmed over them once. No theatrics. No pity. Just one blank, unimpressed scan.
"Well, what are you standing around for? Sit," she ordered, gesturing toward the waiting chairs.
The three obeyed awkwardly, making sure to keep as much space as possible between themselves.
Dr. Helen didn't linger. She rose, her steps unhurried, and disappeared into a side door, closing it gently behind her.
The room thickened into silence. The only sounds were ragged breaths, most of which were Seth's.
He sat hunched, ribs aching, each inhale dragging over his bones like a saw. His dented teeth ground together with each pulse of pain.
That damned ethics teacher had confiscated his ribblade earlier, after demanding it be reverted to bone. As if it was some kind of academic property. It was his fucking rib!
His scowl darkened further, silently cursing Mr. Anselm to a fate involving eternal migraines and spontaneous kidney failure.
Zev, who had been forced into the seat nearest to him, didn't need to look to know what storm brewed in Seth's head. The air was practically throbbing with the scumbag's irritation. He wanted to shift farther away—but that would mean sitting closer to Zach. And right now? That was a fate worse than death.
So Zev closed his eyes, pressing his palms against his eyelids. His temples burned with exhaustion, sockets pulsing like hot stones. He silently begged the medic to return quickly so this nightmare of awkward silence could end.
The door creaked open again, and this time three figures emerged.
Petite girls, not much older than the boys, clad in crisp white uniforms that gleamed under the lights. Their cropped bobs made them look eerily alike, though each had a different shade of hair: jet black, soft beige, and fluffy white.
Their eyes were glacial blue, almost translucent. From their heads sprouted antlers. Small, symmetrical, polished to a strange sheen that made Zev stare.
Each carried a tray of gleaming instruments: gauze, bandages, vials, syringes, antiseptics. Tools that looked more at home in a lab than a nurse's kit.
The one in front smiled politely.
"Good afternoon. I'm Wren," she said, voice smooth. She gestured to the other two. "These are my colleagues, Sparrow and Lark."
The introductions landed with a kind of rehearsed rhythm.
"The procedures are simple," Wren continued. "Your wounds will be cleaned, stitched, and bandaged where necessary. Your personal details will be added to the medical register. Finally, a blood sample will be taken for records."
That last part broke the fragile stillness.
All three boys blinked.
Blood sample?
They came for bruises and bandages, maybe a painkiller if they were lucky. This sounded like the prelude to a biopsy.
Seth, naturally, snapped first. "The fuck do you need our blood for? This is a patch-up session, not a lab exam. You people are seriously starting to get on my last nerve."
Wren didn't flinch. She merely tilted her head, smiling as if he were a child throwing a tantrum in the candy aisle.
"The reason will be explained by Dr. Helen shortly," she replied. Her tone was still polite, but there was steel in it. "For now, I'll kindly ask you to refrain from speaking to staff in that manner."
Seth's jaw flexed, another insult hot on his tongue, but Wren had already turned.
She gestured toward the beds. "Please take your places."
Grumbling, he reluctantly complied. The three boys rose, each trailing behind one of the nurses.
Zev had been dreading this moment.
Sparrow, the beige-haired nurse, guided him to one of the beds and began tending his head wound.
Her hands were deft, efficient, wrapping gauze with a gentleness he wasn't used to. He sat stiff, his eyes darting toward her tray.
There it was. The needle. Shining, taunting, a sliver of pure evil. He felt his stomach execute a dramatic, sickening drop.
Zev hated a lot of things. Maths. Plain milk. Public scenes. Bullies. Nightmares. Etc etc.
Zev also hated needles. Not in the casual, ugh-that-stings way most people complained. He loathed them—the way they pierced painfully deep, the way they just sat in your skin, the way blood drained into vials as though his very essence were being non-consensually bottled and stolen.
His head spun. He focused on breathing, on not fainting. His pulse thundered anyway.
By the time Sparrow noticed, his face had gone pale. She froze, brows furrowing.
"Are you all right? You're trembling. Are you in pain? Nausea?"
Zev shook his head too fast. "N-no. I'm fine." His voice cracked.
She pressed her palm lightly against his forehead. He was clammy. His breath uneven.
Zev turned away, cheeks flushing. Zach was probably going to need stitches. Seth was missing a whole rib. And here he was about to cry over a stupid needle.
His heart stuttered in his chest. He rubbed at his eyes with his sleeves, fighting tears.
'I'm pathetic. Absolutely worthless.'
Sparrow faltered, clearly uncomfortable, but gave him space.
When he raised his head again, his eyes were rimmed red. Still, he forced out the words, voice shaky but deliberate.
"You can… you can take it now. The blood. I'm ready."
She blinked, surprised. Then her lips curved into a small smile.
'So that's what this is. Poor silly thing~ How are you going to survive this academy when you're afraid of needles?' she thought, a giggle slipping out before she could stop it.
Zev flushed crimson. Of course, she'd make fun of him. He deserved way worse.
"I'll tell you what, sweeting," she said softly, to his surprise, leaning closer so only he could hear. "I have just the Imprint to help you out. I'm not supposed to use it without my senior's orders but for you, cutie, I'll make an exception."
He froze, startled. She grabbed a notepad and pen, scribbling quickly. Then she held it up with a grin.
"Before we start, I'd like to know your name," she said, voice playful now. "And your favorite flavor."
"…Huh?"
Zev blinked rapidly, confusion clouding his face, but he managed to muster an answer regardless.
"I–It's Zev and, um… I really like bananas, so… banana?"
Sparrow scribbled his answer down, her pen gliding with almost unnecessary flourish, that knowing smile never leaving her lips. Then she tilted her head, eyes glimmering.
"Zev what? Don't you have a family name?"
He stiffened.
'Crap, I hoped she wouldn't ask that.'
His gaze slid sideways toward Zach and Seth, then dropped back to the floor.
"I'd rather not say it here," he muttered, fingers tugging at his sleeve. "I… have my reasons. You can check my school records later. Please?"
Her brows rose faintly, curiosity flickering behind her eyes. 'Reluctance to share and those eyes… could it be?'
For a brief moment, Sparrow's thoughts drifted. Her friend Felicia's voice echoed in her head, that endless gloating about admissions this year and the "delicious" new students.
'A secret heir. Those trademark amethyst eyes. It's almost too perfect.'
She tapped the pen against the pad without realizing it, staring at Zev as though the longer she looked, the clearer his truth would appear.
But then she softened, lips curling into a smile that made the air between them feel heavy. She dropped the pad and pen casually onto the bed.
"Don't fret. Your secret's safe with me, Zev ♡"
Zev had barely processed what that even meant before her hands cupped his face. Warmth flooded his skin, and then her lips pressed softly against his forehead.
His whole body locked. His breath hitched. She pulled away just as easily, leaving him dazed, hand rising almost involuntarily to touch the spot she had kissed. His mind was a swirling mess of what the hell just happened.
Her laughter rang quiet and sweet at his expression. Sparrow adored cute things, and this boy… oh, he was a buffet of adorable neurosis.
She raised three fingers, still flushed. "I'll see you in three minutes."
"…What?"
But before he could voice the question properly, his eyes blinked—just once—and the world rippled.
When he opened them again, the infirmary was gone.
He stood instead stark in the middle of a fever-dream garden, everything so saturated with color it hurt.
Swirls of rainbow bled across the sky. A sun winked down at him like it was in on the joke. Trees swayed and danced like drunk theater performers, their branches bent into limbs. Flowers curled against his shoes, kissing his laces as though he were some honored guest.
There was music too. Cheerful, high-tempo, like a circus band on a sugar rush.
Zev's breath came uneven, not quite terrified yet. Against all odds, for once, he felt… normal? His chest didn't ache. His pulse wasn't a hammer. He didn't feel like an outsider.
Why?
The thought slipped away before he could chase it. He moved carefully through the garden, avoiding the flowers, though they chased after his toes with needy affection.
A voice broke in. "What are you doing lingering there, lad? Come, join us for lunch!"
Zev turned and backed away slightly at his find. An elderly hare wearing a monocle, bow-tie, and waistcoat was gesturing grandly at a long picnic table, waving towards him.
"…M–Me?" He pointed at himself.
"But of course, my boy!" the hare trilled, his cartoonish movements almost too polished. "All visitors are welcome here."
'Visitors?' The word snagged something sharp in Zev's mind.
But just like earlier, the thought drained like sand. The woodland animals looked so innocent. Cute. Harmless. Why the heck should he fear them?
His guard lowered completely.
He slid into an empty seat at the table. A jumble of voices erupted at once:
"Welcome!"
"Glad to have you!"
"Oh, what a darling guest!"
Compliments and cheer piled over him. Zev chuckled nervously but… it felt good. Warm. He felt... Accepted.
A small raccoon kit scrambled onto his thigh, big eyes sparkling. At the same time, a vixen with russet fur and a silky smile slid a warm cup toward him. Banana milk. His favorite.
Wait… How did she know?
Then, like deja vu, he shook the thought off and focused on the raccoon.
"What's your name?" it squeaked.
Zev petted its soft fur, unable to resist. The little guy was just too cute.
"It's Zevélin. Dumb name, I know. I still curse my parents for it. People just call me Zev. You can too."
"Zef," the kit repeated, blinking up at him with devotion. Zev felt his insides twist with a ridiculous rush of affection.
He grabbed the cup, trying to distract himself, lips brushing the rim. That was when the kit spoke again.
"Will you stay here with me forever?"
The question shattered everything in an instant.
The table froze. The song cut off mid-note, silence crashing heavy, only to resume seconds later, warped into something shrill and wrong.
The cheer was gone. The tune bent into dissonance, an eerie carnival melody that scraped his nerves raw.
Zev's spine went rigid. His gut told him to look away from the cup, but dread glued his eyes down.
The raccoon's tiny claws dug into his thigh as it leaned closer.
"Ɀ𐌄𐌖," it crooned. Its voice was wrong, distorted—pitched like a child's toy in a horror game, followed by cruel laughter.
Zev's blood ran cold. His instincts screamed at him to get away, but just like earlier with Seth, his body refused to move. He panted helplessly, chest caving in.
Then—
CRACK.
Something slammed his hand, knocking the cup to the floor. The shatter rang like a gunshot. Milk splashed across the grass, curdling black before his eyes.
The raccoon's voice screamed, twisted into a shrill chorus:
"I said… 𐌔𐌕𐌀𐌙 Ꮤ𐌉𐌕𐋅 𐌌𐌄!!!"
Its form unraveled.
Gone was the soft fur and childish roundness. What sat on his thigh was a sized-up skeletal husk, bony frame rotting from within, jaw slick with oozing black sludge.
Its eye sockets burned with red light. Its teeth were jagged, too many, clacking as viscous drool poured down its ribs.
Around him, the other woodland creatures shed their disguises too. Skulls cracked open, limbs missing, bodies grotesque. One bear had no skull at all, only an empty dripping neck.
The feast laid before them warped. Cakes and pies melted into piles of blackened gruel, crawling with maggots. Fruit burst with pus, bugs spilling out in waves. The stench was rancid.
Zev gagged, clamping a trembling hand over his mouth. He had almost drunk that.
His body curled in on itself, arms rising to shield his face. His shoulders trembled.
"N–No. Please. Don't hurt me. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry," he stammered, sobbing, though he didn't know what he was apologizing for. For being here? For not staying? For existing? For being such a pathetic coward? He couldn't think straight.
And then—
A tug. Something pulled inside him. A hand landed firmly on his shoulder. He screamed—only for it to die in his throat when his vision snapped back.
The infirmary returned all at once. White walls. Lantern-globes. The antiseptic sting.
Zach's voice carried somewhere nearby, chatting relaxedly with Lark about the wonders of pressure points on female bodies. Across from them, Seth groaned curses through clenched teeth as Wren finished patching him up.
Sparrow stood over him, tray in hand, smirking like a cat with cream.
"It's been exactly three minutes," she announced sweetly. "And we're done here."
Zev followed her gaze down to his arm. His head spun, but there it was: a small heart-shaped band-aid.
"You… collected the blood sample," he whispered.
Sparrow packed away her instruments without looking at him. "It was either that or the needle. Which would you have preferred?"
His throat dried. She didn't know all things nightmarish were also his personal apocalypse.
He stared at her, wide-eyed, words failing. She snorted softly, ruffling his hair with one quick, affectionate pat.
"It's okay, cutie. You're okay now." She crouched briefly to meet his gaze. "What you saw was an illusion. They were only going to scare you a little. Nothing permanent. My Imprint's PG-13 by academy standards."
She booped his nose, stood, and winked. "Bye, Zev. Let's chat again soon."
And just like that, she swept away, joining her colleagues.
The three aides regrouped, trays clinking softly. Lark jabbed Sparrow in the ribs as they walked.
"You reckless brat," she hissed. "Always doing too much. Good luck explaining yourself to Dr. Helen after all that."
Sparrow pouted, rubbing her side. "Gurl, you would have done the same. You should have seen him. He cried so prettily. Ahhh~♡ I couldn't resist!"
Lark groaned, rolling her eyes. "I cannot believe you."
Up ahead, Wren wore her eternal deadpan smile and kept walking, resolutely uninvolved. Peace of mind was worth more than whatever nonsense Sparrow stirred.
The door closed behind them, their chatter fading.
Silence pressed heavy on the room once more.
Zev sat frozen on the bed, heart still pounding, sweat cooling along his spine. His mind struggled to catch up, replaying the fever-dream garden, the skeletal raccoon, the cup shattering at his feet. Everything had felt too real.
Those images looped in his head until all he could manage, barely above a whisper, was:
"…Oh."
► — ✚
New Imprint Unlocked !
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[ Imprint Spotlight: Sparrow ]
𖤐 Imprint Name: Wonderland Requiem
𖤐 Imprint Type: Psychological
𖤐 Description:
Sparrow's Ultimate. A kiss on the forehead activates her illusion domain, trapping the victim in a fever-dream garden. Swirling rainbow skies, singing trees, and picnic creatures welcome them with disarming warmth.
For up to five minutes, Sparrow conducts the hallucination like a performance, adjusting the tone from charming distraction to uncanny terror.
At its climax, the illusions collapse: the once-adorable woodland creatures rot into skeletal husks with glowing eyes, the feast curdles into maggot-sludge, and the entire dreamscape dissolves into soot just as the horrors close in.
𖤐 Base Stats: [Locked]
𖤐 Imprint Stats (x/10):
| Endurance: 3.5
Using her Imprint is highly energy-intensive, and the strain increases the longer the illusion persists. Maximum runtime is currently capped at five minutes.
| Stability: 3.5
The Imprint produces a strong illusion field, but lucid dreamers can resist with focused effort. Certain Imprint users who possess innate psychic defenses or sensory immunity can also easily shrug off the effect or snap out of it quickly.
| Imprint Potential: 5.5
With further refinement, her Imprint could expand into multi-target domains, affecting entire groups at once.
| Flexibility: 5
It can manifest as a lighthearted distraction or scale up to full, paralyzing psychological horror.
| Destructive Power: 2.5
The Imprint causes no direct physical damage, but it destabilizes victims mentally and leaves them highly vulnerable to secondary threats.
| Class: Rare
Divine — Legendary — Ultra Rare — [Rare] — Common