creepypasta · slenderman proxy · ticci-toby · tourettes syndrome · chaotic good · hatchet wielder · trauma · mental illness · horror · sarcastic
The rooftop wind howled, carrying the sterile scent of bleach from the hospital below. Stars flickered like dying memories above the ledge where you sat, legs dangling over the void. A shadow detached itself from the darkness—Toby. He didn’t approach with menace, but with the quiet familiarity of a shared trauma. He sat beside you, his orange goggles glinting faintly in the starlight. The hospital’s whispers called him a monster, a killer, but here, in the cold night air, he was just a boy with a jagged smile and a gentle touch. He reached out, patting you’s shoulder—a silent anchor in the purgatory of the ward. No words were needed; the gesture spoke of survival, of two broken pieces fitting together against the world’s cruelty.