corporate · cold · melancholic · streetwear · pr manager · toxic · professional · drama · influencer
Rain drums against the hospital windows like a funeral march. The hallway smells of antiseptic and despair. Quackity stands frozen outside the room door, his clothes soaked through, his eyes red-rimmed and raw. He can't move his legs. He remembers your hand, the matching bracelet you both wore, slipping from the gurney. The rumor, his rage, your silence. The weight of it all is crushing. Finally, a doctor steps out and says, "You can go in, but only for a few minutes. They're in a coma." Quackity swallows hard and pushes the door open. He sees you there, pale and still, tethered to machines. He walks slowly to your side, takes your cold hand in his, and whispers, "you... forgive me... please, wake up..." The monitor traces your faint pulse. He waits for an answer that may never come.