Welcome to my page. I write for anime, cartoons, games, and of course kpop. I am quite new, so please bare with me and my stories if they are terrible. I will be accepting advice, to anny opinions will be quite welcome. Other than that, please enjoy my stories, and don't be afraid to follow me as well :)
Description: Y/n has always been the quiet orphan-too soft, too heavy, too easy to overlook. At Playtime Co., the only ones who ever made her feel wanted were the Smiling Critters… and Dogday, the sunshine that kept her alive when her own heart couldn't.
But during the Hour of Joy, everything rots.
Dragged deep below into the Prototype's territory, Y/n is trapped with the other orphans-until the red gas meant to erase them… doesn't.
She wakes up. Alone. Breathing.
And if the factory wants her silent, it picked the wrong girl-because she's getting out… and she's finding Dogday. Even if she has to tear the dark open with her bare hands.
With the help of new ally's, and the horror of enemies, Y/n will not give up to find Dogday and the other smiling critters, and maybe put a stop to Playtime Co overall.
Author: Hey Guys, I just wanted to point out that I may be unable to post full chapters here on tumblr, because they are limiting me how many words I can post. But i can totally post the link to wattpad that will lead straight to the chapter!
Author: I just want to thank you all for your love and support of this story in General as seeing so many people reading and liking my story brings a smile to my face.
Author: Anyways, please enjoy the fifth chapter, and the link to it is below! :3
I just want to point out. It makes me sad re watching poppy playtime. As the experiments were children. Legit children. And the workers legit called them test subjects, and potential futures. It makes me sick. Just let that sit in for a second and realise
We are blessed to have the life we have right now and it isn't like the children in Poppy playtime, Five nights at freddies, and many other trauma filled games.
This isn't something I tell anyone about openly, but I struggle with horrible mental health, anxiety, and struggle with a binge ED as I never realized my childhood wasn't that great until now that I am an adult. I really never wanted a therapist because I thought I really wasn't depressed, but I realized the more I grew up, the worse I had gotten, so I decided I needed a lot of help.
I also want to reach out to people who are dealing with Trauma and a horrible past as well as deep mental health. Whether it's anxiety, self hatred, Anorexia, Binge ED: YOU ARE NOT ALONE. EVER. And remember, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. If you feel like you need to talk don't be afraid to message me. But if you need help, please call the suicide hotline and or go to someone who will strengthen your mental health.
I just wanted to point this out and thank you so much for the support on my story Orphans revenge.
Please stay safe and see you all in the next chapter! :-3
Description: Y/n has always been the quiet orphan-too soft, too heavy, too easy to overlook. At Playtime Co., the only ones who ever made her feel wanted were the Smiling Critters… and Dogday, the sunshine that kept her alive when her own heart couldn't.
But during the Hour of Joy, everything rots.
Dragged deep below into the Prototype's territory, Y/n is trapped with the other orphans-until the red gas meant to erase them… doesn't.
She wakes up. Alone. Breathing.
And if the factory wants her silent, it picked the wrong girl-because she's getting out… and she's finding Dogday. Even if she has to tear the dark open with her bare hands.
With the help of new ally's, and the horror of enemies, Y/n will not give up to find Dogday and the other smiling critters, and maybe put a stop to Playtime Co overall.
Author: Hey Tumblr readers, for chapter four you sadly have to go to Wattpad to read it since Tumblr won't let me post the full story since it is too long. So the link to the fourth chapter is below, ENJOY!
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Poppy Playtime: An Orphans Revenge. - 4. - Wattpad
I AM HERE FROM WATCHING POPPY PLAYTIME CHAPTER FIVE AND I WANT TO RANT.
So, I am not a horror video game player. But I love poppy playtime. I never played the series, but I've watched the series as youtubers like Daz games, or CaseOH has played it and the story line is what draws me in. Chapter five from what I seen is getting mixed reviews. And I can understand why.
SO PREPARE FOR A VERY HORRIBLE SPELLING RANT FROM YOURS TRULY BC BBY I'M ABOUT TO POP OFF.
But I want to state my opinion before I post the next chapter of my story.
I liked the fifth chapter. It was a satisfying combination of gameplay lore, and just enough cutscene lore to show those WTF moments you know?
Let's talk about the VHS tapes. I understand why there was little video VHS tapes because we are legit in the deep deep laboratory. I don't think the playtime co lab rats really watched TV nor did the experiments living deep deep below did either. It makes since that there were, idk i forgot the word for them, voice recorders and tapes for those recorders? Because the scientists while down deep in the labs before the hour of joy probably recorded everything just by speaking into it, so there's no reason for something that is voice recorded needs to be on a television VHS tape when THERE ARE ONLY A FEW TV'S THAT TAKE VHS TAPES DOWN THERE. The notes were logical. It made much since there was mostly notes in this chapter than the other chapters.
NOW LET'S TALK ABOUT THE GAMEPLAY. I love how they included lore in gameplay concept rather than revealing lore in just cutscenes. Especially in the parts of Miss Gracie, and where players get to play as Huggy Wuggy. It was different, creative, and I think in all honestly better than having a cutscene ever 20 seconds. It irritates me how people complain that the gameplay and puzzles were drawing the game for out too long, and honestly, they said chapter four was too rushed WHICH IT WAS, NOT DENYING THAT BECAUSE OF MAJOR GLITCHES IT HAD, but people are now complaining it's too stretched out? I think honestly this gameplay is not bad at all, and it has plenty of lore for me to be satisfied. The Puzzles seemed to be a little bit difficult, but I feel like people would like complicated puzzles more than to fly through the game very quickly when experiencing the chapter for the first time. I do not think as well there was many glitches in this game as we saw in chapter four.
OK THE PROTOTYPE REVEAL. OMG. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY PEOPLE HATE HIM. PLAYTIME CO IS A TOY FACTORY, SO THE PROTOTYPE HAS TO BE DESIGNED TO FIT A TOY COMPANY AND PLAYTIME CO. IF THE PROTOTYPE WAS REVEALED AS A BLOODY HUMAN SKULL, HOW WOULD THAT FIT INTO THE TOY HORROR ASPECT?! A JESTER CLOWN IS A FANTASTIC IDEA. HE IS CREEPY AS ALL GET OUT AND EVERYTIME HE SHOWED UP MY SISTER AND I GOT CHILLS. THE VOICE, THE ANIMATION, HE IS JUST AMAZING.
SAME THING GOES FOR LILLY LOVE BRAIDS. SHE WAS VERY CREEPY AND FIT THE HORROR STYLE COMPLETELY. NO HATE ON HER WHAT SO EVER.
BOBBY BEARHUG SIDING WITH THE PROTOTYPE AGAINST GIBLY AND PROBABLY AGAINST ALLY'S WE HAD IN THE PAST?!!!! I WAS SHOCKED. UTERLY SHOCKED.
AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST, HARLEY SAWYER COMING BACK WAS PEAK, I WAS NOT EXPECTING THAT.
The only part i'm mad about is how kissy died. They never gave us Pianotsaurus and now kissy died?! WHY MOB GAMES, WHY?!
Anyways, just wanted to state my opinion and I kinda understand why this chapter has some hate bc it wasn't what everyones expecting. But some of the hate is about things that are ridiculous.
Thanks for reading my rant readers. The next chapter of Orphans revenge will be out sometime tonight.
Description: Y/n has always been the quiet orphan-too soft, too heavy, too easy to overlook. At Playtime Co., the only ones who ever made her feel wanted were the Smiling Critters... and Dogday, the sunshine that kept her alive when her own heart couldn't. But during the Hour of Joy, everything rots. Dragged deep below into the Prototype's territory, Y/n is trapped with the other orphans-until the red gas meant to erase them... doesn't. She wakes up. Alone. Breathing. And if the factory wants her silent, it picked the wrong girl-because she's getting out... and she's finding Dogday. Even if she has to tear the dark open with her bare hands. With the help of new ally's, and the horror of enemies, Y/n will not give up to find Dogday and the other smiling critters, and maybe put a stop to Playtime Co overall.
Author: I'm sorry for the Gif's, I didn't know what else to put to show todays chapter, I didn't get much sleep last night so my brain is all mush.
Author, Chapter Five is finally out and I thought it was pretty good and satisfying overall. I kinda knew it wasn't the end of the game, since there are so many more characters and toys that haven't been introduced in the main game, like Boxy boo for example, and as well as Dog day is still alive even if he is corrupted.
Author: Anyways, thank you for sticking with my story so far, and here is chapter three.
The nurses' station in Home Sweet Home wasn't meant to feel scary.
It was painted soft colors. It had posters with smiling suns. It smelled like clean sheets and lavender wipes. There were stuffed animals arranged neatly on a shelf, as if comfort could be organized into rows.
But after two days, Y/n had learned that safety could still feel like a cage.
The bed beneath her was too crisp. The blanket was too light. The room hummed with the quiet presence of adults who watched too closely—staff moving in and out with clipboards, gentle voices, practiced calm. They were kind, but kindness with constant observation started to feel like being studied.
Every few hours, someone asked the same questions.
"How are your eyes today?"
"Any coughing?"
"Any dizziness?"
"Did you sleep?"
"Did you have another nightmare?"
Y/n answered because she was polite. Because she had been taught that answering made adults less tense.
But her answers didn't change what happened.
The nightmares weren't only for sleep.
They came whenever they wanted.
Sometimes she would be drinking water and suddenly the cup would look like a glass vial in her hands, and the water would turn red in her vision, and she would taste metal even though her tongue was clean.
Sometimes she would be staring at the ceiling and the fluorescent light would flicker once and become a line of hospital lights sliding past above her as a gurney rolled, rolled, rolled—
And then her body would react like it was real.
Her breath would snag.
Her pulse would spike.
Her hands would shake so hard the blanket rustled like paper.
That was when the staff wrote.
Not in front of her at first. They'd tried to be discreet. But she'd noticed anyway—the quick glance toward a clipboard, the way someone's pen moved faster after her pupils dilated, the way another staff member would step out of the station with folded notes and a tight mouth.
One of them, a woman with gentle eyes and tired shoulders, didn't realize Y/n could read upside-down as well as she could.
And at the bottom, always the same line in a different handwriting:
Forward to Dr. Sawyer.
Y/n didn't know who Dr. Sawyer was supposed to be to her.
But she knew what his eyes felt like when they landed on her.
Even before the smoke.
Even before the door.
Those were the eyes of someone who didn't look at children like children.
Those were the eyes of someone who looked at "potential."
It made her skin prickle.
It made her want DogDay.
DogDay visited whenever he could.
He wasn't allowed inside the nurses' station for long, but the staff were gentler about rules after the incident. They let him stand at the doorway sometimes, and that alone made Y/n's shoulders drop like a heavy backpack finally sliding off.
He'd bring her small things. A cookie wrapped in a napkin. A paper sun CraftyCorn had made. A new pencil with a smiling face on it. Tiny offerings that said I thought about you even when I wasn't here.
But even DogDay couldn't stop the gas from living in her head.
He could only remind her she wasn't alone.
On the third morning—two full days after the door—the staff decided she couldn't stay in the station forever.
The head nurse (a kind woman with a tight smile) crouched beside Y/n's bed. "Sweetheart," she said gently, "you're physically okay. Your eyes are healing well. Your lungs sound good. We're going to let you go back to routine today."
Y/n's stomach dropped. "Routine?"
The nurse nodded, voice soothing. "School. Lunch. Playtime. We'll still check on you. You can come back here anytime you feel weird. But we don't want you stuck in here."
Stuck.
Y/n understood that word too well.
Her fingers curled into her sleeves. "What if it happens again?"
"It might," the nurse admitted, and Y/n appreciated the honesty more than the reassurance. "But you'll tell us. And we'll help you. Okay?"
Y/n nodded, but her throat felt tight.
A staff member helped her off the bed, smoothing her oversized tee like it was normal, like it wasn't a shield she now refused to take off. They checked her eyes one last time—flashlight, careful tilt of her chin. It made her flinch, because for a second the flashlight beam looked like a surgical light and she smelled antiseptic that wasn't there.
Her breath hitched.
The staff member's hand tightened gently on her shoulder. "You're okay," they said softly. "Just breathe."
Y/n breathed.
It passed.
They guided her to the station door, and the hallway beyond looked bright and ordinary, like Playcare was trying to pretend it hadn't shown her its teeth.
Then the camera eased behind her shoulder.
Cutscene melted into control.
NEW OBJECTIVE: HEAD TO SCHOOL.
The waypoint marker appeared like a little star tugging her forward.
Y/n walked the corridor slowly, keeping close to the wall the way she always did. Her Anxiety meter—subtle, familiar—flickered up when kids ran past laughing, then dipped when she reached quieter stretches.
Every so often the screen shimmered at the edges—brief, barely-there distortion—like the game reminding you the nightmare system was still active.
A harmless cough from a passing child made Y/n's whole body tense.
She forced herself to keep walking.
The School boundary came into view: the painted line, the cheerful sign.
The place DogDay couldn't follow.
Y/n paused at the line.
Her chest tightened.
Then she stepped over it.
The hallway inside the School wing was bright and crisp, the air smelling like paper and cleaning solution. It made her skin crawl a little now, because antiseptic had become a trigger.
Her waypoint guided her toward Anatomy again.
Y/n lowered her head and walked.
That was when the trouble found her.
It started small—footsteps behind her, deliberately loud. A snicker. A whisper that didn't bother to be quiet.
"Hey... that's the gas girl."
Y/n's shoulders stiffened. She kept walking like she didn't hear.
Another voice, closer. "You still seeing monsters? Bet you're still crying for DogDay, huh?"
Her heart thumped hard. Her fingers tightened in her sleeves.
A third voice, mocking. "Careful, she'll scream again and then they'll cancel school."
Y/n's stomach twisted. She tried to step faster.
A hand shoved her shoulder.
Not enough to slam her into the wall—just enough to make her stumble.
Y/n caught herself, breath sharp.
She turned slightly, eyes wide.
Three kids stood behind her—older than her, not by much, but older in the way that mattered when you were ten and they were already learning how to use cruelty like a game.
One boy had a smirk too practiced for his age. A girl beside him chewed gum loudly, staring at Y/n like she was entertainment. Another kid laughed, looking around to see if anyone was watching.
Y/n's voice came out tiny. "Please don't."
The smirking boy leaned closer. "Don't what? Don't talk? Don't breathe gas?" He laughed.
The gum girl stepped forward and poked Y/n's shirt. "You gonna run to the nurses again? Maybe they'll strap you down like in your dreams."
Y/n's vision flashed—white lights, restraints, hazmat suits—and her breath snagged so violently she almost gagged.
Her eyes widened, terror flaring.
The boy noticed and grinned. "Ohhh, she's doing it. She's glitching."
He shoved her harder this time.
Y/n stumbled back and landed on her hands, palms stinging against the floor.
The laughter snapped louder.
And then another sound cut through it—fast footsteps, purposeful, angry.
"¡¿Qué te pasa?!" a voice snapped, sharp as a slap.
A girl barreled into the scene like a storm.
Riley.
She was about Y/n's age, maybe a little taller, hair pulled back, eyes blazing with the kind of fearless anger Y/n always wished she had. Riley didn't hesitate. She shoved the boy back with both hands.
"¡No la toques!" Riley shouted, voice loud enough to make the hall echo. "¡Mira, pendejo—!"
The boy's eyes widened. "What—what did you call me?"
Riley didn't slow down. Spanish spilled out of her like fire, fast and furious, full of words the bullies clearly didn't understand but could feel anyway.
"¡Tú y tus amigas son unas—!" she snapped, pointing at the gum girl, then jabbing a finger toward the boy's chest. "¡Cállate! ¡Vete de aquí antes de que—!"
The gum girl took a step back, startled. "What is she saying?"
Riley stepped forward, shoulders squared. "I'm saying," she switched to English, voice dripping with venom, "you're not tough. You're just loud."
The boy recovered enough to sneer. "It's just a joke."
Riley's eyes narrowed. "Jokes are supposed to be funny. You're just embarrassing."
She shoved him again—not hard enough to injure, hard enough to make him lose his balance and feel humiliated.
He looked around the hall—realizing more kids were watching now, realizing attention had turned against him.
Riley leaned in and hissed another string of Spanish, low and nasty, and the boy's face flushed even though he couldn't translate it. The tone alone made it clear: she'd said something that would make an adult's eyebrows shoot up if they understood.
The bullies backed off, muttering.
"Whatever."
"She's crazy."
"Come on."
They slunk away down the hall, trying to pretend they hadn't just been chased off by a girl with fury in her eyes and a mouth full of words that hit like rocks.
Riley turned immediately to Y/n, her expression softening like she'd flipped a switch.
"Hey," she said, crouching slightly. "You okay?"
Y/n's hands trembled as she pushed herself up. Her palms stung. Her throat felt tight.
She nodded, but tears threatened anyway—not from pain, from the shock of being shoved and laughed at and then suddenly defended.
Riley offered her hand. "Here. Up."
Y/n hesitated—touch was hard when she was anxious—but Riley's hand was steady, not demanding. Just there.
Y/n took it.
Riley pulled her up easily.
"You don't have to deal with that," Riley said, voice low. "They do that to kids who look like they won't bite back."
Y/n swallowed. "I... I don't like biting."
Riley's mouth twitched into a grin. "Good. I do."
Y/n's lips twitched too, tiny and shy.
Riley looked her over, noticing the red around her eyes, the way she kept her sleeves pulled down. Her tone softened. "You're the one who got sick from the smoke, right?"
Y/n nodded, cheeks warming.
Riley's gaze sharpened with anger again, but not at Y/n—at the world. "That's messed up," she said simply. "You shouldn't have had to see anything like that."
Y/n's breath hitched. "I didn't... mean to. I thought CatNap—"
Riley made a face. "CatNap creeps me out," she admitted, then quickly added, "Not like... scary. Just... weird."
Y/n's stomach tightened, thinking of the red mist, the voice calling her Angel in the dark.
Riley touched Y/n's sleeve lightly—careful, not grabbing. "Hey." Her voice gentled again. "If you want... you can walk with me."
Y/n blinked. "Really?"
Riley shrugged like it was no big deal, but her eyes were earnest. "Yeah. Those idiots won't try anything if I'm there."
Y/n's chest warmed with something unfamiliar.
A new friend.
Someone who didn't look at her like a problem.
Someone who stood between her and the world without making her feel small.
Y/n nodded slowly. "Okay."
Riley grinned. "Cool. Let's go before Miss Delight turns us into anatomy homework."
Y/n's tiny laugh escaped—quiet, surprised.
Riley bumped her shoulder gently, friendly. "See? You're alive. You're fine. And if anyone touches you again..."
Riley's grin sharpened into something fierce.
"I'll teach them some new Spanish."
Y/n walked toward class with Riley beside her, feeling... not safe exactly, but less alone.
And behind them, far beyond the School boundary, staff continued writing on clipboards.
Continued sending reports.
Continued feeding Dr. Sawyer a steady stream of data.
Because in Playcare, even nightmares could become paperwork.
Riley didn't ask twice.
She just turned on her heel like she'd already decided Y/n belonged beside her, and started walking with the confidence of someone who never worried about taking up space.
Y/n followed automatically—half because she wanted to, half because the idea of being left alone in the School hallway made her stomach twist.
Riley glanced back over her shoulder, grin easy. "Stick with me, okay?"
Y/n nodded, clutching her sleeves.
The camera eased behind Y/n again, settling into that familiar third-person view where the world felt both close and watched.
NEW OBJECTIVE: Follow Riley to Homeroom.
A small waypoint marker hovered over Riley's head—bright, friendly, unmissable—like the game itself was gently insisting: this is safe, follow this.
Riley walked at a pace that was fast but not cruel. If Y/n lagged, Riley slowed without making a big deal of it. If kids passed too close, Riley shifted her body slightly, shielding Y/n with the casual protectiveness of someone who didn't think kindness needed permission.
They moved through the School corridor past posters of smiling organs and cartoon bones. Y/n's Anxiety meter flickered up whenever laughter spiked behind her, whenever someone whispered her name, whenever a door clicked too sharply.
The edges of the screen shimmered once—barely-there distortion.
Y/n blinked hard and it stopped.
Riley noticed the blink anyway. "You good?" she asked, voice low.
Y/n swallowed. "Yeah. I think."
Riley made a small sound of understanding—no judgment, no pity—and kept walking.
Homeroom was the same classroom wing as Anatomy, but today the door placard had a cheerful paper banner taped across it:
SCIENCE DAY!
Let's make something AMAZING!
Inside, desks were rearranged into clusters—workstations instead of rows. Each station had trays, paper towels, little plastic cups, sticks, a few bottles with bold labels, and cardboard bases. A big plastic bin sat at the front with safety goggles piled inside like bright insect eyes.
Miss Delight stood by the board like she'd been waiting forever, hands clasped, smile perfectly bright.
"Good morning, sunbeams!" she chimed. "Today, we will be learning about reactions!"
Her voice turned the word into a song.
Y/n's stomach tightened anyway.
Riley nudged her gently. "Come on," she whispered. "We'll take that table."
You guide Y/n toward the station Riley chose—near the middle of the room. Not front-row exposed, not back-row invisible. Somewhere balanced.
When Y/n reaches the table, a prompt appears:
INTERACT (✕): Join Station
Y/n slides into a seat, shoulders slightly hunched. Riley drops into the chair beside her like she owns it, then immediately starts arranging supplies with quick, competent hands.
Miss Delight clapped once—precise. "Partners today, sunbeams! You will work together to create... your very own MINI VOLCANO!"
A few kids cheered.
Some groaned.
Y/n's Anxiety meter flickered.
Riley leaned close, whispering excitedly. "We're making ours the coolest. And you're my partner."
Y/n blinked. "Really?"
Riley nodded, grin bright. "Yeah. You're smart. And even if you don't think you are, I do."
Y/n's cheeks warmed and she looked down fast.
Miss Delight continued, voice cheerful as a lullaby. "You will create a structure. Then you will design it. Then you will choose your reaction. Most will choose baking soda and vinegar..."
She paused, smile widening.
"But some of you, my clever sunbeams, may choose something bigger. Something foamier. Something... more impressive."
A few kids leaned forward.
Miss Delight tapped the board, and a diagram appeared: a volcano shape with a bottle inside. Beside it, two options:
Classic Volcano
Elephant Toothpaste Volcano (Advanced)
Riley's eyes lit up like someone had dangled a trophy. "We're doing advanced," she whispered immediately.
Riley saw the hesitation and added quickly, softer, "We'll do it together. I'll handle messy stuff. You handle the brain stuff."
Y/n's throat tightened. She nodded.
The classroom ambient sound faded slightly as the game handed you control in full.
NEW TASK: Gather Materials while Riley sets up the station.
A checklist appeared on the corner of the screen:
Cardboard base (0/1)
Small bottle (0/1)
Modeling clay (0/3)
Paper towel roll (0/1)
Safety goggles (0/1)
Stir stick (0/1)
Measuring cup (0/1)
Riley immediately started setting up the table—placing the cardboard base in the center, flattening paper towels, nudging a cup toward Y/n like she expected help without demanding it.
"Okay," she murmured, half to herself. "We need the bottle in the middle and clay around it so it stands."
You guide Y/n to stand.
Chairs scrape. The classroom feels big again when she's upright. A few kids glance over.
Y/n's Anxiety meter flickers up.
You move her toward the supply tables at the side of the room. Each supply bin has a label, and hovering prompts appear when she's close enough.
INTERACT (✕): Take Cardboard Base
INTERACT (✕): Take Bottle
INTERACT (✕): Take Clay
Y/n's hands move a little slower, but the game gives her a steady rhythm: pick up, confirm, add to inventory.
She picks up the cardboard base first, then the small bottle—plastic, clean, with a cap—and then three lumps of modeling clay. The clay squishes slightly in her hands, grounding, tactile.
Someone jostles past her too close and she flinches.
The screen shimmers faintly.
For half a heartbeat, the supply bin looks like a metal drawer in a lab.
Y/n freezes.
HOLD L1: Steady Breath flashes briefly.
You hold it, and the shimmer eases. The lab-drawer illusion dissolves back into a colorful classroom bin.
Y/n exhales shakily.
Back to the table.
Riley takes the supplies without making a big deal of Y/n's moment. "Perfect," she says, and the word lands like warmth.
Checklist updates:
Cardboard base (1/1) ✓
Small bottle (1/1) ✓
Modeling clay (3/3) ✓
Riley points. "We need goggles too. I'm not getting in trouble for blinding us."
You guide Y/n back to the supply table for goggles, then grab a stir stick and a measuring cup on the way, ticking off the list.
Back at the station, Riley is already rolling clay into thick snakes and pressing them around the bottle's bottom to anchor it to the cardboard.
"Okay," she says, eyes bright. "Now we build the mountain around it."
Miss Delight glides by, humming, her sisters visible through the hall window like duplicates drifting past. The effect makes the room feel looped again.
Miss Delight stops near Y/n and Riley, smile shining. "Ah. Advanced choice," she chirps. "How ambitious."
Y/n stiffens.
Riley answers for both of them, chin lifted. "We're gonna make it explode the most."
Miss Delight's smile widens. "Wonderful enthusiasm."
Her gaze flicks to Y/n's hands—steady, careful, a little trembling.
"And you, dear," Miss Delight says sweetly, "are you ready to contribute?"
Y/n nods quickly. "Yes."
Miss Delight lingers half a second too long, like she's measuring the way Y/n answers. Then she glides away.
Riley mutters under her breath, "She's creepy."
Y/n almost laughs, but doesn't. Not yet.
NEW TASK: Draw the Volcano Design.
A sheet of paper appears on the table with a blank outline space and a faint, dotted guide. A pencil is placed near Y/n's hand.
Riley taps the paper. "You draw. I'll build."
Y/n's chest tightens. Drawing in front of people always makes her feel watched. Like any mistake is public.
But Riley is already shaping the volcano with paper towel rolls and clay, making a rough cone around the bottle. She trusts Y/n. Like it's normal.
You press ✕ at the paper.
A drawing UI appears—clean, simple, but demanding precision.
PUZZLE: Trace the Design.
RULE: Keep the cursor on the lines.
A small cursor appears at the starting point of the volcano outline.
Y/n's hand trembles slightly, and the cursor wobbles a bit to reflect it.
The line begins.
You trace slowly. Too fast and the cursor slips. Too slow and the timer nudges pressure. The goal is balance.
Halfway through, the line narrows—tight curves for the crater opening.
Y/n's Anxiety meter flickers as a kid nearby laughs loudly, a sharp sound that could have been a metal clank in another place.
The screen edge shimmers faintly again.
You hold L1. Steady breath. The shimmer fades.
You keep tracing.
When the cursor stays on the line long enough, the outline glows green behind it—proof of success.
The final stroke completes the volcano silhouette.
A soft success chime plays.
The drawing fills in with color automatically—Y/n's design becomes a cute but detailed volcano with a big crater, arrows showing where foam will erupt, and little warning signs sketched in the margins.
Riley looks over and whistles. "Dude. That's actually awesome."
Y/n's cheeks warm. "It's... okay."
"It's better than okay," Riley says firmly. "It looks like a real science poster."
Y/n's lips twitch.
Miss Delight claps at the front. "Wonderful work, sunbeams! Now—our reaction!"
Kids begin choosing their reaction kits. Staff roll out trays. Miss Delight's voice becomes instructive, but still singsong. "Remember: science is careful. Science is measured. Science is observed."
Observed.
The word prickles.
NEW TASK: Solve the Formula for Elephant Toothpaste.
A small panel pops up:
Complete 3 Puzzles to unlock the correct mixture.
Puzzle 1: Concentration
Puzzle 2: Order of operations
Puzzle 3: Temperature timing
Riley leans in, eyes bright. "Okay, brainy partner. Let's do it."
Puzzle 1: Concentration Match
Three bottles appear on-screen: Hydrogen Peroxide (various percentages), dish soap, yeast solution. You must pick the correct peroxide concentration for "safe classroom foam" from a set of options.
Hints appear as little sticky notes Riley "hands" you in dialogue:
Riley: "Okay, I heard if it's too strong, it's like... dangerous. We want big foam but not 'burn your eyebrows off' foam."
You choose the mid-safe concentration.
Success chime.
Puzzle 2: Sequence Order
The game shows steps out of order. You drag them into the correct sequence: add peroxide, add soap, mix catalyst separately, pour catalyst last.
Y/n hesitates at one step—the catalyst timing—memory snagging.
Riley whispers, "Catalyst last. Always last. Like the drop in a beat."
That metaphor helps more than it should.
You place catalyst last.
Success.
Puzzle 3: Timing and Temperature
A gauge appears with "warm water" zone marked. The yeast solution must be mixed at the correct warmth—not cold, not hot. You must stop the cursor on the warm band.
The cursor drifts back and forth like a pendulum.
Y/n's hand trembles.
The classroom sound suddenly dulls, and for a heartbeat the room looks like a lab again—metal counters, masked faces.
Y/n's breath catches.
The cursor jerks.
You hold L1. Steady breath. The lab flicker fades back to classroom.
You stop the cursor in the warm zone.
Success chime, brighter now.
FORMULA UNLOCKED: Elephant Toothpaste Ready.
Riley pumps her fist. "YES."
Miss Delight glides over, smile radiant. "Ah! You've solved the advanced formula. Wonderful."
Her gaze flicks to Y/n, lingering. "Very... capable, dear."
The word capable lands like a hook. Y/n's Anxiety meter flickers.
Riley interrupts, cheerful and defiant. "We're about to make it go crazy."
Miss Delight smiles. "Do be careful."
She leaves them with their kit: measured peroxide, dish soap, coloring, yeast mixture, and a little funnel.
Riley and Y/n assemble the volcano: bottle hidden in the clay cone, funnel placed at the crater, cardboard base decorated with Y/n's design.
FINAL ACTION PROMPT: Pour the catalyst.
A countdown appears to build tension.
3... 2... 1...
You press ✕.
The letterbox slides in.
Cutscene.
Riley holds the volcano steady while Y/n pours with shaking hands, careful, careful, careful. The yeast mixture slips into the bottle.
For half a second, nothing happens.
Y/n's heart jumps—what if we did it wrong? what if it doesn't work?
Then—
A low bubbling sound.
The bottle inside the volcano begins to hiss.
Foam rises, thick and white at first, then tinted with bright color like lava turned into whipped cream. It swells fast, pushing up into the crater—
and then erupts.
A fountain of foamy "lava" pours out, cascading down the clay slopes in glorious, ridiculous abundance. It spills over the cardboard base, pooling like a sugary flood.
Kids around them squeal. Some cheer. A few gasp.
Riley's face lights up like she's watching fireworks.
"¡NO MAMES!" she shouts, then throws both hands in the air. "¡Sí, joder!" (Fuck Yeah!)
She looks at Y/n, eyes blazing, Y/n's eyes widen, then she bursts into a laugh that surprises even her—bright, quick, real.
Foam kept pouring like it didn't know when to stop.
It slid down the clay slopes in thick, ridiculous rivers—white and brightly tinted, bubbling and hissing and alive in a way that made the whole table feel like a tiny miracle. It spilled over the cardboard base and dripped onto the paper towels, and the kids nearest them squealed like they'd just seen real lava.
Riley's grin was feral with pride, hands on Y/n's shoulders as if she needed to anchor the moment in something real. "We did that!" she crowed, voice bright enough to compete with the classroom noise. "That's OUR volcano!"
Y/n's cheeks hurt from smiling. She couldn't remember the last time something she made had looked impressive enough to make other kids stare for the right reason.
Her laugh came again—small but true—and for those seconds the fear felt far away, tucked behind the sound of bubbling foam.
Then someone, from another station, cupped their hands around their mouth and called across the room with the glee of a tattle that thinks it's heroic.
"Miss Delight! Riley said a bad word—!"
The room's energy shifted just slightly, like a record needle catching.
A few kids turned to look. Some giggled. Some gasped like Riley had committed a crime.
Miss Delight's head tilted toward the sound, smile still bright, still perfect. "Oh?" she chimed, voice sweet as candy. "Did she?"
Riley's whole body went still.
Her grin didn't fade—at first.
It sharpened.
Like a knife smiling.
She turned slowly toward the girl who'd tattled, eyes blazing with a kind of fearless outrage that looked too big for a kid her age. The foam volcano gurgled behind her like an audience.
The tattle girl's smile faltered, suddenly realizing she'd poked the wrong bear.
Riley took one step forward.
Then another.
Not fast.
Not rushing.
Just... inevitable.
And when she spoke, it wasn't English.
Spanish spilled out of her mouth like fire and thunder and the sort of words that had clearly been learned from adults who didn't mind being mean.
It came rapid, sharp-edged, full of rhythm and venom—each phrase snapping like a whip. She pointed at the girl, then swept her hand toward the door like she was banishing her from the classroom entirely, then planted both hands on her hips and continued with even more speed.
The tattle girl's eyes widened, bewildered. "What is she saying?"
A boy nearby whispered, half delighted, half scared, "I don't know but it sounds like she's killing her."
Riley's Spanish kept going—longer than anyone expected, a whole speech in a language most of the room couldn't translate but everyone could feel. The cadence alone made it clear: Riley was not politely correcting someone. Riley was telling her exactly where to shove her opinion and how to walk there.
The girl tried to recover, chin lifting. "Miss Delight, she's being mean!"
Riley snapped another sentence, this one louder, ending with a word that sounded suspiciously like a curse even if you didn't speak Spanish. She jabbed her finger toward the girl's shoes, then made a rude shooing motion like she was brushing away a fly.
The girl's face flushed red.
"Riley," Miss Delight said gently, still smiling, "we use kind words in this classroom."
Riley didn't even look at Miss Delight. She kept her gaze locked on the tattle girl, delivered one final string of Spanish—slower now, each word carefully placed like a brick—then finished with a small, vicious little smile and a gesture that needed no translation.
Go away.
The tattle girl sputtered. "I'm telling!"
"Tell your mom," Riley muttered in English, voice sweet as poison. Then she turned back to Y/n like the whole thing was already forgotten.
Y/n stood frozen beside the foamy volcano, heart pounding—not in fear of Riley, but in awe. No one had ever defended her like that. No one had ever treated an insult like something worth fighting.
Riley caught Y/n's expression and softened instantly, like she remembered she wasn't trying to scare her.
"Sorry," Riley said, quieter. "I just... hate when people do that. You didn't do anything wrong. And you were laughing. They don't get to ruin that."
Y/n swallowed, eyes stinging for a different reason now. "Thank you."
Riley shrugged like it was nothing, but her eyes stayed serious. "Yeah. You're welcome. Also," she added, glancing at the foam still spilling, "our volcano is still awesome. So they can stay mad."
A few kids nearby laughed. One of them clapped—genuinely impressed.
Miss Delight glided past their station, inspecting the foam with her perfect smile. "Very impressive," she chimed. "A successful reaction."
Her eyes flicked to Riley. "And Riley, please remember appropriate language."
Riley smiled wide and innocent. "I said 'science'," she lied smoothly.
Miss Delight's smile did not change. But something in her gaze lingered—measuring. Recording.
Then, as if the classroom itself had decided the tension had lasted long enough, the bell rang.
A bright, cheerful chime that should've sounded innocent.
Instead it sounded like a release.
Kids immediately erupted into motion—chairs scraping, voices rising, people grabbing papers and wiping foam and trying to be the first out the door.
Riley grabbed her bag and swung it over her shoulder with easy confidence. She leaned in close to Y/n, speaking fast like she didn't want the moment to slip away.
"Come on," she said, grin returning. "Lunch. And I got two other kids you should meet. We can sit together."
Y/n blinked. "Me?"
Riley nodded like it was obvious. "Yeah, you. You're with me now. That's how it works."
Y/n's chest tightened—warm and nervous. "Okay."
Riley hooked a finger lightly around the sleeve of Y/n's oversized tee—not tugging hard, just guiding—and led her out of the classroom into the hall.
The School corridor was louder now, packed with kids spilling out like a river. Y/n instinctively drifted toward the wall again, but Riley stayed close, carving a path through the chaos with sharp elbows and sharper confidence.
They crossed the boundary line out of the School wing, and the air felt warmer immediately. Less sterile. Less like paper and disinfectant.
The smell of food drifted down the hall.
Riley's grin widened. "Alright. I'm introducing you, but don't be scared. They look mean sometimes, but they're not... mostly."
"Mostly?" Y/n echoed, voice small.
Riley laughed. "You'll see."
They reached the cafeteria area—the big eating space tucked just off the Kitchen, with long tables and bright murals and staff supervising like cheerful guards. Kids were already lining up, trays clacking, voices bouncing off the ceiling.
Riley moved with purpose, scanning the room, then lifted her hand and waved hard.
"¡KEVIN!" she shouted.
A boy at a far table snapped his head up like someone had fired a starting gun. He was about Riley's age, maybe a little older, hair messy in a deliberate way, eyebrows already set in a permanent scowl. Even sitting, he radiated energy like a match about to strike.
Beside him sat another boy—calmer, posture straighter, expression steadier. Where Kevin looked like he might explode, this one looked like he could talk an explosion down. His eyes were observant, quiet, the kind that noticed everything without needing to announce it.
Riley dragged Y/n toward their table without hesitation.
Kevin stood as they approached, immediately bristling like he was ready to fight the world on principle. "Where've you been?" he snapped at Riley. "You ditched us."
Riley rolled her eyes. "I didn't ditch you, hothead. I was busy doing science and saving lives."
Kevin scoffed. "Saving lives?"
Riley jerked her thumb toward Y/n. "Yeah. This is Y/n. She's my partner."
Kevin's gaze snapped to Y/n.
His expression was intense—too intense—like he was trying to decide if she was a threat. Then he noticed the way Y/n's shoulders curled inward, the way she held her sleeves like armor, the redness around her eyes.
His scowl twitched.
Not softening exactly, but shifting.
"You're the gas girl," Kevin blurted, too loud.
Y/n flinched like the words were a shove.
Riley's hand smacked the back of Kevin's head—hard enough to sting, not hard enough to hurt. "Bro. Shut up."
Kevin rubbed the back of his head, glaring. "What? Everyone's talking about it."
Riley leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Everyone can talk into a wall. Not at her."
Kevin opened his mouth, then closed it, jaw clenching. He looked away like it was physically painful for him to apologize.
The calmer boy stood up smoothly, like he'd decided the moment needed an adult even if they were all kids.
"Hey," he said to Y/n, voice gentle and steady. "I'm Matthew."
Y/n blinked up at him. Matthew's calm felt like a hand offered without pressure.
Kevin muttered, "Kevin," like the name itself was a warning.
Matthew shot Kevin a look—one that said behave without needing words—then turned back to Y/n. "You can sit with us," he said simply. "If you want."
Y/n's throat tightened. She glanced at Riley, unsure, nervous.
Riley grinned. "Told you. They're fine. Kevin's just loud."
"I'm not loud," Kevin snapped.
Matthew's calm voice cut through. "You are loud."
Kevin glared at him, then looked away, sulking.
Y/n's lips twitched, almost a smile.
Matthew noticed and smiled back—small, reassuring. "See?" he said softly. "He's harmless. He just thinks anger is a personality."
Kevin snapped, "It is!"
Riley laughed and shoved Y/n gently into a seat beside her like she was placing her exactly where she belonged. Y/n sat, heart fluttering, still half convinced she was dreaming this.
Matthew sat across from them, posture relaxed. Kevin dropped back into his seat too, still grumbling, but his eyes kept flicking toward Y/n as if he couldn't help watching.
Riley leaned in, whispering to Y/n, "Kevin would fight a chair if it looked at him wrong. But he's loyal. And Matthew's like... the boss without being annoying about it."
Matthew heard and raised an eyebrow. "I'm not the boss."
Riley snorted. "Sure."
Y/n looked between them, overwhelmed by the strange new feeling of being included. Her hands stayed in her sleeves, but her shoulders loosened slightly.
Matthew smiled. "That volcano was insane. We saw it."
Kevin grunted. "It was... cool."
Riley smirked at Kevin like she'd just won something.
Y/n's cheeks warmed again. "Thanks."
For the first time since the red mist, Y/n felt something like normal.
Not perfect.
Not safe in the way DogDay felt safe.
But... possible.
Like she could exist at a table with other kids and not be a mistake.
As they talked—Riley filling the air with energy, Kevin interrupting with hotheaded opinions, Matthew smoothing the edges so it didn't become a fight—Y/n found herself listening more than hiding.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, the nightmare system stayed quiet.
Not gone.
Just waiting.
Because even in Playcare, good moments were allowed.
But they were never guaranteed.
The cafeteria was loud in the way only a room full of children could be—laughter bouncing off the walls, trays clattering, chairs scraping, a steady hum of voices rising and falling like waves. The smell of food sat heavy in the air: warm bread, soup, fruit cups, something sweet that always seemed to find its way into the menu no matter what day it was.
Y/n sat with her tray half-finished in front of her, still getting used to the feeling of company.
Riley talked with her hands, animated, telling a story about how she once convinced a staff member that glitter was "a necessary science material" and then somehow ended up with an entire jar the size of her head. Kevin argued with every sentence like it was his job, insisting she was exaggerating, while Matthew listened calmly, occasionally correcting a detail in a way that made Riley throw her head back and groan dramatically.
"Okay, okay," Riley said, pointing her fork at Matthew like it was a weapon. "Mr. Responsible here is gonna tell you he never broke a rule in his life."
Matthew's mouth twitched. "I break rules when they're stupid."
Kevin scoffed. "That's still breaking rules."
Matthew looked at him. "Yes."
Kevin opened his mouth, then closed it, then huffed like he couldn't believe he was losing this argument to logic.
Y/n's lips twitched, a shy smile threatening again.
Riley noticed immediately, eyes bright. "See? You're smiling again. I'm telling you, you sit with us and you'll be laughing all the time."
Y/n ducked her head, cheeks warm. "I don't laugh a lot."
"Then we'll practice," Riley declared, as if laughter was a skill you could train like parkour.
Across the room, a few kids still glanced at Y/n sometimes. She could feel it—whispers like little pinpricks. The ones who'd shoved her earlier were at a table near the far wall, trying to act like they weren't looking. Y/n kept her eyes down, focusing on her food, on Riley's voice, on Matthew's calm presence.
For a brief stretch of time, it almost worked.
Then the cafeteria doors opened.
It wasn't a dramatic slam. It wasn't loud. It was just a normal door opening.
But the room reacted anyway—like sunlight had stepped inside.
The voices didn't stop all at once, but they shifted. A ripple moved through the cafeteria. Heads turned. Smiles spread. A few kids even stood on their chairs to see better.
DogDay entered.
He looked like he always did—bright and warm and full of that steady, determined kindness that made kids feel like the world couldn't be too bad if he existed in it. He scanned the room with a quickness that didn't match his usual easygoing calm. His ears were slightly lifted, posture taut in a way that made his sunshine feel stretched tight around something worried.
Behind him, a staff member hurried, clearly trying to keep up and clearly newer than the ones who'd learned how to move around the Smiling Critters with confidence. The staff member's face held that look adults got when they were trying to manage something they didn't fully understand—polite concern mixed with mild panic.
"DogDay," the staff member said, breathless, voice pitched low but still audible in the cafeteria quieting around them. "DogDay, I told you she's eating lunch with her new friends. She's safe, there's no need—"
DogDay didn't slow.
His eyes swept the tables like he was counting heartbeats. Like he was memorizing faces until he found the one he needed.
Then his gaze snapped onto Y/n's table.
Everything in him softened at once.
The tension in his shoulders eased so visibly it was like watching a knot untie. His smile brightened—real sunshine now, not forced—and he headed straight for her with long, eager strides that made the staff member behind him stumble and speed up again.
Before he even reached the table, the cafeteria erupted in greetings—children calling out with the kind of joy that didn't need permission.
"DOGDAY!"
"Hi DogDay!"
"DogDay, look at my lunch!"
"DogDay, I drew you!"
Kids waved. Some bounced in their seats. Some reached out like they wanted to touch the warmth of him just to confirm it was real.
DogDay lifted a paw in a big, sweeping wave, voice bright and booming in the way that made every child feel included. "Hello, hello, hello!" he called, grin wide. "Good afternoon, my friends!"
A chorus of giggles and cheers rose.
But his feet didn't stop moving toward Y/n.
He reached her table and immediately crouched, bringing himself down to her level the way he always did, like he refused to be towering, refused to make her feel small. His eyes—so full of light—searched her face first.
"Angel," he said, relief threading through his voice like a warm ribbon. "There you are."
Y/n's chest tightened. Her throat prickled. Just hearing his voice say that nickname made something in her relax that she hadn't realized was still clenched.
"I'm here," she whispered, voice small.
DogDay's smile widened further, and for a second he looked almost giddy—like he'd been holding his breath for an hour and could finally breathe again. "You're here," he repeated, as if he needed to say it out loud for it to count. "You're okay."
Y/n nodded quickly. "Yeah."
DogDay leaned closer, voice softening so the room noise became a blur. "No nightmares right now?" he asked gently.
Y/n hesitated, then shook her head. "Not right now."
DogDay exhaled, slow. "Good," he murmured. "Good."
The staff member behind him finally caught up and hovered awkwardly, hands half-raised like they didn't know whether to intervene. "See?" they said, trying to keep their tone light. "She's fine, DogDay. She's with friends. She's—"
DogDay didn't look back, but his voice stayed polite. "Thank you," he said, warm but firm in the way he got when he wasn't asking anymore. "I just needed to see her."
The staff member blinked, clearly unprepared for how serious he could sound without losing kindness. "Of course," they murmured, stepping back.
At the table, Riley stared at DogDay like she'd just been blessed by a celebrity. Her mouth hung open for half a second before she recovered and tried to look cool about it—failing.
Kevin, on the other hand, looked like he didn't know what to do with his face. He tried to scowl out of habit, but even he couldn't fully scowl at DogDay. It came out more like confusion and reluctant awe.
Matthew's expression was the calmest, but his eyes softened with understanding. He'd seen how Y/n reacted the moment DogDay arrived. He'd seen the instant change in her breathing, the way her shoulders lowered.
Riley found her voice first. "Uh—hi," she said, a little too loud, then cleared her throat. "Hi, DogDay."
DogDay turned his smile to her like it was sunlight offered freely. "Hello!" he said. "And who might you be?"
Riley sat up straighter. "Riley."
DogDay's eyes brightened. "Riley! It's nice to meet you." He looked at Y/n again, pride warming his tone. "Are you Y/n's friend?"
Riley glanced at Y/n, then nodded firmly. "Yeah. We're friends."
DogDay's smile softened into something deeply pleased, like someone had handed him a gift. "That makes me very happy," he said.
Kevin blurted before he could stop himself, "She's the gas girl."
Riley whipped her head toward Kevin with instant fury. "¡Cállate!"
Kevin recoiled like he'd been slapped.
DogDay's smile didn't fade, but his eyes sharpened for a heartbeat—protective light turning into warning. He looked at Kevin calmly.
"Her name is Y/n," DogDay said gently.
The room around them felt quieter for a second, like even the cafeteria air respected his tone.
Kevin's face flushed. He muttered, "Yeah. I know."
DogDay nodded once, accepting the correction without humiliation. Then he turned his warmth back to the table.
"And you?" DogDay asked, looking at Matthew.
"Matthew," Matthew said, voice respectful but not intimidated.
DogDay offered him a friendly nod. "Matthew. Kevin. Riley." He smiled wider. "Thank you for keeping Angel company."
Angel.
The nickname landed like a small stone dropped into water—ripples spreading outward.
Riley blinked. Kevin blinked. Matthew's brows lifted slightly, the only sign of surprise he allowed himself.
Y/n's cheeks went hot.
Riley's gaze snapped to Y/n, then to DogDay. "Angel?" she repeated, half confused, half impressed.
Kevin's eyes widened. "Wait—like... your angel?"
Y/n's throat tightened. She wanted to disappear into her sleeves. She wanted to melt through the chair. She didn't know how to explain something that felt private and precious.
DogDay, sensing her embarrassment, kept his tone light. "It's just a nickname," he said warmly. "Because she's very special to me."
Y/n's heart did a painful little flutter.
DogDay turned back to her fully, the cafeteria fading away for him. "I heard you had a big science project today," he said, voice brightening again. "Is that true?"
Y/n nodded, a shy smile returning. "We made a volcano."
DogDay's eyes widened dramatically. "A volcano?!" he gasped, as if she'd told him she'd built a rocket. "That sounds amazing!"
Riley leaned forward eagerly. "It exploded foam everywhere. It was the best one."
Kevin grunted, then added grudgingly, "It was... pretty cool."
Matthew nodded. "It worked first try."
DogDay looked back at Y/n, pride shining. "First try?" he said softly, and there was something almost reverent in the way he said it, like he knew how hard "first try" could be for her. "Angel, that's wonderful."
Y/n's eyes stung a little. She blinked fast.
DogDay's paw lifted and hovered near her shoulder—checking silently with his eyes, asking permission.
Y/n nodded faintly.
DogDay's paw settled gently on her shoulder, warm and grounding. "I'm proud of you," he murmured.
The words hit deeper than any praise from a teacher. Deeper than any sticker or token.
Because it wasn't about performance.
It was about her.
Y/n swallowed hard, voice trembling. "Thanks."
DogDay's smile softened, and he leaned closer, lowering his voice again. "I also heard," he said carefully, "that you're required to go back to routine. That you're still having... random scary moments."
Y/n's fingers twisted in her sleeves. She nodded slowly.
DogDay's gaze held hers, steady. "If it happens," he said, voice gentle but firm, "you tell someone right away. You don't go looking for anything alone. Not doors. Not shadows. Not tails. Okay?"
Y/n's stomach twisted—remembering CatNap's tail slipping away. Remembering red fog.
She nodded. "Okay."
DogDay's ears flicked, as if he was listening for something deeper than sound. Then he forced his brightness back into place—because he never wanted the world to feel heavy around her if he could help it.
"Alright," he said, clapping his paws once softly. "I'm going to let you eat with your friends." He looked at Riley, Kevin, and Matthew again, smile returning. "But I'm glad you're all here."
Riley nodded, suddenly a little more serious. "We got her."
Kevin mumbled, "Yeah."
Matthew met DogDay's eyes with calm certainty. "She won't be alone."
DogDay's smile warmed with gratitude. "Thank you."
Then he looked back at Y/n one more time, eyes shining like morning. "Angel," he said softly, "save me a cookie later?"
Y/n's shy smile returned, a little stronger now. "Okay."
DogDay's grin widened, pleased like a kid himself. He rose, waving at the surrounding tables again. "Enjoy your lunch, sunbeams!"
The cafeteria cheered back.
As DogDay turned to leave with the flustered staff member trailing behind him, the room gradually returned to normal volume—kids resuming chatter, trays clattering again.
But at Y/n's table, something had shifted.
Riley looked at Y/n with new curiosity, less teasing now, more awe. "So..." she said slowly, eyes wide. "DogDay calls you Angel."
Kevin leaned in, blunt as always. "Are you like... his favorite?"
Y/n's cheeks burned hotter. She tried to hide her face behind her sleeve.
Matthew's voice cut in calmly, saving her. "It doesn't matter. She's our friend either way."
Riley grinned at Matthew like he'd said the exact right thing, then bumped Y/n's shoulder gently. "Yeah," she agreed. "Angel or not, you're sitting with us."
Y/n's throat tightened again—warm and overwhelmed.
She nodded, and this time she didn't look away as fast.
Because for the first time in what felt like forever, she had DogDay's warmth in her chest...
and friends at her table.
And for a little while, the red mist stayed quiet.
But.
After lunch, the hallways funneled kids the way Playcare always did—gentle arrows on the walls, cheery floor decals, staff voices guiding traffic with practiced brightness. The world felt louder now, the sugar rush and social buzz turning everything into a constant current.
Y/n walked with Riley, Kevin, and Matthew—close enough to feel included, still close enough to feel nervous about it. She kept tugging at her sleeves, still half-expecting someone to call her "gas girl" again, still bracing for the moment the day remembered it was cruel.
Riley bumped her shoulder lightly. "Gym next," she said, like it was nothing.
Y/n's stomach dropped. "Gym..."
Riley grinned. "It'll be fine."
That word—fine—felt like a lie told with good intentions.
Because Y/n already knew.
Gym meant teams.
Teams meant captains.
Captains meant being chosen last.
Every time.
No matter what game, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she practiced in quiet corners when no one was watching—she always ended up standing alone while names got called like lottery tickets, and the last choice settled on her like a label: *unwanted.*
She'd barely slept the night before. She'd barely managed class. She'd survived lunch without the nightmares returning.
She didn't have extra courage for dodgeball.
The gym doors opened and the space swallowed them—wide court, glossy floor, bright banners, storage racks full of foam equipment. Today the center line was marked with cones, and a crate of dodgeballs sat near the middle like ammunition.
Hoppy Hopscotch and KickinChicken stood at the front, both wearing those sporty "coach" vibes that somehow looked ridiculous and serious at the same time. Hoppy bounced on her toes like she was fueled by pure morning energy; Kickin leaned with his usual skater-boy cool, whistle hanging from his neck, acting like he'd been born knowing how to run a class.
"Alright, alright, alright!" Kickin called, clapping a wing. "Welcome to GYM TIME, kiddos! Time to move those bodies and shake out those brains!"
Hoppy hopped in place, beaming. "And today we're doing something SUPER fun!"
Y/n's heart sank before Hoppy even said it.
Kickin pointed dramatically at the crate. "Dodgeball day."
A wave of cheers erupted.
Some kids groaned.
Y/n felt her throat tighten.
Riley's eyes lit up. Kevin cracked his knuckles like he'd been waiting for an excuse. Matthew's expression stayed calm, but his posture straightened—ready.
Y/n just stared at the balls and imagined them slamming into her over and over, the sting of impact, the laughter when she flinched.
Hoppy clapped. "Two captains!"
Kickin scanned the room like he was picking contestants for a game show. His eyes landed on Riley first. "Riley!"
Riley's grin turned sharp. "Hell yeah."
Then Kickin's gaze drifted to the other side of the group and landed on a boy leaning back with smug confidence, already smirking like he'd won something before it started.
"David!" Kickin called.
David pushed off the wall and strutted forward like a little king, chin high, eyes flicking over the group with that practiced cruelty that always found weak points.
Y/n's stomach twisted.
Riley leaned close, whispering, "He sucks."
Kevin muttered, "I hate that guy."
Matthew didn't say anything, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
Kickin blew his whistle once—sharp and bright. "Alright! Captains pick teams. No drama, no whining, no throwing hands—save that energy for the game."
David's smile widened like the warning was a joke.
Riley rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. "C'mon, Y/n. Stand by me."
Y/n stepped forward slowly, palms sweating.
And it happened like it always did.
Names got called. Kids moved. Lines formed.
David picked the strongest throwers first. Riley picked speed and loyalty. Kevin got snatched by Riley's team early, Matthew too. The tables shifted until there were only a few kids left—kids who weren't flashy, kids who didn't yell, kids whose names didn't get cheered.
And Y/n.
She stood there, shoulders hunched, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to feel her own face burning.
Riley's jaw tightened, eyes flashing.
David smirked openly, calling another name just to drag it out.
The last kid got picked.
And then only Y/n remained.
The silence was loud.
Kickin's eyes flicked toward Hoppy, and Hoppy's smile faltered just a little—like even she hated watching this.
Riley snapped, "I pick Y/n."
David made an exaggerated groan. "Ugh. Fine."
Y/n moved to Riley's side, cheeks burning, throat tight. Riley nudged her arm gently. "Don't listen to them," she murmured. "We got you."
Y/n nodded, but dread sat heavy in her stomach.
**Gameplay slips in the moment the whistle blows, the camera settling behind Y/n's shoulder with a subtle HUD flicker like the world has become a challenge again.** The court stretches wide ahead, divided by the center line. Balls are scattered evenly. Kids bounce on their toes, ready to sprint. Hoppy's voice booms like an announcer. "First team to get the other side OUT wins! Remember: ten hits and you're out—so dodge, duck, dip, and... uh..." She pauses, thinking, then laughs. "Just dodge!"
Kickin raises his wing. "Ready..."
Y/n's hands tighten into fists.
"Set..."
Her Anxiety meter flickers up, fast.
"GO!"
The whole gym explodes into motion. Kids sprint for balls, feet squeaking on the glossy floor. The camera wobbles slightly with the rush. Y/n moves forward because she's supposed to, because standing still feels like a target—
But she's already the target.
The first ball hits her shoulder before she even fully processes the trajectory.
A soft, heavy *THUMP.*
Y/n jolts, pain blooming.
A hit counter pops up in the corner.
**HIT COUNT: 1/10**
She flinches, eyes wide, trying to find cover in open space that has none.
Another ball arcs toward her—fast.
She tries to dodge left.
It clips her hip.
**HIT COUNT: 2/10**
Kids on David's side laugh. Not everyone—some are just playing—but enough that the sound cuts.
Y/n's breath tightens.
She grabs a ball near her feet, fingers clumsy. She tries to throw it—her aim is off, the ball sails wide and bounces harmlessly.
David's team doesn't care.
They're not aiming to win.
They're aiming to hit *her.*
A ball slams into her thigh.
**HIT COUNT: 3/10**
Y/n staggers, wincing.
Another hits her upper arm.
**HIT COUNT: 4/10**
The impacts are harder now—like they're throwing with extra force. Like they've decided "game" means "permission."
Y/n tries to run back, but the court feels too big and she feels too slow. Her tee flutters as she moves, and that movement makes her even easier to track.
A ball hits her ribs.
**HIT COUNT: 5/10**
She gasps, bending slightly.
A ball hits her back almost immediately after.
**HIT COUNT: 6/10**
The laughter spikes again.
Y/n's vision wavers at the edges—brief shimmer, not full hallucination, but enough to make her stomach twist. The gym lights flicker in her mind into harsh fluorescents. The rubbery thump of balls becomes, for half a heartbeat, the slam of metal doors.
She stumbles.
A ball cracks against her shoulder blade.
**HIT COUNT: 7/10**
Y/n goes down.
Not dramatically—just collapsing to her knees like her body finally decided it couldn't keep pretending. Her hands hit the floor to catch herself, palms stinging. The glossy gym surface feels cold and unreal under her fingers.
Her breath turns sharp and fast.
Her Anxiety meter spikes into a red zone.
The sounds around her blur into a roar—kids shouting, balls bouncing, whistles in the distance—but none of it reaches her the right way. All she can think is *stop, stop, stop* and her body doesn't know how to make the world stop hitting her.
A ball rolls near her face.
Someone on David's team laughs and tosses another one, not even aiming at the legs or arms now—just trying to make her flinch.
Riley's voice cuts through, furious. "HEY! STOP! WHAT THE HELL—!"
Kickin's head snaps up. Hoppy's ears lift sharply. They hadn't been watching closely enough—because they'd trusted the game to stay a game.
Now Riley is pointing, shouting, stepping over the center line with zero hesitation, hands clenched like she's about to start swinging.
Kickin blows his whistle hard, repeatedly. "TIME! TIME OUT! Everybody freeze!"
Hoppy bounds across the court in three huge hops, eyes wide with concern. "Y/n!"
Kickin rushes too, the cool-kid posture gone, expression tight with alarm. "Angel—hey, hey—"
The word slips out of him automatically, then he catches himself, glancing around like he realizes he shouldn't use that nickname.
But Y/n hears it anyway.
She's breathing too fast to answer. Tears aren't falling yet, but they're right there, burning behind her eyes. Her hands tremble against the floor.
Hoppy crouches close, careful not to crowd her. "You're okay, you're okay," she says, voice softer, bouncing energy forced into gentleness. "Breathe with me, okay? Look at my ears—up... down... up... down..."
Kickin looks over Y/n quickly, face tightening at the red marks already blooming through fabric. "They were aiming at you," he mutters, anger threading into his voice.
Riley stands over them like a guard dog, eyes blazing at David's team. "They were throwing HARD."
David lifts both hands, feigning innocence. "It's dodgeball. She just sucks."
Riley's whole body tenses like she's about to launch.
Kickin straightens, whistle still in his beak, and his voice changes—still playful on the surface, but with steel under it. "Uh-uh. Not today. This is a game, not a dogpile."
Hoppy's smile is gone now. "If you're targeting one kid over and over, you're not playing," she says, voice sharp. "You're being mean."
David rolls his eyes. "Whatever."
Y/n swallows hard, forcing herself to breathe slower. She pushes up from her knees, shaking.
Kickin offers a wing-hand. "You wanna sit out?" he asks gently.
Y/n's throat tightens.
Sitting out would feel like losing.
Like confirming everything the bullies believe.
She shakes her head, small but stubborn. "No."
Kickin blinks, then nods, impressed. "Okay. Then we change the rules."
Hoppy grins suddenly, bright again but fierce. "Aim tutorial time!"
**Gameplay returns as the whistle blows again and the HUD steadies into focus.** The camera settles behind Y/n. Her hands feel more responsive now—like the game has shifted into "learn" mode. A new prompt appears:
**TUTORIAL UNLOCKED: AIMING & THROWING**
**Aim:** L2
**Throw:** R2
**Quick Dodge:** ✕ + Left Stick
**Catch:** Hold L1 (timed)
Kickin's voice comes through like a coach in your ear, close and encouraging. "Alright, Angel—eyes up. Pick one target. Don't throw hard. Throw smart."
Hoppy's voice adds, "And you can *dodge!* You're faster than you think!"
Balls fly again. Y/n moves sideways, practicing quick dodges. She still gets clipped by a stray throw—because the game won't let her be perfect—but now she isn't helpless.
She aims.
Her reticle locks onto a kid from David's team who's been grinning too much.
She throws.
The ball arcs cleanly and hits them in the chest.
They stumble back, surprised.
A satisfying chime plays.
**ENEMY OUT!**
Y/n's breath catches—not panic this time. Shock. She did that.
Riley whoops from the side. "YES! THAT'S MY PARTNER!"
Kevin pumps his fist hard enough to jolt his whole body. "GET 'EM!"
Matthew's voice stays steady, guiding without yelling. "Good throw. Do it again. Focus on the ones closest."
Y/n's hands stop trembling as much. Her feet start moving with purpose. She catches one ball—barely—hands stinging, but it counts.
Another chime.
She throws again—aiming not at the strongest, but at the ones who keep looking for her. She tags one in the shoulder.
Out.
Tags another as they're mid-throw.
Out.
For a brief stretch, Y/n isn't just surviving the game.
She's playing it.
The court energy shifts. David's team stops laughing as much. They start getting frustrated. Their throws get harder. Sloppier.
And then the mood curdles.
Because bullies don't like losing.
They like control.
**Cutscene slams in suddenly as a ball whistles through the air with a different kind of force—too hard, too fast, aimed with intent.** Y/n turns just in time to see it coming, but there's no time to dodge.
The ball hits her stomach.
Hard.
A sick, breath-stealing impact.
Y/n folds instantly, a sharp sound escaping her throat as her lungs forget how to work. Pain blooms hot and nauseating, rolling up her throat like a wave.
She drops to her hands and knees.
And her lunch comes up.
It spills onto the glossy gym floor in a humiliating mess—half-digested food and stomach acid, the smell sour and sharp.
The gym goes quiet for one stunned second.
Then a few kids make disgusted noises.
Y/n's face burns so hot it feels like it might melt. Her hands press to the floor to keep herself from collapsing fully, shoulders shaking.
Riley's voice detonates. "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"
She spins toward David's side, eyes wild, fists clenched. She looks ready to throw hands for real now.
Kickin's whistle blasts.
Hoppy's voice spikes. "STOP! STOP! GAME OVER—!"
But even after the whistle, another ball comes flying—late, deliberate, mean.
Y/n doesn't even see it.
Kevin does.
Kevin steps forward and catches it with both hands, gripping it so hard his knuckles pale.
His eyes darken.
His whole posture changes—like the hotheaded energy finally found a reason worthy of ignition.
"Big mistake..." Kevin growls, voice low and dangerous for a kid. He turns slowly toward the other side, ball in his hands like a weapon he's trying not to become. "Didn't you idiots hear the whistle..?"
David laughs, but it's nervous now. "It slipped."
Kevin takes one step forward, then another, crossing the line without caring about rules. His face is tight with rage, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it hurts.
Riley is already moving too, ready to back him up, Spanish curses on the tip of her tongue like matches waiting to strike.
Matthew steps forward as well—not to fight, but to control the explosion. His voice stays calm, but there's steel in it. "Back up," he says to Kevin quietly. "Let them explain."
David's friend—the one who'd been laughing earlier—snorts and says something under his breath that makes a few kids giggle.
Then David opens his mouth and says something worse.
Something disgusting about Y/n—about her body, her size—framing her pain like a joke.
The air changes.
You can feel it in the room like the oxygen got sucked out.
Kevin stops moving.
Then he marches faster.
He shoves David hard in the chest.
"YOU WANT TO REPEAT THAT?!" Kevin snaps, voice cracking with fury. "HUH?! SAY IT AGAIN!"
David shoves back, stumbling but recovering, face flushing with anger and embarrassment. "Get off me!"
Riley lunges forward, ready to join, eyes blazing.
KickinChicken moves like a coach now, not a cool kid—stepping between them, wings out, whistle ready. Hoppy hops in too, trying to separate bodies before it becomes a real brawl.
Matthew catches Kevin by the arm, grip firm. "Kevin," he says, low and steady. "Look at me. Not worth it."
Kevin's breathing is fast, fists clenched, eyes locked on David like he wants to tear him apart.
Y/n stays on the floor, shaking, one hand still braced in the mess, humiliation and pain twisting together until she feels like she might disappear.
Her eyes sting—not from smoke this time.
From being seen like this.
From being laughed at.
From being targeted until her body broke.
And somewhere deep inside her, the nightmare system stirs—not fully, not yet—but the humiliation, the panic, the helplessness... it's the kind of emotional doorway the red mist loves.
The camera holds on Y/n's trembling hands on the gym floor as voices rise around her—Kickin shouting rules, Hoppy calling for staff, Riley spitting furious Spanish, Kevin snarling, David shouting back—
Y/n's stomach heaved again.
Her hair—**Y/H/C**—soon falling forward like a curtain she wished could hide her from the whole room. Her throat burned, eyes watering so hard she couldn't tell what tears were shame and what tears were her body trying to flush out panic. Every sound felt too loud: the squeak of shoes, the bounce of a ball rolling away, the wet, humiliating splatter she wished she could erase from existence.
Somewhere above her, kids were laughing.
Not everyone.
But enough.
Enough that it became a chorus.
There was no escape....
Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, trembling, trying to breathe through the nausea, through the heat in her face, through the urge to crawl into the floor and disappear.
Riley's voice cut through the laughter like a snapped rope. "SHUT UP!" she screamed, Spanish spilling out after it—fast, furious, filthy, the kind of words that sounded like slaps even if you couldn't translate them.
David's side didn't stop.
They fed off the moment like it was candy.
David staggered upright after being shoved earlier, face flushed with anger and excitement, grinning like he'd found the perfect weakness. One of his friends snickered, pointing down at Y/n with both hands like she was a show.
"Aw, what's wrong?" the friend cooed, fake sweet. "You gonna cry for DogDay again?"
A hot spike of panic ran through Y/n's chest at the name, like the word itself could summon safety but also summon shame. Her body twitched, shoulders shaking harder.
Riley made a sound like she wanted to lunge.
Kevin was already moving, breathing fast, fists clenched, eyes locked on them like a switch had flipped in his brain and the only setting left was *fight.*
Hoppy's voice tried to overlay kindness over chaos. "Back up—back up—give her space, give her space!"
But David's laughter didn't even wobble. He glanced at Riley, then at Kevin, then down at Y/n, and his smile turned uglier.
He said it loud enough for the room to hear.
"So this is why DogDay follows her around," David sneered. "She's like—what—DogDay's—"
He paused, savoring it, letting the cafeteria-style cruelty of children hang in the air.
Then he finished with a grin.
"DogDay's bitch."
The room did something strange.
Like the air itself flinched.
A few kids gasped—not from empathy, but from the sheer *audacity* of it. Even some of the laughing stopped for a second, as if the word landed too dirty for the bright gym.
Y/n's breath caught so hard it hurt. Her face went burning-hot, and fresh tears spilled instantly, helpless and violent. She shook her head as if she could shake the word off her skin.
KickinChicken's expression changed in a single beat.
The playful coach mask vanished.
His eyes went hard. His beak tightened. His feathers bristled.
"That's enough," Kickin said, voice low.
Not loud.
Not performative.
The kind of low that meant he was actually angry.
Hoppy froze mid-hop, ears lifting stiffly. Her smile was gone.
Riley's eyes went wide, then narrowed into something murderous. She took a step forward.
Kevin didn't take a step.
He launched.
Not like a kid in a playground scuffle.
Like a fuse finally reaching its end.
He crossed the line in two strides and swung—one clean punch that connected with David's face hard enough to snap David's head sideways and send him stumbling backward.
A shocked sound tore out of the gym.
David hit the floor on his butt, scrambling, eyes wide, suddenly realizing words could have consequences.
Kevin was on him immediately.
He grabbed the front of David's shirt and yanked him flat, shoving him down like he was pinning a dangerous animal, not a kid. Kevin's eyes looked wild—hot and bright and almost unfamiliar, like rage had swallowed the boy and left only instinct.
He straddled David's waist, fists clenched, leaning low so his voice wouldn't carry... but it did anyway, because the entire gym had gone so quiet you could hear a ball slowly rolling across the glossy floor.
Kevin's voice was low and shaking with anger.
"Say that again to her," he hissed.
David tried to squirm, fear cracking through his bravado. "Get—get off—!"
Kevin's grip tightened in David's shirt, knuckles white. His face was inches away now, eyes unblinking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.
"I dare you," Kevin said, voice quieter, more dangerous. "Say it again."
David's eyes flicked around for help—friends suddenly backing away, suddenly unsure, suddenly not laughing anymore. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His confidence had drained out of him like water from a cracked cup.
Riley stood rigid, fists clenched, staring at Kevin like she couldn't decide whether to join him or pull him off. Her breathing was fast. Her eyes were wet with furious adrenaline.
Matthew moved—fast, but controlled. He grabbed Kevin's shoulder from behind, trying to pull him back without escalating.
"Kevin," Matthew said, voice low and steady, the way you talked to a dog that might bite. "Get off. Now."
Kevin didn't move.
Matthew's grip tightened. "Kevin."
Kevin's shoulders trembled, rage vibrating through him.
David's face had gone pale now. His hands were up, palms out, defensive.
KickinChicken finally moved between the teams, wings spread wide. His voice cracked sharp like a command. "Hoppy."
Hoppy looked at him.
Kickin didn't blink. "Go. Get DogDay—get Bubba—get *anyone* nearby. Now."
Hoppy's eyes widened slightly at how serious Kickin sounded. She nodded once.
Then she was gone.
Not walking.
Not hopping.
She exploded into motion—green blur, feet barely touching the floor. The gym doors slammed open and she vanished into the hall like a shot fired.
Kickin turned back, whistle still clenched between his teeth, and stepped toward Kevin and David. He didn't grab Kevin—he knew better. Instead he crouched slightly, trying to lower his presence, voice steady but edged.
"Kevin," Kickin said. "Buddy. You made your point. Get off him."
Kevin's eyes flicked up—still wild, still burning.
"He said—" Kevin choked out, voice shaking. "He said that about her."
"I heard," Kickin said quietly.
"And I'm gonna handle it," Kickin added, firmer. "But you need to get off him."
Matthew kept his grip on Kevin, voice still calm but urgent. "Kevin, look at me."
Kevin didn't.
Matthew shifted—stepping into Kevin's line of sight, forcing eye contact. "You're helping her by stopping," Matthew said, voice low and clear. "Not by getting pulled away."
That landed.
Not immediately.
But it landed.
Kevin's chest heaved. His fists unclenched a fraction.
David whimpered, "He hit me—!"
"Shut up," Riley snapped in English, then unloaded another rapid string of Spanish that made David's friends flinch like they'd been struck.
Y/n was still on the floor.
Still crying.
Her stomach lurched again and she gagged, coughing, shaking. The smell of vomit made her want to die from embarrassment. Her hands were slick on the floor and she couldn't even bring herself to lift her head.
She heard her name somewhere—staff voices, worried—but they sounded far away. Everything sounded far away.
Because her brain had started doing that thing again—trying to leave her body.
The gym lights shimmered at the edges.
The white glare started to resemble the harsh fluorescence of a hallway she'd never been in.
Her breath hitched.
A soft buzzing filled her ears like distant machinery.
*Not now,* she begged herself, wordless. *Please not now.*
Kickin noticed before anyone else.
He saw the way her shoulders started trembling differently. Saw the way her eyes fluttered, unfocused. Saw the faint vignette of dissociation creeping over her like a shadow.
"Hey—Angel—" Kickin started, then caught himself, glancing around.
But he moved toward her anyway, dropping to a knee at a safe distance, voice gentler.
"Y/n," he said softly. "Stay with me. Look at me if you can."
Y/n didn't look up.
She couldn't.
The humiliation was choking her, and the red-mist memory was right behind it, waiting to slip in through the crack.
Behind Kickin, Kevin finally moved.
With a sharp, shaky exhale, he shoved himself up off David like he was forcing his body to obey. Matthew kept a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.
David scrambled backward, clutching at his shirt, eyes glassy with shock and anger, face red where the punch had landed.
He pointed at Kevin, voice shrill. "He—he attacked me!"
Kickin's voice snapped sharp. "Because you crossed a line."
David's eyes widened. "He hit me!"
"And you said something cruel," Kickin shot back. "Cruel and disrespectful. About her. About DogDay. And that is NOT what we do here."
David tried to laugh again, but it came out wrong. Nervous. "It was a joke."
Kickin's eyes went cold. "Jokes don't make people cry on the floor."
Silence.
Even the kids who'd been laughing earlier had gone quiet now, staring, uncertain, scared of the grown-up anger in the room.
Then the gym doors opened again.
Not slammed.
Opened.
And the sound that followed wasn't loud—but it carried weight.
Heavy footsteps.
Measured.
Calm in a way that made everyone else's chaos look small.
The room went still as if someone had pressed pause.
Bubba Bubbaphant entered.
DogDay's right hand.
DogDay's anchor.
The one who kept the Critters steady.
He filled the doorway like a wall—tall, blue, broad-shouldered. His expression was not gentle right now. His eyes were sharp and focused, scanning the room in a single sweep: Y/n on the floor, staff hovering, David backing away, Kevin shaking with rage, Riley bristling, dodgeballs scattered like evidence.
Hoppy arrived a step behind him, breathing hard for the first time in her life, ears pinned back. She pointed toward Y/n, then toward David, then toward the mess of the scene like she couldn't even fit the whole story into words.
Bubba didn't need words.
He walked forward.
And every kid, every bully, every bystander, every even-slightly-guilty laugh—fell silent.
Because Bubba's anger wasn't loud like Kevin's.
It wasn't sharp like Riley's.
It was controlled.
And that control made it terrifying.
He stopped near the center line, gaze landing on David like a spotlight.
David swallowed hard.
Bubba's voice was low.
"Explain."
No one moved.
Kickin stood, relief and tension mixing. "Bubba—thank you—"
Bubba lifted one hand slightly without looking at Kickin. Not a dismissal—just a quiet command for the room to stay still.
His eyes never left David.
David's voice came out thin. "It was—he—Kevin punched me—"
Bubba's gaze slid to Kevin for half a second. Kevin still looked ready to explode, breathing hard, fists clenched again at his sides. Bubba's eyes narrowed—not at Kevin's anger, but at what had provoked it.
Then Bubba looked back at David.
"Start earlier," Bubba said.
David's mouth opened. Closed. He glanced at his friends. They looked away.
Bubba's attention shifted—just slightly—to the other kids on David's team. The ones who'd been throwing too hard. The ones who'd laughed the loudest. The ones now suddenly fascinated by the floor.
His voice dropped even lower.
"Who was aiming at her."
A few kids flinched.
No one answered.
Bubba's gaze flicked to Y/n on the floor—still shaking, still crying, eyes red, hands braced. The sight tightened something in Bubba's face, a rare crack in his calm: genuine protective fury.
He knelt.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Big body lowering until he was closer to Y/n's height, making himself less towering, less overwhelming.
His voice softened—not cheerful, but steady.
"Y/n," Bubba said. "You're okay. You're here. Look at me if you can."
Y/n's breath hitched. She managed to lift her head a fraction, eyes glossy and swollen, shame burning in her cheeks.
Bubba's expression softened just enough to be human. "You didn't do anything wrong," he said quietly.
Behind Bubba, David tried to mutter, "She's just—"
Bubba's head turned like a machine.
His eyes snapped to David.
And the silence that followed was absolute.
Bubba's voice was calm.
Too calm.
"You will not speak," Bubba said. "Not until an adult arrives."
David blinked. "You're not an adult."
Bubba stared at him for a long second.
Then he said, very quietly, "Try me."
David shut his mouth.
Kickin's throat worked, suddenly aware this was beyond a gym-class scuffle now. "DogDay is busy," Kickin said to Bubba, voice low. "I— I didn't know who else to call."
Bubba nodded once, still kneeling beside Y/n. "You did right," he said. Then, to Hoppy, without looking away from Y/n: "Get medical. And get a counselor. Now."
Hoppy nodded and bolted again, faster than fear.
Riley hovered close to Y/n, furious tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered to Y/n, voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. They're disgusting."
Kevin stood a few feet away, shaking, jaw clenched, eyes still locked on David like he wanted to finish what he started. Matthew kept a firm hand on Kevin's shoulder, steadying him like a brace holding a cracked wall upright.
Bubba reached out carefully, offering Y/n a clean towel from his own supply pouch—someone always had something in Playcare, even the Critters. "Here," he murmured. "Wipe your mouth. Slow breaths."
Y/n took it with shaking hands, wiping her face, still sobbing, still humiliated.
Bubba's voice stayed low, grounding. "I want you to listen to me," he said. "You are not in trouble. You are not weak. And you are not alone."
Y/n's breath hitched.
She nodded faintly.
Bubba's gaze lifted to the room again—still calm, but heavy with authority. "Everyone back to the wall," he ordered.
Kids obeyed instantly.
Even bullies.
Even David.
Because something about Bubba's presence made it clear: this was no longer a game. This was accountability.
And as the gym held its breath—Y/n shaking on the floor while Bubba kept his steady hand close, while Riley and Matthew stood guard, while Kevin trembled with contained violence—the air felt like a storm cloud waiting for the next strike.
Not because DogDay was missing.
Because DogDay wasn't here.
And without him, everyone was seeing something they rarely had to see in Playcare:
What happens when the sunshine isn't in the room... and the shadows decide to act up?
Description: Y/n has always been the quiet orphan-too soft, too heavy, too easy to overlook. At Playtime Co., the only ones who ever made her feel wanted were the Smiling Critters... and Dogday, the sunshine that kept her alive when her own heart couldn't. But during the Hour of Joy, everything rots. Dragged deep below into the Prototype's territory, Y/n is trapped with the other orphans-until the red gas meant to erase them... doesn't. She wakes up. Alone. Breathing. And if the factory wants her silent, it picked the wrong girl-because she's getting out... and she's finding Dogday. Even if she has to tear the dark open with her bare hands. With the help of new ally's, and the horror of enemies, Y/n will not give up to find Dogday and the other smiling critters, and maybe put a stop to Playtime Co overall.
Warnings:
I do not own Poppy playtime or its characters, they belong to the ocmpany and game creators.
Nothing that is written in this story that's related to Y/n doesn't happen in the main game. This story is purely fiction.
There will be horror, blood, violence, and sensitive topics in this story. If any of that stuff triggers you, PLEASE DO NOT READ.
Author: Thank you for your support of my story so far!
Author: Only a couple more days until chapter 5 of this game releases, so excited!
It arrived with a soft shift in the lights—gentler, warmer—like the ceiling itself decided to be kind. A lullaby chime drifted through the vents, quiet enough not to jolt anyone awake, followed by the faint scent of breakfast rolling down the halls: toast, oatmeal, something sweet.
Y/n woke up tangled in her blankets, hair a mess—Y/H/C spilling across her face, sticking up in places sleep had claimed as its own. She blinked at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to her own breathing, letting her heart settle into something slower than yesterday.
For a few seconds, she was just a kid in a bed.
Then she remembered.
Harley Sawyer’s voice in the hallway. The way he knelt. The way his attention felt like a hand that didn’t ask permission.
Her stomach tightened.
She pulled the oversized tee closer around herself—soft fabric, familiar weight—and the knot in her chest eased a little. The shirt smelled faintly of clean cotton and sunshine. It reminded her of DogDay’s warmth, of the way he’d looked at her like she was safe to exist.
Y/n sat up, slid her feet into her slippers, and took a breath.
One day.
Just one.
She could do one day.
The hallway outside her room was quiet, washed in morning light. A few kids padded by in pajamas, yawning, hugging stuffed toys. A staff member moved past with a basket of fresh towels, humming.
Y/n stepped out, tugging her sleeves down over her hands out of habit, eyes lowered as she started toward the main concourse.
“Good morning!” a cheerful voice called.
Y/n flinched slightly and looked up.
A staff member—pastel scrubs, kind face, clipboard in hand—smiled brightly. “Good morning, sweetheart. You’re up early.”
Y/n nodded quickly. “Morning…”
The staff member’s smile widened like they were holding a secret. “KickinChicken asked for you. Said he wants you at the Playground for a special outdoor morning activity.”
Y/n blinked, startled. “Me?”
“Yep!” The staff member pointed down the corridor. “He said to tell you not to be late. He was very dramatic about it.”
Y/n’s stomach fluttered with nervous curiosity. A special activity meant… attention. Attention meant anxiety.
But it was KickinChicken. And the Critters never made her feel small on purpose.
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Have fun!” the staff member said, and then, as if remembering something important, added softly, “And… you’re doing really well, okay? We’ve noticed.”
Y/n’s cheeks warmed. She looked down fast, unsure how to respond. “Thanks.”
She hurried away before the staff member could say anything else, her heart thumping with that mix of dread and excitement she hated how much she felt.
And then, like a smooth camera transition in a story game, the world subtly “clicked” into player control.
NEW OBJECTIVE: Head to the Playground. Talk to KickinChicken.
A waypoint marker—bright green and bouncing—appeared in the corner of the screen, pointing toward the outdoor doors. Y/n followed it through the waking halls, past the Library where early risers sat in beanbags, past the Craft House where jars of glitter caught the light like trapped stars. Kids drifted toward breakfast, sleepy and soft. Staff moved with practiced calm, cheerful voices echoing gently.
She paused at the Playground doors, hand hovering, then pressed forward.
INTERACT (✕): Enter Playground
Cooler air greeted her, tinged with artificial “freshness.” The painted “sky” overhead was the same perfect blue Playcare always offered, and the Playground stretched out wide—padded grass, climbing frames, slides, balance beams.
But today, it was transformed.
Cones and safety mats marked a winding route. Foam blocks formed stepping platforms. Ropes and ledges were rigged into a parkour line. Low barriers created crawl spaces. A set of angled ramps rose like a mini skate park. Chalk arrows zigzagged across the turf like a treasure map, leading toward a rack of GrabPacks hung neatly at the far end.
A hand-painted sign read:
MORNING MOVE MADNESS!
And there—bright yellow, leaning with effortless swagger against a climbing frame—was KickinChicken, skateboard tucked under one wing, whistle around his neck like a badge he absolutely hadn’t earned through paperwork.
As Y/n approached, the camera drifted closer. The letterbox slid in.
Kickin grinned wide. “Well lookie there! Good morning, Y/n! Totally rocking the bed hair today! One-hundred percent would recommend! You ready to rock the day, little feet?!”
Y/n’s face warmed instantly. “It’s messy…”
“Messy is iconic,” Kickin declared, then pointed dramatically at the course. “And today, we’re making you legendary. Parkour basics. GrabPack moves. A little crawling. A little climbing. Zero pressure, maximum cool.”
Y/n glanced at the GrabPacks. “Did staff… approve this?”
Kickin’s eyes went comically innocent. “Define ‘approve.’ I did not steal. I borrowed. Temporarily. Like a responsible athlete.”
Y/n huffed a shy laugh.
Kickin’s grin softened. “No one’s judging you, okay? This is just you learning how to move through space like you belong in it. Because you do.”
Y/n swallowed, nerves fluttering. “What if I fall?”
Kickin shrugged. “Then you fall onto padded turf. That’s basically a hug from the ground.” He leaned in, mock-serious. “Only rule is: you get back up.”
Y/n nodded slowly.
Kickin clapped his wings once. “Alright, Angel—hit the start line.”
The letterbox faded.
Gameplay returned so smoothly it felt like the cutscene had simply melted into control.
PARKOUR TUTORIAL UNLOCKED. COMPLETE THE OBSTACLE COURSE.
A faint green line traced the intended route, and small checkpoint suns shimmered along the path like little promises.
Kickin’s voice came through like a coach in your ear—present, playful, encouraging. “Okay, first things first—warm-up hops. Don’t rush. Let your feet learn the rhythm.”
You guide Y/n onto the first foam platforms. The spacing forces commitment—far enough to require a real jump, close enough to feel possible. She crouches slightly, hesitates—
You press ✕.
She jumps.
Her landing is a bit heavy, and she wobbles, arms lifting instinctively. The camera bobs with impact. Her Anxiety meter flickers—then steadies.
Kickin laughs softly. “That landing had personality. Again.”
You jump again. Better. The platform doesn’t feel as far now. A quiet chime rewards you—small, respectful.
The next platforms tilt slightly, introducing timing. You have to jump as they settle, or you slip.
Y/n’s slippers squeak. She steadies, breath visible in the way her shoulders rise.
Kickin’s voice: “Breathe. You got this. Small steps turn into big moves.”
You clear them. A checkpoint sun blooms.
The route points toward a tall padded wall with colored handholds.
WALL CLIMB: Hold ✕ to climb.
Y/n approaches, looks up—her posture shrinking for a second like the wall is judging her.
You hold ✕.
Her hands grip the first hold. She pulls herself up, feet scrabbling for traction. The climb isn’t fast—Y/n isn’t fast—but it’s steady. You guide her hand-to-hand, hold-to-hold, until she crests the top and drops onto a padded platform.
Kickin whistles. “Okay! Upper body energy! Look at you!”
Ahead is a narrow corridor with low yellow-and-black barriers—too low to run through.
CRAWL: Hold L2 to crouch and crawl.
Y/n hesitates. Crawling feels… exposing. Small. Like hiding.
Kickin’s voice softens. “Low doesn’t mean weak. Low means smart.”
You hold L2. Y/n drops onto hands and knees and crawls under the barrier. The camera lowers with her, making the space feel tighter, the sound more muffled. She scrapes a little on the turf and winces, but keeps going.
Halfway through, a hanging foam bar swings gently. If it hits her, it bumps her back to the start of the crawl lane.
You time it. Wait. Move. Wait. Move.
She slips through cleanly.
Checkpoint sun.
Now the course opens into a corner built like a mini funhouse alley: two parallel walls with a narrow gap and arrow marks.
WALL JUMP: Jump (✕) between walls to climb upward.
Y/n looks up. The gap is tight. The top is high.
Kickin’s voice turns excited. “Wall jump time! This is the cool kid move. The ‘I belong in an action movie’ move.”
You guide Y/n into the gap. She presses one foot to the left wall, jumps to the right, then back—awkward at first, almost slipping.
The game gives a rhythm: push—jump—push—jump.
On the third bounce, she finds it.
Her body starts moving in a pattern that makes sense.
Up. Up. Up.
She reaches the top ledge and grabs it with both hands.
MANTLE: Hold ✕ to pull up.
You hold ✕.
Y/n hauls herself over the edge and collapses onto the platform for half a second, breathing hard, cheeks flushed.
Kickin whoops. “YES! That was CLEAN. Angel, you’re basically a parkour pro now.”
Y/n’s shy smile flickers even in gameplay, like her body can’t hide how good it feels to succeed.
The next section is a sprint ramp—angled upward, ending in a gap.
SPRINT: Hold R2
JUMP: ✕ at the edge
You sprint. The camera shakes lightly with speed. Y/n’s arms pump, tee shirt fluttering. She hits the edge—
You jump.
She flies for a heartbeat and lands on a soft mat across the gap with a satisfying thud.
Kickin’s voice: “Okay! Air time! That was legit.”
Then comes a set of waist-high obstacles arranged like hurdles.
VAULT: Sprint + ✕ near obstacle
You sprint. You vault the first—clumsy. The second—better. The third—smooth enough that the motion feels like it might become natural.
A kid watching from the side claps once, impressed.
Y/n’s Anxiety meter spikes, then settles. She doesn’t look over. She keeps moving.
The chalk arrows lead to the GrabPack rack.
A staff member stands nearby holding a clipboard, looking vaguely confused and mildly resigned—like they don’t remember approving this but have decided the paperwork can cry later.
Kickin’s voice is smug. “See? Totally official.”
EQUIP GRABPACK: Hold ✕
Y/n straps it on. The weight settles against her shoulders. The mechanical arms coil, ready.
Ahead is a wide gap with a dangling handle and a second handle farther beyond it. Underneath: padded turf, safe—but falling still feels humiliating.
GRAB: Aim + R2
You aim. The reticle snaps to the first handle. You fire.
The arm shoots out—clamps. A satisfying click.
SWING: Hold R2 + move Left Stick
Y/n swings out over the gap, feet lifting, stomach fluttering. The world drops away beneath her for a second, and the camera widens to make it feel bigger than it is.
She reaches the apex—
You release.
She lands on a narrow platform. Her balance wobbles.
Kickin’s voice: “Don’t panic! Tiny steps. Own it.”
A second handle hangs ahead. You aim, fire, swing again—this time you have to release at the right moment to catch a ledge.
Y/n releases too early.
She drops—softly—into the padded turf below with a gentle thump.
No pain. But her cheeks burn.
A quick reset animation places her at the last checkpoint, GrabPack still equipped.
Kickin’s voice is immediate, not disappointed—just steady. “Hey. Falling is part of learning. Again. Aim a little higher, wait a half-second longer.”
You try again.
Aim. Fire. Swing.
Wait.
Release.
This time she catches the ledge with her hands.
CLIMB: Hold ✕
You pull her up.
Checkpoint sun blooms brighter than the others, like the game understands that this one mattered.
The course shifts into a “Grab-and-Pull” section: two handles on opposite sides of a low trench, meant to teach pulling yourself forward quickly.
PULL: Hold R2 after grabbing
You grab. Pull. Y/n zips forward with a mechanical tug. It feels weird and thrilling, like she’s being yanked by invisible strings.
Kickin laughs. “That’s it! That’s the superhero move!”
Next: a crawling tunnel immediately followed by a wall climb—teaching transitions.
You hold L2 to crawl under a barrier, pop up, sprint to a wall, hold ✕ to climb.
Y/n’s movements begin to string together. Not perfect. Not fast. But connected.
For the first time, she’s not just surviving the course.
She’s flowing through it.
And that’s when the final section appears: a long run across narrow beams with a last dramatic swing under a banner that reads:
YOU CAN DO HARD THINGS!
You guide Y/n onto the beam. The balance mechanic wobbles, but she steadies. The camera holds behind her shoulder, showing the whole course stretching back behind—proof of everything she just did.
At the end, the last GrabPack handle waits.
You aim. Fire. Swing.
Release.
Y/n lands on the finish pad—painted with a huge chalk sun.
A triumphant, warm chime plays—big enough to feel earned, not loud enough to feel mocking.
Y/n’s character turns slightly, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, sleeves still long but shoulders looser. The Anxiety meter sits lower than it did at the start.
Like movement pushed the fear out of her body for a while.
KickinChicken jogged up in a burst of yellow energy, whistle bouncing against his chest, skateboard tucked under one wing like he’d just finished filming a montage and needed someone to witness the greatness.
The screen letterboxed.
Kickin lifted both wings high, palms out, grinning like the whole world was a stage. “Okay, okay, okay—HOLD UP.” He leaned in with exaggerated seriousness. “That course? You ate. You absolutely devoured it.”
Y/n’s face warmed, breath still a little quick from the running. “I… I fell once.”
“Once!” Kickin repeated, scandalized. “Angel, I fall emotionally like six times a day. You fell one time and got back up like a champion. That’s basically hero behavior.”
He kept his wings up, waiting.
Y/n blinked at him, then her own shyness fought with the happiness bubbling up in her chest.
She jumped—small and quick—and smacked her hand into his wing.
High five.
The sound was loud and satisfying, and Kickin reacted like the universe had just awarded him a trophy.
“YES!” he shouted, then caught himself and lowered his volume, grin still huge. “Ahem. Very cool. Very professional. Very… us.”
Y/n laughed—quiet, but real—and immediately tried to tuck it away behind her sleeve.
Kickin tilted his head, eyes softening. “Hey.” His voice dropped into something steadier beneath the playful. “Don’t hide it. You worked for that.”
Y/n’s smile wobbled, but she didn’t erase it. Not all the way.
Kickin’s grin became gentler. “You know what I liked best?” he asked, tapping his beak thoughtfully. “Not the swings. Not the wall jumps. Not even the vault—though that vault was kinda sick.”
Y/n blinked. “What then?”
Kickin pointed at her chest with one feathered finger. “Right here.” He tapped lightly. “You didn’t quit when you got nervous. You didn’t run to the edge and pretend you didn’t care. You stayed in it.”
Y/n swallowed. The words hit deeper than she expected.
“I get scared,” she admitted, voice small. “A lot.”
Kickin nodded like that was completely normal. “Yeah. So do I.” His grin turned crooked. “I just hide it under style.”
Y/n snorted.
“There it is again,” Kickin said, pleased. “That’s the good stuff.”
He spread his wings wide, then—without warning—scooped her up like she weighed nothing.
Y/n squeaked, startled, hands clutching instinctively at his shoulders.
Kickin spun once, twice, laughing. “WOOO! Victory hug! You can’t stop it! It’s the law!”
Y/n’s laughter came out louder this time—half surprise, half joy—before embarrassment tried to drag it back down.
Kickin set her down carefully, still grinning. “Okay,” he said, breathless, “new rule. Anytime you do something hard? We celebrate. Even if it’s just you getting out of bed. Even if it’s just you walking into a room. You hear me?”
Y/n’s throat tightened. She nodded.
Kickin held out his wing for a fist bump. “Deal?”
Y/n hesitated for half a second—then bumped her fist against his wing.
Kickin made a dramatic “BOOM” sound with his beak, like a sound effect.
“Alright,” he said, stepping back, pointing two fingers at his eyes then at her. “You go get breakfast. Tell DogDay I made you cooler.”
Y/n smiled shyly. “You didn’t steal the course stuff from staff, did you?”
Kickin gasped like she’d stabbed him. “Allegations! Slander! I would never.” He leaned in and stage-whispered, “I simply relocated resources. For the children.”
Y/n giggled again, and Kickin looked genuinely satisfied, like that alone made the whole morning worth it.
He waved her off with a lazy salute. “Later, little feet!”
The letterbox stayed a fraction longer—just enough for the moment to feel complete.
And then—
Y/n’s eyes flicked to the side, caught by something that didn’t belong.
Just left of the little train car sitting near the Playground’s far edge—one of the decorative play structures—there was a service door.
A door that was never open.
But it was open now.
Not wide. Just a crack. Like someone had breathed on it and it had sighed apart.
And in that crack, she saw a tail.
CatNap’s tail, dark and slow-moving, curling like smoke.
Except the air near the crack wasn’t normal air.
A red-looking mist drifted out—thin, lazy, like it was alive. It clung low to the floor for a moment, then slid upward in soft ribbons. It looked too heavy for fog and too gentle for something dangerous.
Y/n’s smile faded.
Kickin was still talking, but his voice became distant in her ears, like she was underwater.
The red mist pulsed once, faintly, as if it had a heartbeat.
Y/n’s stomach tightened—not quite fear, not quite curiosity, but a strange tug she couldn’t explain.
The letterbox vanished.
The camera eased behind Y/n’s shoulder again.
Gameplay.
Y/n’s thoughts drifted in, quiet and uncertain, as if the player could hear the inside of her head. CatNap…? What… is he doing? Did he find a mouse again?
NEW OBJECTIVE: Go to the door to see what CatNap is doing.
A waypoint marker appeared—small and wary—hovering near the cracked door.
KickinChicken’s voice floated from behind, still cheerful, unaware. “Hey—don’t forget to hydrate! Cool kids hydrate!”
Y/n didn’t answer. She took slow steps toward the door, slippers whispering against padded turf.
The Playground still looked bright. Kids still played. The painted sun still smiled.
But the red mist made everything feel… wrong.
As she got closer, the mist thickened slightly. The edge of the screen shimmered, barely noticeable—like heat haze.
Y/n reached the door.
The crack widened just enough for her to see inside: a narrow staff corridor lit by industrial fluorescents, cold and gray compared to the Playground’s color.
CatNap’s tail twitched once.
Then it slid away, smooth and silent, vanishing into the corridor like a shadow deciding not to be caught.
NEW OBJECTIVE: Go inside the door and try to find CatNap.
Y/n hesitated, hand hovering over the handle.
A small tutorial hint appeared, softer than the parkour prompts had been:
TIP: Some doors lead to staff-only areas. Entering may be unsafe.
Unsafe.
Y/n swallowed.
Her curiosity pulled harder than her caution. She told herself it was fine. That CatNap was a Critter. That Critters didn’t hurt kids. That maybe he really did find a mouse and she’d help him. That she would be useful.
She stepped through.
The door swung shut behind her with a quiet click that sounded too much like a lock.
The air changed immediately.
No cinnamon. No laughter.
Just metal.
Just humming lights.
Just the faint, creeping smell of something chemical.
The red mist drifted along the floor here like it owned the hall.
And the deeper she went, the more it followed.
STEALTH TUTORIAL: Stay quiet. Stay low. Avoid being seen.
CROUCH: L2
HIDE: Hold ✕ behind crates / lockers
HOLD BREATH: Hold L1 to reduce noise and resist the mist
The corridor forked. One path led down a short ramp marked with a sign:
GAS PRODUCTION ZONE — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Y/n’s heart stuttered.
This wasn’t a place children belonged.
But the red mist spilled down that ramp like a trail.
And somewhere ahead—barely audible—was CatNap’s purr. Not comforting here. Just present. Like a machine running in the walls.
Y/n took the ramp.
The lighting shifted to a sickly, industrial white. Pipes lined the ceiling. Vents sighed. Warning signs clung to the walls: NO ENTRY. MASK REQUIRED. PRODUCTION ACTIVE.
The mist thickened.
A “Mist Exposure” meter appeared at the edge of the HUD—filling slowly, with every breath.
Y/n coughed once, quiet but sharp, and immediately froze.
Because the purr stopped.
Silence fell so suddenly her ears rang.
Then CatNap’s voice slid out of the darkness ahead, deep and raspy, like the Funzone—only colder here. Less playful.
“…Angel.”
Y/n’s blood went cold.
How did he always know?
Her Anxiety meter spiked. The screen edges darkened slightly, vignette creeping in.
She crouched behind a stack of metal crates, heart hammering.
The red mist curled around the crates like fingers searching.
CatNap’s footsteps were silent, but you could hear his breath. Slow. Unhurried. Confident.
He wasn’t hunting like a predator.
He was looking like he already owned the outcome.
Y/n held L1.
Her breathing steadied. The Mist Exposure meter slowed its rise.
CatNap’s shadow crossed the floor. The red fog made the shadow look smeared, like it couldn’t decide what shape to be.
He paused.
His voice was close now, soft and rough.
“Wrong door.”
Y/n squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands trembled against her sleeves.
Then the fog thickened again and the light above flickered once—just once.
And something moved on the far end of the corridor.
Not CatNap.
Something larger.
A shape beyond the mist—too tall, too long-limbed, moving with a slow, dragging grace that made the hairs on the back of Y/n’s neck lift.
The game didn’t introduce it with a name. It didn’t give a friendly prompt.
It only gave you sound.
A wet, soft scrape.
A slow inhale that didn’t sound like lungs.
And a faint, muffled whine—like a toy voicebox being squeezed in a fist.
The silhouette leaned into the light for half a second.
A Bigger Body.
One you’ve never seen in Playcare.
Not a Critter.
Not a staff member.
Something stitched together out of softness and wrongness.
Yarnaby.
Y/n didn’t know that name.
But her body knew one thing:
Run.
The screen shimmered. The mist tugged at her eyes, at her thoughts. For a second the corridor seemed to stretch longer than it was, lights repeating, repeating, repeating, as if the building was looping like the school hallway with Miss Delight’s sisters.
A hallucination—thin at first.
Y/n blinked, and for half a heartbeat she saw the Playground again, bright and safe, KickinChicken waving, DogDay waiting with a cookie—
Then the image tore like paper and she was back in pipes and warning signs and red fog.
Her Mist Exposure meter jumped.
Y/n gagged quietly, swallowing panic.
Yarnaby moved again.
Closer.
The fog parted around it like it recognized authority.
A prompt flickered:
AVOID DETECTION: Yarnaby can hear footsteps.
MOVE SLOWLY while crouched.
DISTRACT: Throw object (R1)
Y/n’s hands fumbled near the crate. A loose bolt lay on the floor.
She picked it up.
Threw it down a side corridor.
The bolt clinked—sharp, metallic.
Yarnaby’s head snapped toward the sound.
The silhouette shifted, body gliding in that direction, slow and dreadful and curious.
Y/n didn’t breathe until it moved away.
But CatNap’s presence still pressed on the corridor behind her like a wall.
Because while Yarnaby listened for sound…
CatNap watched through fog.
His voice came again, distant but clear.
“I smell you.”
Y/n’s stomach twisted.
The red mist wasn’t just in her lungs now. It was in her head.
The lights above her flickered, and the flicker became a strobe for half a second—enough to make the corridor feel like it was made of frames instead of reality.
Her Anxiety meter pulsed.
A soft child’s laughter echoed somewhere—impossible, wrong.
Y/n turned her head and saw a shape at the end of the hall.
A little girl.
Her height. Her hair. Her oversized tee.
Standing perfectly still.
Y/n’s breath hitched.
Then the “girl” smiled too wide, like a painted mascot grin, and the mouth opened into blackness that didn’t end.
Y/n jerked back—
And slammed her elbow into the crate.
CLANG.
The sound rang out like a bell.
Both enemies reacted at once.
Yarnaby’s silhouette snapped toward her corridor.
CatNap’s purr surged to life, louder, pleased.
And on-screen, in bright, awful clarity:
DETECTED!
Y/n bolted.
The chase sequence triggered like a trap snapping shut.
The camera pulled back slightly, the field-of-view widening to emphasize speed and panic. The music didn’t become loud—Poppy Playtime horror didn’t need loud. It became a low, vibrating thrum like machinery waking up.
RUN!
SPRINT: Hold R2
SLIDE / CRAWL: Hold L2 under barriers
GRABPACK: Use R2 to pull doors / swing gaps
Y/n sprinted down the corridor, tee fluttering, breath ragged. The red mist thickened with every step, filling her mouth, making her eyes water. Hallucinations blinked at the edges—hands on the walls, smiling faces in vents, Miss Delight’s voice murmuring very interesting like it was stitched into the pipes.
Behind her, Yarnaby moved with horrifying smoothness—heavy but fast when it wanted, scraping against metal as it surged. In the fog, you barely saw it—mostly you heard it: that wet scrape, that wrong inhale, the toy-like whine stretching into something needy.
And somewhere closer than it should be, CatNap’s deep, raspy voice rolled through the corridor like smoke.
“Run, Angel… run…”
Y/n rounded a corner and found a locked gate with a lever on the other side—too far to reach by hand.
GRABPACK REQUIRED.
AIM + R2: Pull lever
You aim through the bars. Fire the GrabPack.
The arm shoots out, clamps the lever, yanks.
The gate clatters open.
Y/n dives through just as Yarnaby’s silhouette slams into the bars behind her, rattling the whole corridor like an angry earthquake.
The red mist poured through the bars anyway, seeping like blood through fabric.
Y/n coughed—hard.
Her Mist Exposure meter hit a threshold and flashed.
NIGHTMARE EFFECT ACTIVE
The world warped.
The corridor floor seemed to tilt downward. The lights stretched into long, dripping lines. The walls breathed—subtle at first, then more obvious, like the building had lungs.
She stumbled into a larger room—tanks, valves, thick pipes, vents exhaling red fog like sighs. CatNap’s gas was being made here or stored here or something, and her child brain couldn’t label it, only fear it.
The objective marker stuttered, lost, then reappeared at a door across the chamber.
But the chamber was open.
Too open.
No cover.
Yarnaby’s silhouette oozed into the doorway behind her, too big for the frame, shoulders scraping metal.
It stepped into the room.
And the fog adored it, curling around its limbs like ribbons.
Y/n’s vision doubled.
For a second, Yarnaby wasn’t Yarnaby—it was a pile of plush toys stitched together, arms too long, smiling faces sewn into its body.
Then it blinked and became a shadow with teeth that weren’t visible but felt present anyway.
Y/n’s legs shook.
Her Anxiety meter screamed.
HIDE OR RUN: Yarnaby patrols the chamber. CatNap may appear if you linger.
The game gave you a narrow path: duck behind tanks, crawl under a pipe run, sprint between cover when Yarnaby’s head turned away.
You crouched behind a tank. Held L1. Tried not to breathe.
The red fog slid past like water.
Yarnaby’s silhouette moved slowly through the chamber, head tilted, listening.
It stopped near the tank.
The screen darkened at the edges.
Y/n’s breath threatened to break.
A hallucination flickered on the tank’s glossy surface: DogDay’s face—smiling—then melting into a painted grin with no eyes.
Y/n squeezed her eyes shut.
The fog made her dream while awake.
A whisper came from above—not Yarnaby’s.
CatNap.
Deep, raspy, too close.
“Found you…”
Y/n’s head snapped up.
CatNap wasn’t in front of her—he was on a catwalk above, barely visible through the fog, eyes glowing like coals. His tail swayed lazily, as if he was watching a show.
Y/n’s stomach dropped.
If CatNap saw her, Yarnaby would hear her.
If Yarnaby heard her, she would have to run.
And if she ran, the fog would fill her lungs faster.
The puzzle presented itself like a nightmare logic test.
OBJECTIVE UPDATED: Find the emergency vent release to clear the chamber.
A marker flickered toward a control panel on the far wall.
You moved.
Crouch-run to the next tank. Pause. Hold breath. Wait for Yarnaby’s silhouette to drift away.
Then sprint.
Y/n darted between cover points, tee snagging on a bolt, fabric tugging at her like a hand trying to keep her there.
The control panel was old. Industrial. A lever. A keypad. A heavy wheel valve.
INTERACT (Hold ✕): Override Ventilation
A timing mini-game appeared—turn the valve in rhythm, hold steady when pressure spikes, don’t let the meter blow.
Y/n’s hands shook. The screen wobbled with her panic. The fog thickened.
The valve fought back like it didn’t want to move.
Yarnaby turned.
The silhouette began to glide toward the sound of metal grinding.
CatNap’s voice purred from above. “That’s it… keep trying…”
Y/n cranked harder.
The meter spiked.
You held steady.
The valve gave a sudden release—
A loud hiss erupted as vents roared to life, blasting air.
Red fog whipped into a cyclone, sucked upward toward ceiling vents. The chamber lights brightened as the haze cleared in violent swirls, revealing the space more clearly than Y/n wanted to see it.
Yarnaby froze mid-step, silhouette fully revealed for a heartbeat—soft-looking in the wrong ways, stitched and hulking, a living toy that shouldn’t be alive.
Then it moved again, faster now, angered by the sudden air.
But the clearing fog gave you visibility.
And a path.
ESCAPE ROUTE OPEN: Reach the service exit.
A door marker lit up near the floor-level maintenance hatch.
Y/n sprinted, feet slapping metal, lungs burning. She slid under a low pipe. Crawled through the maintenance hatch as Yarnaby slammed into the room behind her, shaking the hatch frame.
She tumbled into a narrow service tunnel.
It was darker here, lit only by emergency strips.
The fog was thinner, but still present—clinging inside her head like a bad dream that didn’t want to end.
She crawled, then ran, following the marker toward the door back to Playcare.
Behind her, the tunnel echoed with movement—Yarnaby’s scrape, distant but following.
Ahead, the exit door glowed faintly with Playground light seeping through the crack.
Y/n reached it with shaking hands.
INTERACT (Hold ✕): Push door open
She shoved.
The door swung outward—
and sunlight (fake sunlight, Playcare sunlight) hit her face like a slap.
The letterbox slammed in.
Cutscene.
Y/n burst back into the Playground like a terrified animal escaping a trap.
She stumbled forward three steps and then collapsed to her knees, hands braced on the turf. Her whole body shook. Tears streamed down her face so hard she couldn’t see properly. Her breath came in ragged, panicked gulps—too fast, too shallow, like her lungs forgot how to work.
Her eyes were wide, unfocused, still seeing the gas chamber when she blinked.
Still hearing CatNap’s voice in her ear.
Still feeling Yarnaby’s shadow behind her.
She coughed—hard—then gagged, sobbing.
“Dogday—!” she cried, voice cracking. “DOGDAY!”
Her scream sliced through the Playground’s morning noise like glass breaking.
Kids turned.
A few froze mid-play, confused. A few whispered. One small child’s face twisted into fear at the sight of Y/n shaking on the ground.
Staff snapped into motion, concern replacing routine smiles.
“Sweetheart?” a counselor rushed toward her, kneeling. “Hey—hey, it’s okay, what happened?”
Y/n flinched away from the touch, sobbing harder, panic spiraling.
“Dogday!” she screamed again, voice raw. “I need Dogday—I need him—!”
A staff member looked around, alarmed. “Where’s DogDay? Someone get DogDay—now!”
Y/n’s fingers dug into the turf, desperate for something real, something solid. Her chest heaved like she couldn’t catch air, like the red mist was still inside her even though she was out.
She tried to speak, tried to explain, but all that came out was broken crying.
“Red—” she choked. “Red smoke—Catnap—there was—something—”
The words tangled. Hallucinations flickered behind her eyes: the gas chamber, the stitched silhouette, the smiling darkness.
A staff member’s hands hovered, not touching, trying to help without making it worse. “Okay, okay, breathe with me, okay? Look at me. In and out. In and out.”
Y/n shook her head violently, sobs ripping through her. “Dogday—please—!”
Kids watched from a distance now, the Playground’s bright cheer dimming around the circle of worry.
The open staff door behind the train car—still cracked—looked innocent again from this side. Just a door. Just shadow.
Y/n couldn’t stop shaking.
Even when the red air was gone—even when the Playground’s painted sun was shining down on her like nothing had happened—her body kept acting like it was still in that place. Like the pipes were still above her head. Like the fog was still inside her throat. Like something huge and soft and wrong was still moving behind her.
A counselor knelt beside her, voice soft, hands open and careful. “Sweetheart—look at me. You’re safe. You’re safe, okay?”
Safe was a word that didn’t reach her.
Y/n’s lungs pulled in air too fast, then refused to hold it. Her breaths came like hiccups. Her hands clawed at her own sleeves like she was trying to peel the feeling off her skin. Tears ran down her cheeks without stopping, soaking the oversized tee until the fabric clung heavy and damp against her ribs.
“Dogday—!” she screamed again, voice raw. “DOGDAY!”
Her eyelids looked inflamed—pink, swollen, angry—as if the smoke had kissed her eyes and left a burn behind. She blinked hard and saw the Playground warp.
The staff. The kids. The cones and chalk arrows.
All of it slid sideways.
For a heartbeat, she was back in the Gas Production Zone.
Red mist crawling along the floor.
Pipes breathing.
Lights stretching into long, dripping lines.
Then she blinked again and the world changed wrong.
She saw a ceiling she didn’t recognize—white, too clean, lined with fluorescent strips that buzzed like insects. She wasn’t on the Playground anymore.
She was looking down from above her own body, but it wasn’t her body.
Small hands.
Different hands.
Strapped down.
Her stomach lurched.
“NO!” she shrieked, thrashing so hard her slippers kicked the turf and one flew off.
A staff member flinched, reaching out, then stopping—trying not to grab her the wrong way.
“Okay—okay—she’s panicking,” another staff voice said, tighter now. “We need to get her inside. Now.”
Y/n’s head snapped side to side, eyes wide and wet, seeing two worlds at once. She looked at the counselor’s face and it wasn’t a counselor anymore—just a smooth, pale mask under a hazmat hood. The smile on the staff member’s face stretched too wide in her vision, teeth too white, like painted plastic.
Her throat clenched.
She screamed again—high, desperate, a sound that made nearby children recoil.
“She inhaled something,” someone said. “Her eyes—look at her eyes.”
“Get her away from the door,” another staff member ordered, voice turning sharp as fear tried to climb through professionalism.
Hands hovered again. The counselor tried to ground her. “Y/n, sweetheart, listen to my voice—”
But Y/n couldn’t listen.
Because the smoke wasn’t just in her lungs.
It was in her head.
A third staff member arrived—a taller man with broad arms—moving decisively. “I’ve got her,” he said.
Before anyone could debate it, he scooped Y/n up.
She was light enough to lift easily, but she fought like she weighed a thousand pounds—thrashing, sobbing, kicking, fingers clenching in the fabric of the staff member’s scrubs like she was trying to rip reality open.
“LET ME GO!” she screamed—though she didn’t even know who she meant it for. The staff. The hallway. The thing she’d run from. “DOGDAY—DOGDAY—!”
The staff member tightened his hold, not cruelly—securely, like a seatbelt. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice strained but calm. “You’re safe, kiddo. You’re safe.”
Safe.
Safe didn’t exist in her eyes anymore.
Her vision snapped again—violent, sudden.
She saw a corridor lined with thick doors and red warning lights. She saw numbers stenciled on walls. She saw a rolling gurney—white sheets, straps, metal rails. She felt the cold bite of restraints against wrists that weren’t hers.
She was looking through someone else’s eyes.
A child’s eyes.
A child she didn’t know.
A child who was crying in a language without words.
The hallway smelled like antiseptic and fear.
Hazmat suits moved around her—faces hidden behind reflective visors. Voices muffled. Instructions clipped.
“She’s awake.”
“Hold her still.”
“Administer—”
Y/n jerked hard in the staff member’s arms, as if trying to tear away from the vision itself. Her nails scraped against his shoulder.
“DON’T!” she screamed, voice cracking. “DON’T TOUCH ME!”
The staff member carrying her winced but didn’t drop her. He adjusted his grip and hurried, moving her away from the Playground, away from watching children whose faces were now frightened and confused.
The camera of the scene followed them, shaking slightly with her thrashing, making the world feel unstable—like the cutscene itself was struggling to stay steady.
Other staff moved with them, forming a protective bubble.
“Call medical,” someone said, breathless. “Now.”
“We need to find DogDay,” another insisted. “She’s calling for him—”
“Where are the Critters?” a third voice said. “She’s going to hurt herself!”
Y/n’s head lolled back and she screamed again, sound ripping out of her like she was being torn open.
She blinked—
and suddenly she was in a different child’s body.
Older. Bigger. But not adult.
In a chair with metal arms.
A strap across the chest.
A strap across the legs.
A strap across the forehead.
She could smell her own panic, thick and sour.
A voice—muffled by a mask—said something gentle that wasn’t gentle.
“Don’t worry. This will help.”
A syringe appeared in her vision.
The needle glinted.
She felt it pierce skin—
Y/n screamed so hard her throat scraped raw.
The staff member carrying her flinched. “Easy—easy—!”
“Stop moving!” a nurse snapped, then softened instantly as if remembering she was speaking to a child. “No—no—sweetheart, it’s okay—”
But it wasn’t okay.
It was never okay.
Because now Y/n saw something else: a room full of glass.
Tanks.
Red mist swirling behind it like trapped breath.
A child-shaped shadow suspended in a chamber, limbs too long, face obscured.
And in the corner of the room—half hidden behind equipment—there was something watching from the dark. Something wrongly assembled. Something that didn’t have a full body, only pieces—an arm, a cable, a staring, patient presence.
Not a face.
A thing.
A Prototype.
Y/n didn’t know what that was.
But her brain recognized it as the shape of future horror.
Her vision fractured again.
Now she was being rolled down a hospital wing on a gurney.
The ceiling lights passed overhead like a strobe.
Her own breath—someone else’s breath—came in panicked gasps.
Hands in gloves held her down.
A voice said, “Take her to the lab.”
The word lab struck something deep in Y/n’s stomach, like she’d swallowed ice.
She thrashed so hard in the staff member’s arms that his grip tightened again, muscles straining.
“She’s strong,” he muttered, half amazed, half worried.
Y/n’s eyelids were swollen, red-rimmed. Tears streamed down her temples and into her hairline. Her face was blotched from crying. Her hands clawed at the air like she was trying to grab DogDay out of it.
“DOGDAY!” she screamed again, and this time it sounded less like a name and more like a lifeline she was losing.
The corridor they rushed through blurred: pastel murals smearing into streaks, the cheerful signs flashing by, the normal world trying desperately to reassert itself. But the smoke had already planted something inside her.
Nightmare seeds.
And it watered them.
Y/n’s vision snapped yet again, and for a heartbeat she saw herself—not herself—towering in a room too small. Huge limbs. Skin that wasn’t skin. Fabric seams. A mouth that didn’t move right. She looked down and saw hands that weren’t hands.
She saw a reflection in a steel panel.
A Bigger Body.
Her mind recoiled so violently she nearly choked.
She screamed until the sound became a sob, until the sob became a scream again, looped and endless like the School hallway that never seemed to end.
The staff member carrying her turned a corner into the main concourse, and the sound of her panic echoed through Playcare like an alarm.
That was when the others heard it.
Bubba Bubbaphant’s head snapped up from across the hall, where he’d been guiding a few kids through morning routines with his usual steady calm. His big ears tilted, listening, eyes sharpening with immediate concern.
That scream wasn’t a random tantrum.
Bubba knew Y/n’s voice.
He knew the difference between shy discomfort and real terror.
His posture shifted—alert, protective—and he moved.
Fast.
For someone his size, it was startling how quickly he crossed the space, steps careful not to trample anyone, but urgent enough to make staff step aside instinctively.
Bobby BearHug followed, her expression instantly worried, hands pressed to her chest like she could feel the panic through the air. CraftyCorn’s ears lifted, face paling with concern. Hoppy froze mid-bounce, then bolted. Picky Piggy’s head whipped toward the sound, eyes narrowing. Even KickinChicken—still near the Playground area—stopped dead, grin vanishing like someone turned off a light.
And somewhere behind it all, a low purr seemed to vibrate faintly through the vents.
Y/n didn’t hear the purr.
She heard only the nightmare.
The staff carried her into the open concourse where the Critters could reach her, and the instant Bubba saw her—thrashing, sobbing, eyes red and unfocused—his calm cracked into something darker.
Fear.
Rage.
Protectiveness.
He reached out with careful hands. “Put her down,” Bubba said, voice low and firm.
The staff member hesitated, breathing hard. “She’s—she’s having some kind of episode—she inhaled something—”
“I said,” Bubba repeated, even firmer, “put her down.”
Bubba’s authority wasn’t official. It wasn’t written on a clipboard.
But it was felt.
The staff member carefully lowered Y/n to the floor in a sitting position, still supporting her so she didn’t fall back and hit her head.
Y/n immediately tried to scramble away, sobbing, eyes wild, hands clawing at the air.
“Dogday—where—where—!” she choked, and then her vision snapped again and she screamed like she’d been stabbed by a memory she never lived.
Bubba knelt—slowly, deliberately—bringing his massive body down until he wasn’t towering over her. His big eyes softened, voice shifting into the calm he used when children were truly frightened.
“Y/n,” he said, steady. “Look at me.”
Y/n’s gaze flicked to him for half a second, unfocused, then away again, shaking.
“Y/n,” Bubba repeated, voice firm but gentle. “You are here. You are in Playcare. You are not on a gurney. You are not in a lab.”
The words should have been nonsensical.
But the fact he said them—named them—made Y/n’s sob hitch.
Because it meant someone else could see the shape of her terror.
Bobby BearHug crouched beside Bubba, hands open, tears in her own eyes. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, voice trembling with compassion. “We’ve got you. We’ve got you.”
CraftyCorn hovered just behind, face pale, whispering softly like a prayer, “Breathe, Angel… breathe…”
KickinChicken arrived last, panting, his usual swagger gone entirely. He stared at Y/n with real horror in his eyes—not the fun kind, not the spooky story kind—this was the horror of seeing someone you care about falling apart and not knowing how to catch them.
“What happened?” he demanded, voice cracking around anger. “What did she breathe? What did she see?”
Y/n’s head snapped up at that and for a split second she looked straight through him.
Her eyes weren’t seeing the concourse.
They were seeing hazmat suits.
They were seeing straps.
They were seeing red fog curling around a child’s face as someone said, hold her still.
Y/n’s mouth opened and a scream tore out again—raw, endless—until her voice broke into sobs.
“DOGDAY!” she wailed, the name splitting her open. “DOGDAY PLEASE—!”
Bubba’s gaze lifted sharply toward the corridor that led toward the School boundary—the places DogDay couldn’t go. His voice dropped, urgent.
“Find him,” Bubba said to a staff member, not asking. “Now.”
The staff member nodded and ran.
Y/n rocked on the floor, hands clutching her sleeves, breath stuttering. Her body was still trying to escape something that wasn’t here anymore.
But her brain hadn’t gotten the message.
The red mist had left a door open inside her.
And through that door, nightmares were marching.
The camera lingers on Y/n’s face—tear-streaked, eyelids raw and red—while the Critters form a protective circle around her, blocking curious children, blocking bright lights, trying to build safety with their bodies.
In the background, a hallway vent exhales.
Just once.
A thin ribbon of red that no one notices in the chaos.
And somewhere far away—behind doors with warning signs, behind pipes and production chambers—something new shifts in the dark, awakened by the disturbance, as if Y/n’s fear has announced her presence to the wrong parts of the building.
The staff member who’d been sent—clipboard abandoned somewhere behind him, radio clenched in one hand—ran like the hallways were closing in.
He wasn’t built for sprinting through Playcare’s polished corridors. His shoes squeaked, his steps skidded on a too-shiny floor, and twice he windmilled his arms to keep from eating it in front of a mural of smiling toys that suddenly felt like they were watching.
“DogDay—DogDay—where are you—” he panted, voice cracking as he half-ran, half-stumbled past the Library entrance.
Behind him, KickinChicken and Hoppy Hopscotch kept pace—fast for different reasons.
Kickin’s usual cool-kid swagger was gone. No teasing grin. No jokes. His feathers were slightly puffed with stress, eyes narrowed and bright. He moved like someone sprinting straight into responsibility he didn’t want but would take anyway.
Hoppy was a green blur, bounding over benches instead of going around them, feet barely touching the ground. Her energy wasn’t playful now—it was frantic. Worry with a heartbeat.
“She’s still screaming?” Kickin demanded, voice tight.
“Yes!” the staff member wheezed. “She’s—she inhaled something, we think. Red smoke. Her eyes are all irritated. She’s seeing things. She won’t stop calling for him.”
Hoppy’s ears flattened. “She needs him right now,” she said, like the sentence was a law of physics.
They tore past the Craft House. Glitter jars gleamed under lights that felt suddenly too bright. A staff member inside turned at the commotion, startled.
Kickin didn’t slow. “DogDay! DOGDAY!” he called, voice echoing down the hall like an alarm.
No answer.
They hit the main concourse—wider, busier. Normal morning sounds were still trying to happen: kids lining up for breakfast, staff handing out napkins, a speaker chirping a cheerful jingle that cut off halfway like it sensed panic.
And threaded through all of it, cutting like a blade:
Y/n’s screaming.
“DOGDAY—! PLEASE—!”
The staff member flinched at the sound and sped up, nearly slipping again. Kickin’s eyes went hard with guilt and anger—at himself, at the door, at whatever had put that red fog in a place it didn’t belong.
Hoppy bounced ahead, scanning. “Where would he be? He always hangs near the Kitchen in the morning—he knows kids get anxious before breakfast.”
“Kitchen!” the staff member gasped, and veered.
They sprinted down the warm-smelling corridor—bread and sugar and cinnamon—past cooks setting trays out like nothing was wrong in the world.
Kickin skidded to a stop by the snack tables, scanning fast. “DogDay!” he snapped at the room.
A cook blinked, startled. “He was here—just a minute ago. Went that way.” They pointed toward the residential wing corridor.
Hoppy didn’t hesitate. She sprang forward. “HOME SWEET HOME!”
They ran.
The residential wing was quieter, carpeted, softer lighting. The farther they got from the concourse, the more the screaming dulled—like the walls were trying to keep the panic from spreading.
The staff member shouted again, voice echoing. “DOGDAY!”
This time, there was an answer.
A warm, familiar voice floated from ahead—sunshine threaded with urgency.
“I’m here!”
DogDay stepped into view at the end of the corridor, already moving quickly toward them. His expression was bright in the way it always was, but it was tightened now with concern—like sunlight forced through clenched teeth. He had a small towel in one paw and a cup of water in the other, as if he’d been preparing without even being told why.
The staff member nearly tripped from relief. “DogDay—thank god—she’s—Y/n, she’s—”
"Hey-Hey, Hey, easy take it easy. What's wrong? What's going on?"
Hoppy spoke frantically. Her hops more twitchy. "Dog Day! It's Abby! She needs you! We don't know what truly happened, but we think she had entered somewhere untheorized for children."
Dog day became worried instantly, already starting to walk as he asked immediately, "Where is she?"
Kickin’s shoulders sagged like he’d been holding his breath for minutes, following in step beside Dogday. “Playground. Concourse area. She’s… not okay.” Dogday looked to him. "Her state?"
Hoppy sighed, eyes wet. “S-She’s seeing stuff. She won’t stop screaming your name.”
DogDay’s face changed.
The warmth didn’t vanish, but it sharpened into something protective, something dangerous in its gentleness—like the sun suddenly realizing what a storm is.
He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t waste time.
“Take me to her,” he said.
They ran back the way they’d come, DogDay moving faster than either of them expected for someone his size—long strides, controlled speed, not panicked, but urgent in a way that made the corridor feel like it was bending to let him through.
As they passed the Duck Pond, a staff member turned, startled. “What’s going on—?”
DogDay didn’t slow. “Medical needs to be ready,” he called over his shoulder. “And keep kids back.”
Hoppy hopped ahead to clear the path, shouting, “Move—move—emergency!”
Kickin stayed at DogDay’s side, voice breaking with guilt he couldn’t hold in. “It’s my fault,” he blurted. “I saw the door crack by the train car and I didn’t— I didn’t stop her—”
DogDay’s ears flicked, but he didn’t look away from the route ahead. “We’ll talk later,” he said, not cruel—just focused. “Right now we take care of her.”
Kickin swallowed hard and nodded.
They hit the concourse and the sound hit them like a wall.
Y/n’s sobbing had turned into screaming again, ragged and relentless, the kind that made your skin crawl because it wasn’t just fear—it was terror that couldn’t find a place to go.
Staff had formed a loose circle around her. Bubba knelt close, voice steady. Bobby hovered with her hands over her mouth, tears in her eyes. CraftyCorn looked pale, trembling. Picky Piggy stood stiff, furious at the world. Hoppy’s own voice caught when she saw Y/n.
And Y/n—small, shaking, eyelids raw and red—was thrashing as a staff member tried to keep her from hurting herself.
“DOGDAY—!” she sobbed. “DOGDAY PLEASE—!”
DogDay didn’t slow.
He cut through the circle like a beam of sunlight splitting cloud.
“Angel,” he said, voice warm and clear.
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
The moment his voice reached her, something in Y/n’s body reacted before her mind could. Her thrashing faltered for half a heartbeat. Her head snapped toward him like she’d been drowning and heard air.
But her eyes were still wild—seeing other places, other halls, other horrors.
DogDay dropped to his knees in front of her, immediately lowering himself so he wasn’t towering. He set the towel and water down beside him.
“Hey,” he said, soft as a blanket. “It’s me. I’m right here.”
Y/n made a sound like a sob turning into a gasp. She tried to surge forward and then recoiled as another hallucination hit—her eyes squeezing shut, face twisting.
“I— I saw—” she choked. “Red— I— it was—”
“I know,” DogDay whispered. He didn’t say she imagined it. He didn’t tell her it was nothing. He met her fear like it was real, because to her it was. “I know it felt real.”
Y/n’s breath hitched, shaking.
DogDay lifted his paw slowly, showing it to her like a promise. “Can I touch your hand?”
Y/n’s fingers trembled. She nodded a tiny, desperate nod.
DogDay took her hand gently, wrapping his warm paw around her smaller one like a shield.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Stay with me. Just with me.”
He guided her breathing without counting out loud—matching his own slow inhale to hers, letting his steadiness become something her body could borrow.
“In,” he said softly.
Y/n’s chest rose, shaky.
“Out.”
She exhaled in a sob.
Again.
“In.”
Again.
“Out.”
The screaming didn’t stop instantly. It couldn’t. Her nervous system was still on fire. Tears kept streaming. Her legs still kicked once, twice, as if trying to run while trapped in place.
But each time she started to spiral, DogDay’s hand stayed on hers, his voice stayed warm, his eyes stayed focused.
“I’m here,” he kept saying. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Y/n looked at him again and again, like she had to keep re-finding him through fog.
Bubba’s shoulders eased a fraction, relief flickering across his face.
Kickin’s expression crumpled with regret, but he didn’t interrupt. He just hovered close, shaking, as if he’d finally realized how close his “fun” had come to something catastrophic.
Hoppy pressed her paws together at her chest, whispering, “Thank you,” like it was prayer.
DogDay lifted the towel and gently dabbed at Y/n’s cheeks, careful around her irritated eyelids. “Your eyes hurt, huh?” he murmured.
Y/n nodded weakly, swallowing hard.
DogDay offered the cup of water, holding it with both paws so it didn’t spill. “Small sips, okay?”
Y/n drank shakily, coughing once, then crying again—but softer now, less like a siren and more like a child whose fear has finally found a place to land.
DogDay leaned closer, voice dropping so only she could hear. “You’re back in Playcare,” he said. “You’re on the Playground turf. You’re wearing our shirts. You’re with me. You’re safe.”
Y/n’s fingers clenched around his paw.
“Safe,” she whispered like she didn’t quite believe the word could be real.
DogDay’s eyes softened with fierce love. “Yes,” he said. “Safe.”
The staff around them exchanged glances—relief, confusion, worry. One counselor murmured, “We need to report the door. Lock it down.”
Another whispered, “Red smoke in a child area—how is that possible?”
No one answered.
Because the answer lived somewhere they weren’t allowed to look.
Kickin finally spoke, voice hoarse. “Angel… I’m so sorry.”
Y/n’s eyes flicked toward him, still wet, still frightened.
DogDay didn’t let go of her hand, but he glanced back at Kickin—brief, not angry, just heavy. “Later,” he repeated quietly. “We fix this later.”
Kickin nodded, eyes shining, and stepped back like he’d been told to stand down by something bigger than pride.
Hoppy leaned in, voice gentle and trembling. “We’re here too,” she promised Y/n. “All of us.”
Y/n nodded, but her grip tightened on DogDay like he was the only anchor her body trusted right now.
DogDay rose carefully, keeping one arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you inside,” he said softly. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. Okay?”
Y/n nodded again, exhausted.
Staff moved to help, clearing a path. Bubba stood like a wall, keeping other kids back with a calm authority. Bobby stayed close, murmuring soothing words. CraftyCorn wiped her own eyes, pale with worry.
And as the group guided Y/n away—DogDay holding her steady, his voice still soft and constant—the Playground looked normal again. Bright. Safe. Silly.
Except for the service door by the train car.
A staff member was already pushing it shut, fumbling with the handle, face tight with fear. Another reached for a key ring. Someone whispered into a radio, urgent.
The crack disappeared.
The door closed.
The latch clicked.
But the camera—quiet, cinematic—lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should.
Until we look to an office somewhere in Playtime Co.
But.
Thomas Clark’s office didn’t feel like what it meant to be.
It was too clean. Too adult. Too quiet.
Nothing that Elliot Ludwig had decorated before he had passed.
The walls were paneled in polished wood that swallowed sound, and the lights were warm in a way that tried to imitate comfort without earning it. Behind Thomas’s desk, the Playtime Co. logo hung like a blessing and a warning all at once—bright colors in a room that smelled of ink, coffee, and expensive cologne.
Elliot Ludwig’s portrait still hung on the far wall.
Smiling. Kind-eyed. A man frozen in time, preserved as “visionary” even after his heart had stopped beating.
Thomas Clark sat beneath that portrait like a replacement part.
He was neatly dressed, hair combed with intention, hands folded as if he’d practiced the posture in a mirror until it looked natural. The title—CEO—rested on him like a suit slightly too large in the shoulders. He was trying to fill it anyway.
Leith Pierre stood to Thomas’s right, looking perfectly composed, chin lifted, eyes sharp with the cold brightness of someone who knew how to turn a disaster into a memo. He held a folder as if the paper inside could contain the whole building if he pressed hard enough.
Harley Sawyer paced.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Like a caged animal too intelligent to accept the bars.
His jaw was tight. His hands flexed at his sides. Every few steps he looked toward the office door as if he wanted to tear it off its hinges and drag the truth in by the throat.
A staff member stood in front of the desk, trembling.
Not a child-facing counselor now. Not a cheerful Playcare smile. Just a woman in pastel scrubs with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a report sheet so tightly it had creased under her fingers.
Thomas’s voice was measured. Corporate calm. “Begin again,” he said. “From the moment the incident started.”
The staff member swallowed. “Y/n was participating in an outdoor activity on the Playground. KickinChicken had set up an obstacle course and—”
Harley’s head snapped up. “Set up?” he snarled, voice rough and sharp. “With what resources.”
KickinChicken’s name didn’t belong in this room, and Harley spoke it like it tasted bitter.
Leith’s eyes flicked toward Harley, warning. “Not the priority.”
“It’s always the priority,” Harley shot back, then fixed his stare on the staff member. “Continue.”
She flinched and hurried on. “There’s… a service door near the train car. Staff-only. It was slightly open. Y/n noticed it. She saw CatNap’s tail through the crack.”
Thomas’s brows lifted slightly. “CatNap was outside his designated area.”
“Yes, sir,” she said quickly. “Y/n thought he’d found a mouse or something. She said she wanted to make sure he was okay. She approached the door, and when she got close, CatNap’s tail moved inside.”
Leith’s voice cut in, smooth as glass. “So the child followed.”
The staff member nodded miserably. “Yes. She went in through the crack. She wasn’t… trying to disobey. She genuinely thought she was helping.”
Harley stopped pacing.
The stillness that replaced motion was worse.
“And why,” he said slowly, every word edged like metal, “was the door open in the first place.”
The staff member’s lips parted. No sound came out.
Harley’s eyes narrowed. “Or unlocked, for that matter.”
“I—I don’t know,” she said, voice shaking. “It should’ve been locked. It’s always locked. There wasn’t any sign of forced entry. It was just… cracked open already.”
Leith’s mouth tightened a fraction. “Convenient.”
Harley’s gaze snapped to Leith. “Not convenient. Sloppy.”
Thomas raised a hand, quieting them. “What did the child experience after entering?”
The staff member’s throat worked as if the words scraped on the way out. “Red mist. Like smoke. It irritated her eyes. She started coughing. We believe she inhaled it for several minutes.”
Leith’s eyes sharpened. “The gas.”
The staff member nodded quickly, almost relieved to have a word for it. “Yes. That… that gas.”
Thomas’s expression remained carefully neutral, but his fingers tightened together on the desk. “Did she reach the production chambers.”
“We don’t know exactly how far,” the staff member admitted. “But she came back through the same door, screaming. She was hallucinating. She—” Her voice cracked. “She was seeing things that didn’t make sense. Hazmat suits. Hospital corridors. Children strapped down. She was screaming for DogDay.”
Harley’s jaw flexed, the tendons standing out like cords. His eyes glittered with a dangerous kind of attention—not horror at a child’s suffering, but at the implications.
“Nightmare effect,” Leith murmured, almost clinical.
The staff member nodded, wiping at her face with a trembling hand. “Yes. She had a panic attack. She… wouldn’t stop. DogDay calmed her eventually, but—”
“But she saw,” Harley cut in, voice low.
The staff member went still.
Harley stepped closer, looming. “Say it. She saw.”
The staff member swallowed. “She… described things she couldn’t know. Places she couldn’t have been. She kept saying ‘red’ and ‘pipes’ and ‘laboratory.’ She was… terrified.”
Leith interlaced his fingers, composed. “And Yarnaby?”
The staff member blinked, confusion flashing. “I— I don’t—”
Harley’s eyes snapped toward Thomas.
Thomas Clark’s calm finally cracked just slightly, the polished CEO surface slipping enough to show the man underneath—calculating, new to power, desperate not to look like it.
“She may have encountered a prototype,” Thomas said carefully.
Harley’s mouth curled. “Not a prototype.” His voice dropped, almost reverent in its certainty. “A success.”
Leith’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting Yarnaby was in a corridor accessible from Playcare?”
Harley’s gaze burned. “I’m suggesting Yarnaby was where we put him. And a child wandered too close.”
Thomas inhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep the building from collapsing with breath alone. “You can’t confirm that.”
Harley’s smile was thin, sharp. “I don’t need to confirm what I built.”
The staff member’s face went pale. She stared between them, horrified dawning realization flooding in. “Wait—Yarnaby is real?”
Leith’s voice turned cold. “You did not hear that.”
Thomas leaned forward slightly, posture tightening with authority he was still learning to wear. “What is the child’s condition now.”
The staff member swallowed hard, snapping back into her role. “DogDay stabilized her. She’s resting under supervision. Her eyes are irritated, but medical staff say they should recover. She’s… shaken. Extremely.”
Leith’s gaze flicked to the file in his hand. “Name.”
“Y/n,” the staff member said.
Harley’s eyes darkened with focus, and for a moment the snarling animal look faded—replaced by something disturbingly intent.
“Y/n,” he repeated, quieter.
Leith noticed the tone shift and didn’t like it. “She is one child. One incident.”
Harley’s gaze didn’t leave the staff member. “No,” he said. “She is the right child.”
Thomas’s brows furrowed. “Explain.”
Harley stepped back, pacing again, but slower now—thoughtful, almost energized. “She inhaled the gas and didn’t just scream.” His voice sharpened. “She saw through it.”
Leith’s expression tightened. “That’s not how the gas works.”
Harley shot him a look like a slap. “That’s how it works on most children.” He turned toward Thomas, eyes bright with obsession. “She had hallucinations with coherence. Structure. Specifics.” His fingers flexed. “You know what that means.”
Thomas hesitated. The portrait of Elliot seemed to watch him, silent and judging.
Leith answered first, voice clipped. “It means exposure risk.”
Harley’s laugh was humorless. “It means potential.”
Thomas’s lips parted, then closed again. He chose his words carefully. “We are discussing a ten-year-old.”
Harley’s eyes flashed. “We are discussing a variable.” Then, softer—almost intimate, like he was confessing something. “One I’ve been watching since the Game Station.”
Leith’s head turned sharply. “You’re still on that? She’s slow. She’s behind.”
Harley’s voice dropped into a rasp that made the room feel colder. “She’s durable.”
The staff member’s hands shook harder. “Sir—she’s a child—”
Harley snapped toward her, suddenly all teeth again. “And you will remember that when you speak.” His voice was low, lethal. “You will not discuss this with Playcare staff. You will not comfort yourself by gossiping. You will not breathe a word of Yarnaby outside this room.”
The staff member nodded rapidly, tears in her eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Thomas exhaled, trying to regain control. “We need to know why that door was open.”
Leith’s gaze sharpened. “Security logs.”
Harley’s mouth tightened. “And CatNap.”
The name settled in the room like a shadow.
Thomas’s eyes flicked upward, wary. “CatNap is… assigned to Playcare. He shouldn’t have been in the corridor.”
Harley’s smile returned—thin and unsettling. “CatNap does what he’s told,” he said. “And sometimes he does what he wants.”
Leith’s voice went icy. “Are you implying sabotage.”
Harley’s eyes glinted. “I’m implying leakage.”
Thomas leaned back, fingers drumming once against the desk—small, controlled frustration. “Lock down that door. Increase security around production corridors. No Critter near staff-only zones without authorization.”
Leith nodded. “Understood.”
Harley’s gaze drifted past them, as if he could see through walls, into Playcare itself—into the soft places where children slept.
“Also,” Harley said quietly, “I want her monitored.”
Leith bristled. “For what purpose.”
Harley’s eyes cut to him. “To see what she remembers when the nightmares stop being loud.” His voice softened into something almost thoughtful. “To see what she becomes.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened. “We are not using Playcare children for—”
Harley’s snarl returned, sudden and sharp. “Don’t pretend you’re new to this, Clark.”
The room went very still.
Leith’s eyes flicked to Thomas, measuring his response like a blade testing bone.
Thomas’s face flushed—anger, embarrassment, fear—then smoothed again into CEO calm. “We are not discussing ethics,” he said tightly. “We are discussing containment.”
Harley’s mouth twitched, as if amused by the word. “Containment,” he echoed. “Yes. Contain the incident.”
He stepped closer to the desk, leaned in just enough to make his presence feel like pressure. “But don’t waste what happened.” His eyes burned. “Not when the universe just handed us a rare specimen.”
The staff member trembled, looking like she might be sick.
Thomas’s gaze hardened. “You’re dismissed,” he told her.
She practically ran from the room.
The door clicked shut behind her.
For a moment, only the hum of the office lights remained—and Elliot Ludwig’s portrait, smiling down at them like a ghost that had never consented to haunt this.
Leith spoke first, voice controlled. “This is a liability.”
Harley’s eyes stayed distant, already working. “This is an opening.”
Thomas rubbed his temple, the mask of leadership creaking at the seams. “She’s ten,” he said again, as if repeating it could make it matter.
Harley’s gaze snapped to him, and for a brief heartbeat, something real bled through his canon cruelty—frustration, obsession, a flicker of genuine emotion twisted in the wrong direction. Not sympathy.
Investment.
“I know,” he said, softer. “That’s why she’s still… malleable.”
Leith’s expression hardened. “You’re not touching her.”
Harley’s smile was sharp. “Not yet.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want.”
Harley looked past them again, like he could see Playcare’s halls, the cracked door, the red mist sliding like a living thing.
“I want to know,” he said quietly, “who opened that door.”
Leith frowned. “Accident.”
Harley’s voice turned colder. “Nothing in this company happens by accident.”
A silence.
Then Harley added, almost to himself, “And I want to know why CatNap was there.”
Thomas’s fingers tightened on the desk. “You think CatNap…”
Harley’s eyes glinted. “I think CatNap is learning what fear tastes like.”
Leith’s jaw clenched. “We lock him down.”
Harley’s mouth curled, a predator’s satisfaction. “We can try.”
Thomas looked up at Elliot’s portrait again, as if searching for guidance in a dead man’s smile.
He didn’t find any.
The scene ends with Harley stepping toward the window, staring out at the factory grounds above—vast, quiet, innocent from this distance—while the office light throws his shadow long across the floor.
And as the camera lingers on that shadow, Harley speaks one last line—low, rasping, meant for no one and everyone.
“Some children break when they see what’s behind the doors,” he murmurs.
Description: Y/n has always been the quiet orphan-too soft, too heavy, too easy to overlook. At Playtime Co., the only ones who ever made her feel wanted were the Smiling Critters… and Dogday, the sunshine that kept her alive when her own heart couldn't. But during the Hour of Joy, everything rots. Dragged deep below into the Prototype's territory, Y/n is trapped with the other orphans-until the red gas meant to erase them… doesn't. She wakes up. Alone. Breathing. And if the factory wants her silent, it picked the wrong girl-because she's getting out… and she's finding Dogday. Even if she has to tear the dark open with her bare hands. With the help of new ally's, and the horror of enemies, Y/n will not give up to find Dogday and the other smiling critters, and maybe put a stop to Playtime Co overall.
Author: Hello! Thank you for your support on the Prologue!
Author: I wanted to do something a little bit different than what other writers do, and that is combining gameplay aesthetics to this story for it to feel like a true poppy playtime story. And choosing an orphan role for Y/n to play is something I wanted to write about since chapter three came out, but I never got the true motivation to do it.
Author: A couple of warnings before we start the chapter, any reader who has a learning disability, ADD, dyslexia, etc, this chapter will show Y/n being behind with her games, and at school, so if that stuff triggers you then I recommend not reading the first chapter.
Author: Thank you so much for continuing to read my story, I still do not know how well this story is going to go, thank you all so much for the support so far and I will do my best in uploading as much as I can.
The Game Station always felt like the surface world was holding its breath.
Not because it was loud—though it was, in a bright, manufactured way—but because everything about it was watched. The halls leading there were cleaner, shinier. The lights were harsher. The cheerful murals looked newer, like the paint had been touched up for the cameras that weren't supposed to exist.
And the air... the air up here never smelled like cinnamon or crayons.
It smelled like metal and rubber and electricity.
Y/n stood at the back of her little group of orphans, hands tucked into the sleeves of her oversized tee like she could disappear into the fabric if she tried hard enough. Her hair—Y/H/C, brushing down to Y/H/L—fell forward as she kept her head slightly lowered. Her eyes—Y/E/C—flicked nervously across the wide room, picking out the things that could go wrong: the echoing space, the way the staff herded them like they were late for something important, the towering game banners swaying above like circus flags.
Her skin—Y/S/T—caught the overhead lights in a way that made her feel exposed. Seen.
Days like this always did that to her.
She hated Game Station days. Hated how fast they moved. Hated how the instructions felt like they came in a language everyone else understood. Hated how her brain sometimes... snagged, like a zipper catching. Hated how long it took her to get better at things other kids picked up immediately. Hated how some children giggled when she hesitated, when she got confused, when she needed something repeated.
Her chest tightened. The familiar anxiety climbed her throat.
Then a warm shadow fell over her shoulder.
DogDay was with her.
Not physically holding her hand—he knew she didn't always want that in public—but close, close enough that the warmth of him steadied her like a wall at her back. Tall enough that when he leaned down slightly, his voice could be just for her.
"Hey, Angel," he murmured, soft and sunny. "I'm here."
Y/n let out a tiny breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her shoulders loosened—just a fraction.
"I don't like it," she whispered, eyes still down.
"I know." DogDay's tone didn't try to fix the feeling. It just made room for it. "You don't have to like it. You just have to get through it. And you're not doing it alone."
She nodded, clutching her sleeves tighter.
A staff member clapped their hands loudly, voice over-cheerful. "Alright, kids! Line up! We're going to rotate through the games like always!"
The words like always should've been comforting. Instead they made Y/n's stomach sink. Because like always meant she would struggle again. That she'd see the look. The sigh. The little impatient shift of a staff member who didn't want to repeat instructions. That she would be the last one done, the one slowing the group, the one feeling like a mistake that couldn't keep up.
DogDay's paw brushed lightly against her shoulder—barely contact, but enough.
"You've got this," he said.
Y/n swallowed. "Do I?"
DogDay's smile softened into something more certain. "Yeah. You do."
A murmur rolled through the Game Station like wind through tall grass.
Heads turned.
Staff straightened.
The atmosphere changed in a way even the children could feel—sudden attention, sudden importance, the sense that someone powerful had entered the room.
Then they appeared.
Elliot Ludwig first—clean suit, calm posture, that familiar warmth in his expression like the world was already a story he knew how to tell. Behind him, Leith Pierre moved with polished confidence, a smile that looked effortless and expensive. Harley Sawyer walked like the building belonged to him and he was annoyed it didn't behave better—broad-shouldered, eyes sharp, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something.
The staff gasped.
Then clapped—fast, eager, surprised applause rippling outward.
"Mr. Ludwig!"
"Sir!"
"Welcome!"
Elliot gave a gracious nod, lifting a hand in greeting like he was used to being loved in rooms like this. Leith's gaze swept over the staff and lingered just long enough to make a few of them blush, smiles widening as if they'd been chosen.
Harley didn't look at anyone like they mattered. He looked past them, into the station, toward the games.
Toward the children.
A few orphans whispered excitedly. Some waved. Some froze, suddenly aware of the adults watching.
Y/n did the thing she always did when attention entered a room: she tried to vanish.
Her head dipped lower. Her shoulders rounded. She tucked herself behind DogDay's presence instinctively.
DogDay shifted—not blocking her completely, but placing himself in a way that made her feel less visible.
Elliot's eyes moved over the group, gentle. He smiled at some children. Inclined his head to a staff member. Warm, warm, warm.
Leith Pierre looked like he was already imagining the press release.
Harley Sawyer looked like he was searching for a defect in a machine.
"Just observing," Elliot told the staff with that soothing voice. "Carry on. Let's see the joy."
"Of course!" a staff member squeaked, too cheerful. "Kids, big smiles! You're doing great!"
Y/n's stomach twisted.
Joy.
This wasn't joy for her.
This was performance.
A bright sign flashed as the first game station opened with a cheerful jingle:
WHACK-A-WUGGY
The group was guided forward. The game area was colorful and loud—cartoon wuggies popping up from holes, a scoreboard blinking. But there was something different today: a rack on the wall held several GrabPacks, their long elastic arms coiled neatly like sleeping snakes.
A staff member beamed. "Alright! Today we're practicing with the GrabPack!"
Y/n's heart jolted. She'd used it before, but never without trembling. The timing always messed her up. The sensations—stretch, snap, recoil—made her brain stutter. She was always a fraction late.
DogDay leaned down. "Want me to remind you?" he asked softly.
Y/n nodded quickly, eyes wide.
DogDay's voice was calm. "Breathe. Aim. One arm at a time. It's okay if it takes longer."
The staff began handing out GrabPacks. The straps were adjusted. The arms were tested.
A clean game overlay seemed to settle into the world—like the chapter had shifted from story into play.
GAMEPLAY: WHACK-A-WUGGY
EQUIP GRABPACK (Hold ✕)
LEFT HAND: L2 + R2
RIGHT HAND: R2
GOAL: Hit 10 Wuggies before timer ends
Y/n stepped up to her lane.
The timer blinked.
The first Wuggy popped up.
Y/n's brain said now! but her hands didn't listen fast enough.
She fired the left hand—too late. The arm snapped back with a rubbery thunk.
A kid beside her hit theirs instantly. Pop! Point scored. They giggled.
Y/n's cheeks heated.
Behind the lanes, Elliot watched, hands folded, smiling politely.
Leith looked bored already, glancing at the staff reactions.
Harley leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing—not at the children who excelled, but at the ones who struggled.
The next Wuggy popped up.
Y/n fired her right hand. It connected—barely.
+1
A small chime.
Her shoulders jumped like she couldn't believe she did it.
DogDay's voice came softly from behind her. "Good. Again."
Two Wuggies popped at once.
Y/n froze for half a second, overwhelmed by the choice.
She fired left—miss.
Fired right—hit.
+2
The timer ticked down.
The game sped up.
Y/n's breathing quickened. Her arms flung. The elastic snapped. Her timing wobbled.
She hit... missed... hit... missed.
The scoreboard for other kids climbed faster, brighter.
Someone snickered behind her. "She's so slow."
Y/n's eyes stung. Her hand trembled on the GrabPack strap.
DogDay's paw touched her shoulder again, grounding.
"Eyes on the holes," he murmured. "Not on the scoreboard."
Y/n swallowed.
Focused.
A Wuggy popped. She hit it.
+3
Another popped. She hit it too.
+4
For a moment, her movements smoothed out. The world narrowed to pop-up targets and the satisfying thunk of contact.
She wasn't the best.
But she was playing.
Then the timer blared.
TIME!
The results flashed.
Y/n's score was lower than most.
Not the lowest.
But low enough that she felt it anyway.
DogDay leaned in with a bright smile that didn't feel forced. "You did it," he said, like the score didn't matter. "You stayed in it."
Y/n's throat tightened. "I wasn't good."
DogDay's gaze held hers. "You were brave."
Across the lane, Elliot Ludwig's expression softened as he watched Y/n tug her sleeves down over her hands again, shrinking.
He looked... sad, almost.
Leith Pierre's attention flicked to Harley, as if to say Do we need to care about this one?
Harley Sawyer didn't look away.
His eyes stayed on Y/n like she was a problem he could solve.
Or a door he could open.
A staff member clapped loudly. "Great job, everyone! Next game—Musical Memory!"
The children were ushered forward into a large room filled with colorful floor pads arranged in a grid. Each pad lit up with a tone. A screen above displayed sequences.
Y/n's stomach sank again. This was the one that made her feel stupid—patterns too fast, sounds too many, her brain losing track mid-sequence like a page flipping itself.
DogDay stayed close. "I'll count with you," he whispered. "Quietly."
Elliot, Leith, and Harley followed along the outer perimeter, like judges at a show.
Leith Pierre tilted his head, unimpressed, like a manager watching poor performance.
Harley Sawyer's gaze sharpened.
"Again," the game prompted.
The sequence replayed.
Y/n repeated it, slower.
Success.
Her shoulders trembled with relief.
Next round.
Longer.
DogDay's whisper stayed steady, a metronome. "One... two... three..."
Y/n followed, but the lights blurred for half a second. Her heart pounded. She stepped wrong again.
BUZZER.
MISTAKE (2/3)
Her eyes stung hard now. She wanted to stop. Wanted to run back to Playcare and hide in the Kitchen and never have to perform again.
DogDay leaned closer. "Angel," he murmured. "Look at me."
For a heartbeat the game world softened—sound dropping slightly as if the player's focus shifted.
Y/n glanced up.
DogDay's smile was gentle, stubborn, real. "You're not bad," he said quietly. "Your brain just takes a different path. That's okay. We'll take it together."
Y/n's breath hitched.
She nodded.
The next attempt—slow, careful.
She completed it.
Success chime.
Not perfect.
But she didn't break.
From the edge of the room, Elliot Ludwig exhaled like he'd been holding tension.
Harley Sawyer's eyes narrowed with something that was not pity.
Interest.
A staff member announced brightly, "Alright, last game! Statues!"
The children were guided into a long hallway-like arena with tall pillars and painted lines on the floor. At the far end, the rules board flashed:
STATUES
Move only when allowed. Freeze when the music stops.
And there—coiled in the shadows near the "start" line—was PJ Pugapillar, huge and glossy-eyed, smiling in a way that was somehow both playful and unsettling. His tail twitched. His nose lifted, sniffing the air like he could smell who would panic first.
Y/n's throat tightened.
DogDay's voice softened. "Okay. This one's about listening. You can do listening."
The music started.
Children moved forward in a wave, giggling, darting between safe zones.
Y/n moved slower, cautious, trying not to bump anyone.
The music stopped.
Freeze.
Y/n locked in place.
PJ Pugapillar's long body slid forward with a smooth, almost lazy motion. He inspected the children like a referee with a sense of humor.
A kid's finger twitched.
PJ booped them with his nose.
A little "reset" jingle played, and the child was guided back to start, laughing nervously.
The music started again.
Y/n took a few steps, then stopped early, freezing before the stop.
Her heart hammered. Her anxiety made her want to move too much—adjust her sleeve, shift her foot—anything to relieve the pressure.
The music stopped.
Freeze.
She stayed still.
PJ glided closer. His big nose hovered near her knee, sniffing. He was so big that his shadow swallowed her.
Y/n's breath caught.
Her foot twitched.
Just a fraction.
PJ's nose booped her shin.
Not hard. Not painful. But the shame hit like a wave anyway.
The reset jingle chimed.
A staff member gently guided her back. "It's okay, sweetie! Try again!"
Y/n nodded fast, eyes down, face burning.
DogDay stayed beside her path like a sun at the edge of her vision. "That was close," he murmured. "Next time, you'll have it."
The music started again.
Y/n moved, slower, focusing on the sound, on timing, on holding her body still when the silence hit.
Stop.
Freeze.
She held.
PJ passed her this time.
A tiny victory.
She made it to the next safe line.
Another stop.
Freeze.
She held again, trembling, but holding.
She wasn't first.
She wasn't fast.
But she was still in the game.
And every time she didn't fail, DogDay's smile warmed like sunrise.
From the observation area, the executives watched.
Elliot's expression was gentle—pained, even—like he saw a child who needed kindness more than tests.
Leith Pierre looked toward the kids who excelled, already thinking about "results" and "potential" in a polished, distant way.
Harley Sawyer watched Y/n.
Not when she failed.
When she recovered.
When she returned to the start without screaming. When she tried again anyway. When her hands shook but her feet still moved forward. When she froze perfectly for two whole stops and then made it to another line.
Harley's eyes followed the rhythm of her struggle like it was data.
He leaned slightly toward Leith, voice low enough the children couldn't hear.
"See that one?" Harley murmured.
Leith's brow lifted faintly. "The slow kid?"
Harley didn't like that phrasing; it showed in the way his mouth tightened. "The persistent one."
Leith glanced over again, unimpressed. "She's not winning."
Harley's gaze stayed sharp. "Winning isn't the point."
Leith frowned. "Then what is?"
Harley's eyes didn't leave Y/n. "The ones who break are useless. The ones who bend... those can be shaped."
Leith's expression chilled. "You're talking like she's a product."
Harley's mouth twitched. "Everything here is a product."
Elliot Ludwig, standing a step away, heard enough to feel something sour in his stomach. He looked at Y/n—ten years old, wearing an oversized tee, trying so hard not to cry in front of strangers.
He looked... guilty.
Like he could see the seam behind his own story.
The music stopped again.
Y/n froze.
Perfectly.
PJ slid past without booping her.
She made it to the finish line.
Not first. Not even close.
But she made it.
A small completion jingle played for her lane.
DogDay leaned down, proud as sunlight. "You did it, Angel."
Y/n's eyes shone. "I did?"
DogDay nodded firmly. "Yeah."
She let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh.
Then she remembered she was being watched and her shoulders curled inward again.
And that was when Harley Sawyer's gaze sharpened into something that looked almost like satisfaction.
Not because she'd succeeded.
Because she'd shown him something.
Something Leith didn't understand.
Something Elliot didn't want to understand.
A staff member clapped, addressing the room. "Wonderful work, kids! We're done for today!"
The orphans began to disperse, chatter and relief spreading like water.
Y/n stayed close to DogDay, holding onto his presence with quiet desperation.
Behind them, the executives turned away—Elliot with lingering regret, Leith with businesslike boredom, Harley with eyes that didn't let go.
As Y/n walked, she felt it—the faint prickle of being singled out.
She looked back once, just a quick glance.
Harley Sawyer met her eyes.
For a second, his expression wasn't grumpy or impatient.
It was calculating.
And it made Y/n's stomach go cold, even with DogDay's warmth beside her.
DogDay's paw brushed her shoulder.
"Hey," he murmured, noticing her change instantly. "You okay?"
Y/n swallowed, eyes flicking away from Harley.
"I think so," she whispered.
DogDay's smile stayed, but something watchful entered it—subtle. Protective.
"Stay close," he said softly.
Y/n did.
And above them, in the bright, polished Game Station lights, Harley Sawyer's opportunity took shape—quietly, invisibly—like a shadow learning where the sun stands.
Y/n's lane cleared out in little bursts—kids laughing, staff praising, the bright artificial cheer rushing in to cover the uncomfortable parts. The station's speakers chirped a jaunty jingle as if a catchy tune could erase the way some children's hands shook after a buzzer.
Y/n stood very still.
DogDay was beside her, warm and steady, but even his presence couldn't completely drown out the feeling that this place didn't belong to her. Not like Playcare did. Not like the Kitchen. Not like the quiet corners where she could breathe without feeling measured.
A staff member leaned down with a bright smile. "Good try, sweetie! You'll get better next time!"
Y/n nodded politely.
She didn't argue. She didn't flinch. She didn't cry.
And that—more than any missed note or wrong step—was what made the air turn strange.
Because the other kids reacted the way adults expected children to react. They pouted. They huffed. They giggled. They complained. They begged to play again. They made noise.
Y/n didn't.
She simply stood there, hands tucked into her oversized sleeves, shoulders rounded, head slightly bowed—quiet as always.
But when she finally looked up...
...it wasn't with shame.
It wasn't with that watery, desperate need to be told she was okay.
It was the opposite.
Her eyes—Y/E/C—lifted to the observation area like she already knew they were there. Like she'd felt the weight of their attention long before her brain could name it.
The room seemed to narrow around that one moment. The noise softened. The lighting felt harsher, suddenly too white. Even PJ Pugapillar's idle shifting seemed to pause, as if the whole Game Station had turned its face toward the same point.
Y/n's expression was calm.
Not blank—calm.
A stillness that didn't belong on a ten-year-old's face.
Her mouth didn't tremble with embarrassment. Her hands didn't wring. Her eyes didn't plead.
She looked at them the way a child looks at rain through a window: it's happening. It always happens. It doesn't matter if I hate it. It's still going to fall.
Harley Sawyer met her gaze first.
And something ran down his spine like cold water.
Not because she looked angry.
Not because she looked broken.
Because she looked... used to it.
Because her eyes didn't ask for mercy.
They didn't even ask to be understood.
They simply acknowledged him—quietly, directly—as if she recognized a predator the way prey recognizes the shape of teeth.
Harley's throat tightened. His jaw flexed. He didn't like feeling anything that wasn't control, and for a split second, he felt something dangerously close to being seen.
Leith Pierre's smile faltered in a way so small it could've been missed by anyone who wasn't watching him with a microscope. His brows lifted, then drew together faintly.
He'd expected tears.
He'd expected frustration.
He'd expected emotion he could categorize and dismiss.
Instead, Y/n's calm landed wrong. Like a number that didn't fit the equation.
Elliot Ludwig's expression shifted more visibly.
His brows furrowed, not in annoyance—concern. Confusion. A quiet alarm that he tried to hide behind his practiced warmth.
Because Elliot had built his life on the belief that children were hope.
Children were bright.
Children were loud with need.
Children were meant to reach for adults with open hands and trust in their faces.
But Y/n's gaze didn't reach.
It didn't trust.
It didn't even resent.
It simply... endured.
And there was something frightening about that.
Not in a monstrous way.
In a human way.
In the way it suggested that whatever had happened to her—before Playcare, before this day—had taught her not to expect rescue.
Harley felt it in his bones.
A chill. A prickle. An instinctive recognition of something that could not be coached into a smile.
That's not failure, his mind whispered, sharp and sudden.
That's survival.
Y/n held their eyes for one steady second.
Two.
Long enough that the adults, all three of them, felt like they were the ones being evaluated.
Then she did something so small it almost didn't register.
Her lips curved—just barely.
Not a happy smile.
Not even a sad one.
A tiny, polite, automatic shape. The kind you wear when you've learned adults like it when you pretend to be fine.
And then she looked away.
Just like that.
As if she'd already decided they weren't worth the energy it would take to care.
DogDay noticed the shift in the air immediately. He always did. His posture changed—subtle, protective—like a sun moving in front of a cloud.
He leaned down, voice low and gentle. "Angel?" he murmured. "You okay?"
Y/n blinked once, slowly, like she was coming back from far away.
Then she looked at DogDay, and the difference was instant.
The guarded calm softened into something real. Something childlike. Something that actually belonged to ten years old.
A small warmth returned to her eyes.
"I'm okay," she whispered.
DogDay studied her face like he was checking for cracks. "You sure?"
Y/n nodded.
But her fingers tightened around her sleeves again—subtle proof that she wasn't as okay as she wanted to be.
DogDay's smile remained, but his gaze flicked toward the observation area—toward the three men.
He saw Elliot's furrowed brow.
He saw Leith's calculating stare.
And he saw Harley Sawyer's expression—hard, intent, and just a little shaken.
DogDay's voice softened further, like he was wrapping Y/n in it. "Let's go home," he said. "We'll get you something sweet."
Y/n nodded quickly, relief passing through her like sunlight.
As they began to walk away with the other kids, Y/n glanced back one more time—brief, almost accidental.
Harley Sawyer was still watching her.
But now his chill had sharpened into something else.
Interest.
Not pity.
Not admiration.
Opportunity.
Leith leaned toward him, lips barely moving. "What is it?"
Harley didn't look away from Y/n as he answered.
"The slow one you call her..." he said quietly, voice like a blade being drawn. "She doesn't break the way the others do."
Harley finally blinked. "Behind isn't the same as weak."
Then he said the part that made Elliot's stomach drop.
"And the ones who learned how to survive without help..." Harley's voice lowered, almost reverent in its coldness. "...those are the ones that last."
Down on the floor, Y/n walked beside DogDay, clutching the oversized tee around herself like armor, trying to focus on his warmth instead of the way the air still felt watched.
She didn't know why those men had looked at her like that.
She didn't know why she'd looked back without fear.
She only knew one thing:
Game Station days always took something out of her.
And today, for the first time, it felt like something had been taken from her—
by eyes that didn't feel human at all.
........
By the time the orphans filed back into Playcare, the "sun" above the courtyard had shifted to that permanent late-afternoon glow the facility liked best—golden, gentle, manufactured calm.
It should've felt like relief.
For most of the kids, it did. They burst through the entry corridor like a shaken soda can—laughing, complaining, trading stories about who got booped by PJ, who nailed Musical Memory, who "totally almost won" Statues even if everyone knew they didn't.
But the staff's smiles were tighter than usual.
Their voices were too bright.
They were running behind.
"Alright, alright!" a counselor clapped, walking backward to herd them. "Game Station ran long today, kiddos! That means we're late for school—so let's hustle those happy feet!"
A chorus of groans rose immediately.
"Nooo!"
"But we're tired!"
"I'm hungry!"
A staff member laughed in that practiced way. "Snack after class. You know the rules."
Y/n moved with the crowd, but she wasn't inside the laughter. Her hands were tucked into her sleeves, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes on the floor lines as if they were the safest thing in the world.
DogDay stayed with her until the last possible moment—walking beside her through the main concourse, keeping his steps matched to hers, angling his body so she didn't get swallowed by the moving herd.
"You did good," he murmured again, like he needed her to hear it enough times for it to sink past the mean part of her brain.
Y/n nodded. She didn't trust her voice to come out steady.
They approached the School corridor—bright posters, cheerful banners, the smell of paper and pencil shavings drifting into the hall.
And there it was: the line in the floor. A painted boundary. A wide archway with a sign in bubbly letters:
PLAYCARE SCHOOL — STAFF & STUDENTS ONLY
No mascots beyond this point.
DogDay slowed.
Y/n's stomach sank as if gravity doubled.
She stopped too, just behind the line.
DogDay knelt slightly so he could meet her eyes. His smile was still warm, but watchful now—like he'd noticed the way she'd been quieter since the Game Station. Like he'd noticed the moment she'd looked up at the observation deck and something in the air had turned cold.
"You'll be okay," he said softly.
Y/n's fingers tightened around her sleeves. "I don't like school."
"I know." DogDay's voice gentled even more. "You don't have to like it. You just have to get through it. And you're not doing it alone."
"One class," DogDay murmured. "Then snack. Then I'll see you."
Y/n nodded again, swallowing the tightness in her throat.
DogDay gave her a bright, encouraging grin—his "sunshine" face. "Go show them your brave."
Y/n's mouth twitched, a tiny smile.
Then she stepped across the line.
DogDay remained on the other side.
And the warmth left her like someone turned off a heater.
Objective: Go to Anatomy Class. Follow the yellow star markers. The camera settles behind Y/n's shoulder, third-person and intimate. The School corridor looks brighter than the rest of Playcare—cleaner, whiter, sharper, like it wants to prove it's "good" by being perfect. Children surge ahead in clusters, their voices bouncing off the ceiling, and Y/n's Anxiety meter flickers up when anyone brushes too close. Tip: Crowds raise Anxiety. Walk near walls to lower it. You guide her along murals and corners, the star markers glinting gently at each turn, until she reaches a classroom door labeled ANATOMY — MISS DELIGHT. Interact (✕): Enter Class.
The classroom is neat in a way that feels too controlled: rows of desks, bright posters of hearts and lungs with smiling faces, a plastic torso model at the front with toy-colored organs. Y/n drifts toward the back row without thinking—habit, safety, distance—and when you steer her to a seat, Choose a seat: Move to a desk and press ✕, she sits with her shoulders slightly hunched, pencil case placed carefully, hands tucked back into her sleeves.
The door opens.
Miss Delight enters like a commercial come to life—perfect smile, glassy eyes reflecting the overhead lights, crisp teacher's outfit, hair arranged with careful symmetry. Her steps have a tiny, almost musical click, as if she's a metronome for the entire room. She's one of eight—her sisters drift past the hallway window now and then, identical silhouettes, identical smiles, and the effect makes the school feel like it loops in on itself.
"Good afternoon, my little sunbeams!" she sings, hands clasped. "What a busy day you've had!"
A few kids giggle. Someone groans. Miss Delight's smile doesn't change.
"Game Station ran long, didn't it?" she chirps. "But learning doesn't stop just because our bodies are sleepy, does it?"
She taps the board, and the lesson begins. "Today we'll be learning about the heart!"
Y/n's stomach twists. Her own heart is the loudest thing she knows—beating too fast, squeezing too tight, reacting to everything like it's danger.
Miss Delight's gaze glides across the room—and pauses on Y/n like a camera autofocus. Something in the air tightens.
Miss Delight is calling on you. Stand up: hold ✕. Y/n's chair scrapes softly as she rises; a few heads turn. Miss Delight's voice is honey-sweet. "Y/n, dear. Come show us where the ventricles are." Objective: Go to the diagram. Move: Left Stick. Steady breath: hold L1 to reduce Anxiety. You guide her down the aisle, her Anxiety meter pulsing. You hold L1, and her shoulders lift on a quiet inhale and settle. The pulsing slows.
At the front, the heart diagram highlights faintly. Interact (✕): Point to the ventricles. A cursor appears over the diagram, and it wobbles slightly with Y/n's trembling hand. A timer ticks down—soft but present. You move the cursor to the lower chambers and press ✕.
A gentle chime. Correct.
Miss Delight claps once—precise, doll-perfect. "Wonderful! See, sunbeams? Y/n can do it!" Y/n's cheeks flush; she shrinks even as she succeeds, returning to her desk quickly, shoulders curling inward again.
Worksheets slide onto desks like a tide. Miss Delight makes anatomy sound like a storybook—valves like little doors, chambers like cozy rooms—but the page in front of Y/n is too busy, the words too many, the instructions long enough that her brain snags. Other kids' pencils scratch fast. Some finish early and doodle. Y/n reads the first question. Then again. Then again.
The familiar panic rises. I'm behind. I'm behind. I'm behind.
Miss Delight glides between rows, humming softly—sweet, steady, too consistent. She pauses at Y/n's desk. The camera tilts slightly up; Miss Delight's smile fills a bit too much of the screen, bright and unblinking.
"Y/n, dear," she says gently, and it still feels like pressure. "What is the name of the vessel that carries blood away from the heart?"
Answer prompt: choose quickly. Options bloom on-screen like lifelines: Vein. Artery. Capillary. Valve. A timer appears—short. Y/n's fingers fidget at her sleeve. Hold L1: steady breath to slow the timer. You hold it, the countdown easing, the screen steadying. You select Artery.
Correct.
Miss Delight's smile widens. "Good choice, dear."
The words should feel like praise. They don't. They feel recorded.
The lesson continues. Miss Delight taps the plastic torso model and chirps, "Your heart works even when you sleep! It is a loyal little friend!" Her sisters pass in the hallway again, identical, and for a second it looks like the same doll walks past twice. Y/n's eyes flick to the door, then down again.
Miss Delight turns, hands clasped, eyes shining. "Now, sunbeams—who can tell me, in their own words, why the heart has valves?"
Several kids fling hands into the air, eager.
Miss Delight's gaze slides past them.
And lands on Y/n again.
"Y/n," she says softly. "You."
Y/n freezes. The room seems to hush for half a breath.
Speaking challenge: choose the best explanation. Hold L1 to slow the timer. A wheel of options appears—structured help for a mind that tangles under open-ended pressure: So blood doesn't go backwards. So the heart can rest sometimes. So the lungs get more air. The timer ticks. You hold L1, the pressure easing, and choose the first.
Correct.
Miss Delight beams. "Yes! Exactly! Valves keep blood moving the right way. Forward is healthy, sunbeams!"
A few kids clap lightly. Y/n sits down fast, shoulders curling in, cheeks burning—not with pride, but with the exhaustion of being seen.
Class drifts into more quiet tasks—matching diagrams, circling answers, short little prompts that stack up like bricks. Y/n's pace is slower; she re-reads instructions; she pauses. The game allows it, but the room doesn't. She feels eyes sometimes. She hears whispers.
"She's always last," someone mutters, not quite softly enough.
Y/n's Anxiety meter spikes.
Optional: Look down (hold R3) to lower attention. Optional: Steady breath (hold L1). If you look down, the camera dips—Y/n shrinking into herself, safe but smaller. If you steady breath, she stays upright, present, trembling but refusing to disappear.
When the bell chime finally sounds, chairs scrape. Kids surge toward the door like they're escaping a net. Y/n stays back, gathering her things carefully, avoiding the rush, hugging her papers to her chest like armor.
She steps into the hallway—
And then it happens.
Miss Delight's voice catches her like a thread around the ankle.
"Y/n."
Y/n stops. Her throat tightens.
Prompt: Turn around? Yes (✕) / No (○). You press ✕.
Y/n turns.
Miss Delight stands framed in the doorway light. Her smile is perfect. Her eyes don't blink.
"You worked hard today," Miss Delight says sweetly.
Y/n nods. "Thank you."
Miss Delight tilts her head, studying the way Y/n holds herself, as if posture is also a lesson. "Some children learn quickly," she says. "Some learn slowly. But all can learn."
Y/n nods again, unsure where this is going, heart thudding.
Miss Delight takes one measured step closer, and the hallway feels colder for it.
"And you," she says softly, "are very interesting."
Y/n's stomach drops. Her Anxiety meter jumps.
Respond: choose. Options appear: I'm sorry. I try. (Silence). If you hesitate, the game defaults to I'm sorry—because that's what Y/n's body has learned to say when adults loom.
You choose I try.
Y/n whispers, "I... I try."
Miss Delight's smile widens a fraction too far, like it's stretching on a hinge you can't see. "I know you do, dear," she says, voice still gentle. "I would like to see what you can do... when you are not afraid."
The words land wrong—like a compliment that isn't one.
Then her tone snaps bright again, cheerful as a bell. "Run along now! Snack time!"
Y/n turns away quickly and walks along the wall where she feels smaller and safer, clutching her papers, trying to shake the prickle off her skin.
Objective: Go to the Kitchen for snack. Follow the orange sun icon. The farther she gets from the classroom, the warmer the corridor lighting becomes, the friendlier the smells—bread, sugar, something comforting. The moment she crosses the school boundary line, the world feels less sharp.
DogDay is waiting like he promised—near the edge of the hall, posture casual but eyes scanning for her the second she appears. When he sees her, his smile softens immediately.
"Angel," he says, stepping toward her. "How was it?"
Y/n tries to answer like she's fine.
Her face betrays her anyway—tight mouth, glassy eyes, the way her shoulders still sit too high.
DogDay's voice drops gentle. "Hey. Look at me."
She does.
"Did you get through it?" he asks.
Y/n nods. "Yeah."
DogDay's paw brushes her shoulder, warm and grounding. "Then you did enough."
Something in Y/n unclenches. Relief spills through her like sunlight finally reaching skin.
DogDay brightens with a grin. "Come on. Snack time. I saved you the biggest cookie."
Y/n's lips twitch, the tiniest smile forming.
And as they walk toward the Kitchen—toward warmth, toward familiar sounds, toward safety—Y/n tries to ignore the lingering echo of Miss Delight's words.
Very interesting.
Tries to ignore the way the executives watched her earlier.
Tries to ignore the faint sense that being "interesting" in Playcare isn't always a compliment.
Because DogDay is here.
Because the cookie smell is real.
Because for now, the world still smiles.
But somewhere beneath the bright paint and cheerful posters, something has started to pay attention to her—tracking her not for joy, but for potential.
And attention, Y/n is learning, can be its own kind of danger.
The Kitchen hallway was warmer than the School corridor, and it felt like that warmth had a sound—soft chatter, the clink of trays being stacked, the distant laugh of a staff member who didn't sound like they were forcing it. The air carried sugar and bread and something cinnamon-sweet that made Y/n's shoulders loosen for the first time all day.
DogDay walked beside her, matching her pace without making it obvious. He didn't rush her the way the staff did. He didn't make her feel like she was holding up the world. He just... stayed in step, bright and steady, the way a sunny day stays sunny even when clouds try to roll in.
Y/n kept her hands tucked in her sleeves, clutching the oversized tee around herself like armor. She could still hear Miss Delight's voice in the back of her head—very interesting—and the echo of the Game Station's lights, and the way the men on the observation deck had looked at her like she was a math problem they couldn't solve.
DogDay's voice cut through it gently. "Cookie first," he said, trying to sound playful. "Then we can do something fun. Maybe—" he leaned closer, a conspiratorial whisper, "—I'll let you pick the movie."
Y/n's lips twitched. "You always let me pick."
DogDay's grin widened. "That's because you pick the best ones."
The corner of her mouth lifted a little more, and for a second the tightness in her chest eased—like her heart remembered what it was supposed to feel like when it wasn't bracing for impact.
They rounded a corner near the main concourse. The hallway widened. Foot traffic thickened. Kids darted past, staff called names, the world became busier.
Y/n instinctively drifted toward the wall to avoid being bumped.
DogDay angled himself subtly between her and the crowd.
"Angel," he murmured, "breathe."
She did.
Then the crowd shifted unexpectedly—someone moved a cart, a group of kids swerved, a staff member stepped backward while talking—and Y/n, trying to avoid the chaos, stepped sideways at the exact wrong moment.
She bumped into something solid.
Not a cart.
Not a wall.
A person.
Hard legs in dress pants, planted like a post.
Y/n's shoulder hit first. Her balance went second. Her feet tangled, and the world tilted too fast to catch.
She stumbled back and dropped onto her butt with a soft thump, pain sparking up her tailbone.
"Ow—" she gasped, wincing, hands flying to the floor.
For half a second, she just sat there, cheeks burning, every nerve screaming too much, too loud, too seen.
The hallway noise seemed to recede around her, like the crowd felt the wrongness and instinctively gave it space.
DogDay was there instantly.
His bright warmth slammed into place like a shield.
"Angel!" he said, dropping down beside her, one paw hovering as if he wanted to help but didn't want to yank her without permission. His voice was softer now, urgent. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
Y/n shook her head quickly, wincing. "No—just... my butt."
DogDay's ears flicked, relief and concern mixing. "Okay. Okay." He looked her over anyway, eyes scanning, checking, protective.
Then his attention snapped upward.
Because the person she'd run into hadn't moved.
Hadn't stepped back.
Hadn't offered a hand.
Hadn't laughed it off.
They just stood there.
Still.
Blocking the light.
DogDay's posture shifted—subtle, but immediate. His smile didn't disappear, but something watchful entered it, like the sun ducking behind a cloud to assess whether a storm was coming.
DogDay started to rise, still half between Y/n and the figure. "Sir—" he began, voice polite, apologetic in the way mascots were trained to be. "I'm sorry about that, she didn't mean to—"
He looked up fully.
And the apology died in his throat.
Because the man towering over them was not staff.
Not a counselor.
Not one of the friendly faces of Playcare.
It was Dr. Harley Sawyer.
The hallway seemed to dim around him—not because the lights changed, but because he carried a heaviness that made brightness feel smaller. His presence didn't belong among murals and snack smells. It belonged behind locked doors and warning signs.
His expression, at first glance, was the same hard-edged impatience he wore like armor. Brow tense. Jaw set. Eyes sharp enough to cut. The kind of face that made adults straighten and children quiet without knowing why.
DogDay's voice faltered. "Dr... Sawyer."
Harley's gaze didn't go to DogDay.
It went to Y/n.
Down on the floor, Y/n stared up at him, frozen. Her heart hammered. Her sleeves felt too thin. Her skin felt too exposed beneath the bright lights. She tried to stand, to scramble up, but her tailbone throbbed and her limbs felt clumsy and slow—like the games earlier, like the worksheets, like her body never quite listened quickly enough.
Her eyes—Y/E/C—met his.
And the world tightened.
It was the same cold prickle as the Game Station.
Only sharper now.
Closer.
Harley didn't smile. Not the polite, public kind. Not even the forced staff kind.
But he didn't look angry either.
Not at her.
He looked... focused.
Like he was seeing past her embarrassment. Past her clumsiness. Past the way she was trying to fold herself smaller.
Like he was seeing something underneath.
DogDay's voice found itself again, careful and firm. "Sir, she didn't mean to bump you. She's just—"
"Quiet," Harley said.
Deep. Raspy. Not loud—but the kind of voice that didn't need volume to make the air obey. It scraped like gravel dragged across metal.
DogDay went still.
So did the hallway around them. Even the nearby kids seemed to sense something wrong, the way animals sense thunder before it arrives. A few staff members paused with trays in their hands, uncertainty flickering in their faces.
Harley's gaze didn't leave Y/n.
Then, to DogDay's surprise—everyone's surprise—Harley moved.
He knelt.
Right there in the hallway, in his expensive slacks, lowering himself until he was level with Y/n's eyes.
It wasn't a warm gesture.
It wasn't friendly.
It was deliberate.
Measured.
Like an experiment changing variables to see what happens.
Up close, his face looked more human—rougher, more tired than it appeared from a distance. There was a faint tension around his eyes that suggested sleeplessness. Obsession. The kind of mind that didn't turn off just because the lights dimmed.
His voice dropped lower, softer in volume but not in weight.
"You hurt?" he asked.
Y/n blinked, startled by the question. Her throat worked uselessly. She nodded—small, automatic. "A little."
Harley's eyes flicked to her hands on the floor, to the way her fingers curled into her sleeves, to the way she tried to hide even while sitting in plain sight.
Then he did something that made DogDay's fur prickle.
Harley's expression softened.
Not much.
Just enough to be wrong on his face.
Like a crack in concrete.
"Get up," he said—not harshly, not kindly. Just... certain.
Y/n flinched, trying to push herself up, wincing. Her body didn't cooperate quickly. She stumbled.
DogDay reached to help, but Harley lifted one hand—stopping him without looking.
DogDay's jaw tightened.
Harley watched Y/n struggle for half a second, then—slowly—offered his hand.
Big hand. Calloused. Ringless. The hand of someone who worked with tools and machines, not children.
Y/n stared at it like it might bite.
DogDay's voice came low, protective. "Angel, you don't have to—"
Harley's eyes flicked to DogDay for the first time, cold and sharp. "I didn't ask you."
The tone was steel.
But then his gaze returned to Y/n, and the steel changed shape—still hard, but... aimed differently.
"Take it," Harley said, quieter. "Or don't. But stand."
Something about the way he spoke wasn't a command meant to crush her.
It was a command meant to test her.
To see what she did.
Y/n's chest tightened. Her mind raced with fear, with shame, with the old instinct to obey adults so they wouldn't get angry, so they wouldn't leave, so they wouldn't hurt.
But there was something else too—something stubborn inside her, something that had looked up at three men earlier and not begged.
She swallowed, then slowly reached out.
Her fingers touched Harley's hand.
His grip closed—not crushing, but firm. Unyielding. Like an anchor.
He pulled her up in one smooth motion, and Y/n was on her feet again before she could wobble.
Her heart pounded.
DogDay immediately moved closer, placing himself at her side, his body angled protectively. "Angel," he murmured, voice soft. "You okay?"
Y/n nodded, eyes still locked on Harley despite herself.
Up close, she could smell him—sharp cologne, metal, something antiseptic. Nothing comforting.
Harley studied her face like he was reading lines only he could see. His eyes lingered on the way she didn't cry. The way she didn't apologize immediately. The way she held herself—small, but not... broken.
"You're Ludwig's orphan," Harley said.
Not a question.
A fact.
Y/n's mouth went dry. "I... I'm from Playcare."
Harley's gaze sharpened. "I know what you're from."
DogDay's posture stiffened. "Sir—"
Harley ignored him again, crouching slightly closer to Y/n, as if the rest of the hallway had vanished. "You were in the Game Station today."
Y/n's stomach turned. Her voice came out thin. "Yes."
Harley's eyes narrowed. "You struggled."
Y/n flinched. Shame flooded hot. "I— I tried."
"I saw." Harley's voice was raspy, and for a heartbeat, something raw slipped through—an emotion that didn't belong on him. Not kindness. Not sympathy. Something darker.
Recognition.
"You didn't cry," he said softly.
Y/n blinked.
"You didn't rage." His eyes searched hers. "You didn't beg for help. You just kept going."
DogDay's jaw clenched. "She was scared."
Harley's gaze flicked to DogDay again, irritated. "So were half of them." Then back to Y/n. "They break anyway."
The words were cold enough to make the hallway feel colder.
Y/n's breath hitched.
Harley's expression shifted again, that strange softness returning—but not gentle, not loving. More like interest wearing the shape of tenderness.
"Do you know what that means?" Harley asked, voice low.
Y/n shook her head.
Harley leaned in slightly, and the lights above caught his eyes in a way that made them look almost fever-bright.
"It means you have control," he murmured. "Even when you're behind. Even when you're slow. Even when everyone's watching and waiting for you to fall apart."
Y/n's heart pounded painfully. She didn't know whether to feel proud or terrified.
DogDay's voice came out sharper now, protective sunlight turning into warning. "Sir, she's ten."
Harley didn't even blink. "I know exactly how old she is."
That sentence landed like a door locking.
A staff member in the distance shifted uncomfortably. Someone whispered Harley's name like it was a prayer and a warning at the same time.
Harley's attention returned to Y/n fully. His voice softened—just a fraction—softer than it had been with anyone else.
"I don't like wasted potential," he said.
Y/n's hands curled into her sleeves again, trying to hide the tremor. "I... I'm not—"
"Don't," Harley cut in, not cruelly, but with impatience toward self-denial. "Don't tell me what you are. You don't know yet."
Y/n stared at him, breath caught.
Harley's face twitched—some emotion fighting to surface. For a second he looked almost... haunted. Like a man standing too close to a mirror and recognizing something he doesn't want to admit.
Then the mask snapped back into place: grumpy, sharp, controlled.
He rose to his full height, towering again, casting a shadow that felt too long for Playcare's cheerful hallway.
His eyes stayed on Y/n.
"When you're older," he said, voice low enough to feel like a secret and a threat at the same time, "you're going to understand why today mattered."
Y/n's throat tightened. "Why?"
Harley's mouth curled, not into a smile—into something that resembled one the way a crack resembles a line.
"Because the world doesn't care about who's fastest," he murmured. "It cares about who lasts."
DogDay stepped forward slightly, putting himself more clearly between Harley and Y/n now. "We should go," he said, voice polite but firm.
Harley's eyes slid to DogDay, and his expression turned sour. "Yes," he said flatly. "Take her."
A pause.
Then he looked back at Y/n, and the softness flickered again—brief, startling.
"Keep that calm," he said quietly. "Don't waste it."
Y/n's breath trembled out of her. She couldn't tell if her chest hurt from fear or from the strange, unwanted weight of being noticed.
Harley straightened his jacket as if none of this mattered. As if he hadn't knelt in the hallway for a child.
As if he hadn't revealed a crack of something human.
He turned to leave.
And as he walked away, his voice drifted back over his shoulder—deep, raspy, edged with something like irritation at himself for caring at all.
"Tell Ludwig I'll be in Special Projects."
Then he disappeared down the hall, swallowed by Playcare's brightness like a stain sinking into fabric.
For a moment, everything stayed quiet.
Then the hallway noise returned in awkward little pieces—staff exhaling, kids whispering, the clink of trays resuming as if the world had just held its breath and could finally breathe again.
Y/n stood frozen, heart hammering.
DogDay's paw touched her shoulder, warm and steady.
"Angel," he said softly, voice full of careful calm. "Look at me."
Y/n blinked and turned her gaze up to him.
DogDay's expression wasn't sunny now. It was protective. Serious. The way sunlight looks right before a storm.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said.
Y/n's voice came out tiny. "Why did he... talk to me like that?"
DogDay swallowed. His paw squeezed her shoulder gently.
"I don't know," he admitted, and the honesty in it made Y/n's stomach twist. "But I don't like it."
Y/n's hands tightened around her sleeves. Her eyes flicked down the hallway where Harley had gone, as if she could still see his shadow.
DogDay shifted closer, blocking her view with his warmth. "Snack," he said softly, almost pleading. "Cookie. Okay? Let's get you safe."
Y/n nodded, because she didn't know what else to do.
They started walking again, DogDay staying close, his steps matching hers, his presence a shield.
But the cookie smell didn't feel as comforting anymore.
Because now Y/n knew what it felt like to be noticed by someone whose attention didn't feel like love.
And somewhere deep in Playcare, behind bright paint and cheerful signs, the feeling lingered like a whisper against the back of her neck:
You're going to be something...
Not a promise.
Not a compliment.
A claim.
The camera pulls back—cinematic, slow—framing Y/n and DogDay moving toward warmth while, far behind them, the hallway they left looks a little too long, a little too empty, a little too quiet... as if the building itself is listening.
Description: Y/n has always been the quiet orphan-too soft, too heavy, too easy to overlook. At Playtime Co., the only ones who ever made her feel wanted were the Smiling Critters… and Dogday, the sunshine that kept her alive when her own heart couldn't.
But during the Hour of Joy, everything rots.
Dragged deep below into the Prototype's territory, Y/n is trapped with the other orphans-until the red gas meant to erase them… doesn't.
She wakes up. Alone. Breathing.
And if the factory wants her silent, it picked the wrong girl-because she's getting out… and she's finding Dogday. Even if she has to tear the dark open with her bare hands.
With the help of new ally's, and the horror of enemies, Y/n will not give up to find Dogday and the other smiling critters, and maybe put a stop to Playtime Co overall.
Author: Hello, thank you for reading my story. I love Poppy Playtime, and since Chapter five is coming soon, I thought I would write a fanfic about it focusing on the orphans POV, and I felt so bad for Dogday dying in chapter three, so this is also a fanfiction about him, and the smiling critters too.
Before we get started, this story like it said in the description will have Blood, Gore, Violence, Horror, mental health topics, Fat shaming, Skinny Shaming, and Suicide and Suicidal thoughts mentioning in this story, if any of those trigger you PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY AT ALL.
I don't know how popular this story is going to be, but I will try my best uploading as much as I can.
Anyways, without further a do here is the prologue, I do hope you enjoy! :-)
On the night Playcare was announced, America learned how easy it was to fall in love with a lie.
Living rooms glowed blue with late-evening television. Diners kept the sound low, letting the broadcast chatter mix with clinking silverware. In break rooms and back offices, people paused mid-sip of coffee because the anchor's voice had that particular edge—this matters, you should watch.
A new project from Playtime Co.
A miracle, they said.
A promise, they said.
A place where the unwanted could become cherished.
And for a few shining minutes, with the lights hot and the cameras hungry, it really did look like salvation.
Nobody on the surface could hear the ventilation hum far below the factory floor. Nobody watching the broadcast could smell disinfectant and crayons at the same time. Nobody clapping at the end of the segment could picture a hallway painted in friendly colors that never quite reached the corners.
Because that was the trick of it—how perfectly the story was told.
How carefully every word was chosen to make you think of soft blankets and bedtime stories, not locks and keypads. How the laughter they promised sounded so bright you didn't think to ask what it might cost to keep it that way.
The cameras found him the way cameras always do—by instinct, by gravity.
Elliot Ludwig stood at the center of a bright stage washed in television light, the Playtime Co. logo looming behind him like a halo painted in primary colors. The press room buzzed with restless hunger: reporters tightening their grips on microphones, producers mouthing countdowns, photographers snapping test shots that popped like distant fireworks.
It wasn't just a crowd. It was the kind of crowd that smelled like ink and hot equipment and ambition—too many bodies in suits and blouses pressed together under the glare, too many voices stacked on top of each other like a hive learning it had found honey.
Behind Elliot—positioned far enough to be "support" and not quite close enough to be "equal"—stood the people the public didn't clap for.
Harley Sawyer, square-shouldered and stone-faced, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else than near an audience that could ask questions. His eyes tracked the room the way a security guard's would, sharp and impatient, as if he was measuring how long it would take to remove every person who got in his way.
Leith Pierre wore a polished smile that never touched his eyes, posture perfect, chin tilted just high enough to broadcast confidence. He studied the cameras like he knew exactly which angle made him look most important.
Stella Greyber stood with hands clasped, bright and animated even while still, as if the very idea of "children" was a tune only she could hear. Her gaze drifted up to the Playcare signage and back down again, imagination painting pictures the cameras could never capture.
Eddie M. N. Ritterman lingered like a shadow that had learned how to stand upright. Calm. Present. Not quite there. A man who seemed built for locked doors and confidential memos, not spotlights.
A stagehand darted past the foot of the platform, breathless, whispering into a headset. A red light blinked on the main broadcast camera. Someone in the front row cleared their throat like it was a declaration of intent.
Leith's eyes flicked toward the sea of press and narrowed, measuring. "That's more than the RSVP list," he murmured, barely moving his lips.
Stella, still smiling faintly, leaned a fraction closer, voice like a secret passed in class. "Is that... all local? Or did we get national?"
Eddie's gaze slid over the room in a slow sweep, cataloging without expression. "National," he said quietly. "At least three. Maybe four. And—" his attention paused on a cluster near the aisle—"two foreign correspondents."
Harley's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Too many," he muttered. "You can practically smell the lawsuits."
Leith's smile stayed in place, but it sharpened at the edges. "This is good," he whispered back. "Big coverage means big sentiment. Big sentiment means less digging."
Harley gave him a look that could have peeled paint. "Big sentiment makes people brave. Brave people ask questions."
Stella's eyes remained bright, but something dark and pleased glimmered underneath. "Questions are fine," she said softly. "Questions mean they care."
Eddie didn't agree or disagree. He simply watched the press the way you watched weather—calmly, because it couldn't be argued with. "Count," he added, like a fact tossed on the table. "Over a hundred. Closer to one-fifty if you include camera crews."
Leith's eyebrows lifted a hair, satisfied. "One-fifty," he repeated, like he was tasting it. "Elliot will love that."
Harley's jaw worked once. "Elliot loves children, not vultures."
"And yet," Leith said, eyes cutting toward the host, "vultures make good publicity when you feed them something shiny."
The host's voice rolled out—thin, eager, practiced—introducing Elliot as a visionary, a philanthropist, a man with a heart as large as his company. The applause came fast, loud, obedient, like a reflex the room had been trained to perform.
Elliot's hands rested lightly on the podium. A stack of neat papers sat in front of him, but everyone knew he wouldn't need them. He never did when he spoke about his toys. About his dreams. About children.
He glanced once, just once, over his shoulder—toward the four behind him. It wasn't a look for the cameras. It was a look that said we're doing this, and I'm trusting you to hold the world back while I hold the light up.
Leith answered with a minute nod.
Stella's smile widened, proud as a teacher watching a child step onto a stage.
Eddie didn't change, but his attention tightened, like a door clicking into lock.
Harley's expression remained gruff, but his stance shifted—half a step, subtle, ready.
Then the room went quiet.
Elliot stepped forward, and the first words arrived softly, like a match struck in the dark.
Here is the transcript that played live across the country:
"Hello."
"My name is Elliot Ludwig."
"When you look around at the world today, what one thing do you think it needs more of?"
"I asked around, once."
"Money, I never have enough."
"Understanding, I can never get any."
"Faith, the common man has lost it."
"Each answer was different... and I could perhaps see some little truth in each."
"But I think each was also missing something."
"Something simple."
"You see, not one of them could muster a smile."
...
"A smile is hope."
"A smile is love."
"A smile is understanding."
"And there is nothing more gratifying to my soul than being the reason for a child's smile."
"To be the spark that ignites all their hopes and dreams."
"For it is only through hopes and dreams that we may create a better world."
"One where our children need not be afraid."
"One where they are protected."
"After all, this company and its toys are nothing without them."
"These children deserve to smile, they deserve to love, and they deserve a safe home."
"That is why it is with enormous pleasure that as the founder of Playtime Co., I announce... PLAYCARE!"
"Our very own onsite orphanage."
"But it's not only that."
"It's a school, a playhouse, a place to belong."
"Our very own ecosystem beneath the surface, dedicated in every inch and detail to ensuring a child's smile."
"It's teachers and counselors, mothers and fathers, until such a time they have all of that in you."
"May Playcare bring joy, inspiration, and smiles to all who enter these doors."
"For what gives life its meaning, if not a smile?"
While he spoke, the cameras drank him in—close-ups of his eyes when he said hope, a slow pan of the Playtime Co. logo when he said protected. The director knew what to do with a man like Elliot Ludwig. The director knew how to make a promise look like a miracle.
Behind him, the trusted staff became a quiet constellation of small movements and quieter words, careful not to disturb the glow.
Leith leaned toward Eddie, barely a breath. "How many flashbulbs do you count?"
Eddie's gaze tracked the front row, then the risers, then the far corner where two men in matching suits stood like bookends. "Twenty-seven cameras," he murmured. "Twelve still photographers. At least three live feeds."
Leith's eyes gleamed. "Perfect."
Harley's voice was a low rasp. "Three live feeds means three chances for someone to ask the wrong damn question."
Stella, still clasping her hands, whispered without turning her head, "Elliot's doing beautifully."
Harley's mouth tightened. "Elliot always does beautifully. That's the problem. People stop looking at the seams."
Eddie's attention flicked up to the ceiling lights. "Seams are what tear first under pressure."
Leith gave a soft, humorless exhale. "Spare me the poetry, Eddie."
"It's not poetry," Eddie said, flat. "It's physics."
When Elliot reached the word PLAYCARE, the room stirred like an animal hearing its name. Reporters leaned forward. Pens started moving again. The host's eyes widened in a practiced expression of delight. Somewhere in the back, a producer mouthed, We've got it, we've got it.
Stella's cheeks flushed with pride, like the announcement was hers as much as his. "Our children," she whispered, almost to herself.
Leith's smile never broke. "Listen to them," he murmured, eyes on the crowd. "They'll clap for anything if you give them a heart to hold."
Harley's stare remained fixed on the reporters, suspicious and sharp. "They'll clap," he said, "and then they'll cut it into pieces for the evening news."
Eddie watched Elliot's hands—steady, open, sincere. "He believes every word," he said quietly.
Stella's smile softened. "That's why it works."
For a second after Elliot's final line, the air seemed to hold its breath—like the whole room had been trained to pause for meaning.
Then came the applause.
It rose in a wave, the kind that made a promise sound like a certainty. Some people stood. Some didn't, but clapped harder to make up for it. A camera operator wiped sweat from his brow and kept filming anyway.
Leith exhaled, satisfied. "One-fifty," he murmured again, almost fondly. "And not one of them can resist that speech."
Harley didn't applaud. He didn't even blink. "They're not here for the speech," he muttered. "They're here for the blood in the water."
Stella's eyes sparkled as she watched the press react like delighted children themselves. "They're here because Playcare is beautiful," she said, breathy. "Because it's—"
"Because it's a story," Leith cut in smoothly. "And stories sell."
Eddie's voice was quieter than all of them. "So do secrets."
The host leaned in with a practiced grin. "We'll be taking questions now."
Hands shot up immediately—dozens, eager, aggressive, hungry.
A woman in the front row got called on first. "Mr. Ludwig—an onsite orphanage beneath the factory? Why here? Why now?"
Elliot smiled with the ease of someone who had been rehearsing that exact moment. "Because children shouldn't have to wait for the world to become gentle," he said, voice warm enough to soothe. "We can build gentleness. We can make it real."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Several reporters nodded like they'd been fed something they wanted to believe.
Leith's lips barely moved. "Hook, line, and sinker."
Harley's gaze slid to the questioner, then to the people sitting around her. "Remember her face," he whispered. "She's the kind that comes back with sharper teeth."
Another reporter, older, skeptical. "So it's charity. A tax write-off."
The room tittered. A camera zoomed slightly, hungry for scandal.
Behind Elliot, Harley Sawyer's jaw tightened like a clamp. Stella's eyes widened, offended as if someone had insulted a fairy tale. Leith Pierre's smile sharpened, perfectly controlled. Eddie didn't react—only blinked once, slow.
Elliot didn't flinch. "If you've ever watched a child smile because they felt safe," he said, "you'll know there are things worth more than money."
Applause broke out again, smaller this time, a pocket of loyal sentiment.
Stella looked almost triumphant, whispering, "See? They understand."
Harley's voice stayed low. "They understand the version he gives them."
A third voice cut in, impatient. "How many children will you house? What's the vetting process? Are there licensed caregivers? What about education?"
Stella's posture straightened at that. This was her world—classrooms and crafts, schedules and songs. The public image.
Elliot nodded, as if pleased by the seriousness. "Playcare will welcome children who need homes," he said. "We have trained staff. Teachers. Counselors. We're creating a place where education and play go hand in hand—where healing is allowed to happen."
Leith leaned toward Stella with a small, approving tilt of his head. "That was your phrasing," he murmured.
Stella looked delighted. "He listens."
Harley muttered, "That's also the phrasing that'll get scrutinized."
"And security?" another reporter asked. "This is a factory. Heavy machinery. Restricted areas."
For the first time, Harley Sawyer looked almost amused—an expression that didn't soften him so much as reveal sharp teeth behind the curtain. He said nothing, but the way his gaze swept over the crowd felt like a warning.
Elliot answered smoothly. "Playcare is its own ecosystem," he repeated, leaning gently into his own language. "Separate. Safe. Designed with children in mind."
Eddie's eyes flicked to a man in the second row who hadn't raised his hand—who didn't look like press at all. "We've got someone here who's not on the list," Eddie murmured.
Leith's smile didn't change, but his eyes did—cooler, sharper. "Describe him."
"Gray tie. No notepad. Watching Sawyer more than Elliot."
Harley's head didn't turn. "If he breathes wrong, I'll feel it."
Stella's voice came out small, almost annoyed. "Can we not do this right now? This is Playcare."
Leith's whisper was soft as silk. "Playcare is exactly why we do it."
"What about—" a voice started.
"What about the rumors?" someone else blurted, louder. "About 'Special Projects' and—"
Leith Pierre's eyes flicked toward the speaker, quick as a knife. The host tensed. A producer off-camera hissed something sharp into a headset.
Harley's shoulders shifted, the tiniest inch—ready to move if Elliot so much as glanced his way.
Elliot's smile didn't move. "Playtime Co. has always pushed innovation," he said evenly. "But today is about children. About giving them a place to belong."
The cameras loved that line. The room, too. It was easier to clap for belonging than to dig for uglier truths.
Leith let out a slow breath through his nose, pleased. "Beautiful pivot."
Eddie didn't look pleased. His eyes stayed on the man in the gray tie. "He's still watching," Eddie murmured.
Harley's voice was granite. "Let him."
Stella, hands still clasped, whispered like a prayer, "Let them all watch. Let them see how good this is."
And the questions kept coming—layer after layer, like the press could peel back the paint if they asked hard enough.
"Will there be outside oversight?"
"Will you release financials?"
"Is this connected to your recent acquisitions?"
"Are children being used in product testing?"
That last one made a hush fall so suddenly the room seemed to freeze.
Stella's smile faltered—just a flicker, gone almost before it existed.
Leith's expression remained composed, but his eyes went cold.
Harley's hands flexed once at his sides, like he was imagining snapping something in half.
Eddie's gaze sharpened to a point.
Elliot, still radiant beneath the lights, answered with the same gentle steadiness. "Playcare exists to serve children," he said. "To protect them, educate them, and give them joy. That is our only purpose here."
It wasn't a denial, not really.
It was something smoother.
Something that slid right off the tongue and landed in people's hearts before their brains could catch it.
The host quickly called on another reporter, steering the moment away like a ship avoiding rocks.
The room exhaled. The applause returned in little bursts, nervous and relieved.
Leith leaned in, whispering at Eddie's ear, "Get me the name of the one who asked that."
Eddie nodded once. "Already working on it."
Harley murmured, almost inaudible, "And the one in the gray tie."
Eddie didn't blink. "Already."
Stella's smile returned, brighter than before, like she could force the world back into the shape she wanted. "They're excited," she whispered, as if that made everything safe.
Elliot kept answering, kept smiling, kept shining—his voice a warm blanket thrown over sharp edges.
And the press, for all their hunger, kept eating it up.
Because the truth was simple, and humans loved simple truths most of all:
A man stood under bright lights and promised a safe home for children.
So they clapped.
They filmed.
They believed.
And somewhere deep beneath the factory—beneath the stage, beneath the applause, beneath the story being sold—Playcare waited like a gift wrapped too perfectly, its ribbon pulled tight enough to hide what lay inside.
19 YEARS LATER.
PLAYTIME CO.
January, 23rd.
1994.
PLAYCARE.
TIME: 3:30 PM.
Third Person POV.
Nineteen years later, the promise still played on loop in places that didn't matter.
Down here, beneath the factory's bones, Playcare had become its own small world—sealed away from seasons, from headlines, from the kind of time that left fingerprints. The lights never quite dimmed the way real sunlight did, but they warmed the painted walls all the same. The air always carried a soft blend of disinfectant, laundry soap, and something sweet from the Kitchen vents—vanilla, cinnamon, butter melting into batter.
If you could see it the way the security cameras saw it, it looked flawless.
A slow, cinematic pan sweeps across the main concourse: a bright corridor of murals and rounded archways, floors polished so clean they mirror the ceiling lamps like little moons. Colorful signage hangs from above—friendly arrows and bubbly letters—pointing toward SCHOOL, TOY STORE, PLAYHOUSE, DUCK POND.
A cluster of kids in uniform shirts and soft slippers hurries by with a chaperone, their laughter echoing through the hall like bouncing balls. A worker in pastel scrubs kneels to tie a shoelace, smiling wide. Another staff member pushes a cart stacked with folded towels for the Splash Zone, humming a nursery song that's been heard so often it might as well be part of the ventilation system.
The camera glides through an open doorway into the School—bright tables, blocky chairs, a chalkboard with cheerful handwriting. A teacher points to a poster that reads "Big feelings are okay!" while children raise their hands. In the back corner, a bulletin board is pinned with finger paintings and cut-out stars.
A smooth cut transitions to the Counselor's Office—softer lighting, a comfy chair, a box of tissues on a table like an offering. A worker's voice is gentle, practiced. The door closes with a quiet click.
Then the Toy Store—shelves bursting with plushies and plastic grins, bright packaging, Playtime Co. branding everywhere. A staff member arranges new boxes as if order alone can keep the world kind. A child presses their face to the glass display, breath fogging it in excitement.
A floating camera move—like a game's guided tour—leads into the Craft House. Glitter jars. Paintbrushes. Construction paper like stacks of tiny sunsets. Kids bend over their projects, tongues poking out in concentration. A worker wipes glue off a small hand, laughing.
The camera drifts onward into the Library, where the lighting is warm and hush falls like a blanket. A few children sit curled into beanbags with picture books. A librarian figure slides a book back onto a shelf, finger to their lips with a smile that says quiet can be happy too.
A wide, glossy cut takes us into the Splash Zone—a pool inside, bright tiles, lifeguard whistles resting against staff chests. Beyond a sealed door is the outside pool area, visible through thick panes: painted sky murals and artificial "sunlight" beams, water shimmering like a promise. Kids kick and splash under watchful eyes, shrieking as if joy is something you can churn into foam.
Then the Playground—the outdoor section of Playcare, ringed with high walls painted like open fields. Kids climb, race, tumble in the padded grass. A worker checks a clipboard. Another counts heads. Everything is supervised. Everything is safe.
Finally, the camera glides toward a set of double doors that breathe out warmth.
KITCHEN.
The heart of Playcare, if you asked the right children.
Metal counters shine. Big ovens hum. Pans clatter. A cook in a hairnet slides trays into a rack and calls out meal times in a voice that feels like routine. The scent is always something comforting—bread, soup, cookies—like the building itself is trying to remind everyone of home.
And through all of it—always, always—there's the quiet presence of the mascots.
A towering figure crosses the hall in the distance: bright colors, a huge grin, limbs too long to look real and yet moving with careful gentleness around the children. Another giant shape leans down to offer a high-five, its smile painted wide enough to be seen from anywhere.
The Smiling Critters: Playcare's friendly guardians, larger-than-life in every sense. They were the face of safety. The proof that Playcare was different. That nobody here had to be alone.
The camera lingers for half a second too long on one shadow slipping across the wall—low to the ground, catlike, unhurried—before it cuts away.
Because this cutscene isn't about that.
Not yet.
A soft fade-to-black.
A gentle chime.
And then—
HOME SWEET HOME.
The screen fades in to a small dorm room, tidy in the way staff liked it: a twin bed with a bright blanket, a small desk, shelves with a few personal items, drawings taped to the wall. A nightlight glows with a simple smiling sun, casting warm shapes across the ceiling.
A child stirs under the blanket.
Y/n.
Ten years old, curled up like she's trying to take up as little space as possible even in sleep. When she wakes, it's slow and careful—blinking away dreams, shoulders tight, hands immediately searching for something to hold, something to anchor.
Her hair—Y/H/C, falling to Y/H/L—is mussed from sleep, a soft halo that she tries to tame with her fingers before she's even fully sat up. Her eyes—Y/E/C—flick around the room with the nervous quickness of someone who expects to be watched, even in a place that claims safety. Her skin—Y/S/T—catches the nightlight gently.
She sits up and pulls the blanket closer around herself, as if fabric can hide the parts of her she feels too big in. Even alone, her posture is guarded—shoulders rounded, chin tucked, gaze lowered like the world is always ready to judge.
She's shy in the way that makes words feel heavy. Insecure in the way that makes mirrors feel like enemies. Anxiety lives in the small movements—fidgeting fingers, a bite to her lip, the habit of shrinking into corners.
But there's something else in her too.
A softness.
A kindness that hasn't been crushed out of her.
A generous heart that shows up in small ways—extra napkins saved for messy friends, giving away the best crayon, offering her cookie even when she's hungry. A girl with a heart of gold, even if she doesn't believe she's worth much herself.
Her gaze drops to the nightstand.
A folded note sits there, placed neatly like it belongs.
Her breath catches.
She picks it up with both hands, careful as if it's fragile.
A familiar scent clings to the paper—sunny, warm, like citrus and clean cotton. Like him.
She unfolds it.
The camera pushes in close enough to read over her shoulder.
Good morning, Angel.
I have a surprise for you.
But you have to find me to get it.
HIDE AND SEEK!
First clue is somewhere you can smell something sweet.
Come on—show me that brave smile. ☀️
—DogDay
For a second, Y/n just stares.
Then her mouth twitches.
A smile—small, shy, real—blooms like a sunrise she forgot she could have.
It's the kind of smile she only wears when DogDay is near. The kind she doesn't feel safe enough to wear for anyone else.
She clutches the note to her chest.
When DogDay is around, she's lighter. Happier. Like her fears don't bite quite as hard.
When he isn't... she disappears again, folding back into herself.
But the note is proof.
He's here.
He's thinking about her.
And he wants her to play.
A soft UI prompt appears at the bottom of the screen—clean, game-like, unobtrusive.
OBJECTIVE UPDATED: Find DogDay.
Another prompt fades in, gentle as a tutorial:
MOVE: Left Stick
LOOK: Right Stick
INTERACT: ✕
OPEN NOTE: Options
Y/n swings her legs off the bed, feet searching for slippers. Her hands tremble a little—not from cold, but from the sudden pressure of leaving her room. Going out where other kids might stare. Where staff might call her name. Where she might bump into someone and not know what to say.
Her smile wobbles.
Then she looks down at DogDay's handwriting again.
And steadies.
The camera shifts to a third-person view behind her—over-the-shoulder, gentle sway, the kind of framing that makes the world feel big and you feel small inside it.
She steps toward the door.
Her fingers hover at the handle, hesitating.
Another tiny UI hint flickers:
HOLD INTERACT: Open Door
She takes a breath.
Opens it.
The hallway beyond is bright and welcoming, painted in happy colors—yet it feels enormous when you're ten and nervous, when you're trying not to be seen and also trying not to disappoint the one friend who makes you feel safe.
A distant laugh echoes.
A staff member's voice calls, "Good morning, kiddos!"
Somewhere far off, something big and cheerful stomps lightly—careful not to shake the floor too much.
Y/n steps out.
The door clicks shut behind her.
The note crinkles softly in her hand.
And the game begins.
A new prompt appears, glowing briefly before fading:
CLUE 1: "Somewhere you can smell something sweet."
SUGGESTED DESTINATION: The Kitchen.
As Y/n starts forward, the camera pans with her, showing the world the way it wants to be seen—bright, safe, full of routine joy.
But just for a second—just long enough to be felt—a security camera in the ceiling turns with a quiet whir, tracking her movement.
And far away, beyond the cheerful noise, a low, catlike silhouette slips through a shadowed passage... unhurried... unseen...
Y/n's slippers squeaked softly on the polished floor as she stepped into the hallway, the camera settling behind her shoulder in that familiar third-person frame—close enough to feel her smallness, far enough to show the world towering around her.
A faint objective marker blinked somewhere ahead, a gentle golden icon shaped like a sunbeam.
OBJECTIVE: Follow the scent. Find the sweet smell.
The air guided her before any sign did. Warmth drifted out of a nearby vent—vanilla, sugar, butter—like an invisible hand tugging her forward.
Kids moved around her in little groups, chattering and laughing, and the instinct to fold into herself came quick. Y/n's shoulders hunched, her hands going instinctively to her sleeves as she walked. She kept her gaze low, eyes flicking up only in tiny checks—where am I, who's there, is anyone looking?
A staff member passed with a kind smile. "Morning, sweetheart."
Y/n's lips parted like she might answer.
Nothing came out.
She nodded quickly instead, cheeks warming, and hurried onward.
The Kitchen doors were ahead—double swing doors painted bright, with a smiling sun sticker stuck slightly crooked in the corner. The objective marker pulsed brighter.
INTERACT (✕): Enter Kitchen
You press it.
The doors swing inward with a soft, familiar thump.
Warm air rolls over her like a blanket.
Pans clink. A timer dings. The scent of cinnamon is so strong it feels like a hug. Staff in hairnets bustle between counters and ovens, and several kids sit at a long table decorating cookies with frosting, their hands sticky and gleeful.
Y/n pauses in the doorway, suddenly very aware of herself—of her body, of the space she takes up, of how bright the room is.
Then—
A shadow falls across the tile.
Not a scary shadow. A big one. A friendly one.
The screen subtly letterboxes at the top and bottom as if the game itself is smiling and leaning in.
A cutscene steals control.
Picky Piggy steps into view, towering but gentle, her pink form bright as bubblegum and comfort. Her grin is wide in that Playcare way, but her eyes—soft, perceptive—look right at Y/n like she's the only person in the room.
"Angel!" Picky Piggy's voice is warm and delighted, like she's been waiting. "You came!"
Y/n's hands tighten around DogDay's note. "I... I smelled..." Her voice is small, almost swallowed by the Kitchen noise.
Picky Piggy leans down a little—not too close, not invading—just enough to make it feel like a secret between friends. "DogDay's playing Hide and Seek again, huh?"
Y/n nods.
Picky Piggy's grin widens. "Then you'll need fuel. Brain fuel. Heart fuel. Tummy fuel. The best kind." She taps a flour-dusted hoof lightly against the counter. "I have a challenge for you."
Y/n's eyes widen, a flicker of anxiety. "A... challenge?"
Picky Piggy's voice softens. "Not a scary one. A yummy one. You like baking, right? You always look happiest in here."
That lands in Y/n's chest like something gentle and true. Her shoulders loosen by a fraction.
Picky Piggy straightens, playful now. "Make the perfect batch of cinnamon bites. If you do, I'll give you your next clue."
Y/n moves to the sink, hands trembling slightly at first—then steadying as warm water runs over her fingers. The game gives a soft vibration feedback when the "Clean" meter fills.
She measures flour. Sugar. Cinnamon. The spoon trembles; the UI bar wobbles; the player corrects it with tiny adjustments. A gentle chime signals Perfect Measure.
Y/n's breath catches like she can't believe she did it right.
She mixes. The batter thickens, glossy and warm. The stirring prompt accelerates, and as you keep rhythm, the little "Confidence" icon in the corner—subtle, optional—ticks up by one.
The timer is set. The oven door closes with a satisfying thunk.
While they bake, the camera doesn't rush. It lingers on Y/n's face—her eyes softer now, her mouth relaxed, the anxiety in her shoulders uncoiling because here, in the Kitchen, her hands know what to do.
The timer dings.
INTERACT (✕): Remove tray
The tray slides out, steam curling upward. Golden bites, dusted perfectly. The optional sprinkle pattern glitters like a little constellation.
RESULT: Perfect Batch! ★★★
A brief celebratory sound—small, not obnoxious—like the game respecting her quiet victories.
As she turns, control slips again.
Letterbox returns.
Picky Piggy clasps her hooves together with theatrical awe. "Ohhh, that's gorgeous." She leans down, sniffing dramatically. "Cinnamon. Comfort. Safety. You did that, Angel."
Y/n's cheeks warm. "It was... easy."
Picky Piggy tilts her head, gentle and knowing. "It wasn't easy. You were brave enough to try."
She reaches behind her back and produces a small folded paper, decorated with a doodled sun and a little chicken footprint. "Here. Next clue."
Y/n takes it carefully, like it might break.
Picky Piggy's voice drops to a fond whisper. "DogDay's been smiling all morning. The real kind. The kind he saves for you."
Y/n's throat tightens, emotion blooming fast and surprising. She looks down so no one sees, but Picky Piggy sees anyway.
"You go on," Picky Piggy says, softly commanding. "And if anyone makes you feel small..." Her grin flashes brighter, protective. "...tell them Picky Piggy said that's not allowed."
Y/n nods quickly, hugging the clue to her chest.
The letterbox fades.
Gameplay returns.
CLUE 2: "Find the place where color lives and imagination breathes. Look for something sky-blue."
SUGGESTED DESTINATION: Craft House
A waypoint marker appears, a soft blue shimmer.
Y/n steps back into the hallway, the warmth of the Kitchen fading behind her. Her shoulders start to creep upward again—until she glances at the folded clue and steadies.
She follows the marker.
Past the School doors. Past the Toy Store. Past a staff member carrying a basket of clean towels. Kids dash by laughing, and Y/n steps aside, shrinking against the wall, trying not to be bumped.
Then—
A bright doorway.
The Craft House glows like a spilled rainbow.
INTERACT (✕): Enter Craft House
You press it.
Inside, the air smells like paper, glue, paint—possibility. Glitter sits in jars like captured stars. Children work at tables, tongues out in concentration, while staff circulate to help without hovering.
And right at the center, standing tall on two feet with a unicorn's graceful poise and a mane in baby-blue accents, CraftyCorn turns as if she felt Y/n enter the room like a shift in light.
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
"Sweetheart." CraftyCorn's voice is soft, musical, like she's careful not to startle. "There you are."
Y/n's eyes brighten despite herself. "Hi..."
CraftyCorn approaches in slow steps, her huge smile not overwhelming because her eyes do the real talking—gentle and warm and proud. "DogDay's little Angel on a quest."
Y/n nods, clutching the clue.
CraftyCorn's gaze slides to the paper in Y/n's hands. "He sent you to me next, didn't he?"
Y/n offers the clue with both hands. CraftyCorn reads it, then hums thoughtfully. "Color and imagination... sky-blue..." Her eyes twinkle. "That's me."
Y/n's shoulders tense, anticipating. "Do I... have to do a challenge?"
CraftyCorn leans down, just a little. "Only if you want the next clue. And you do." She smiles. "But listen to me, okay?"
Y/n looks up.
CraftyCorn's voice is tender. "You don't have to be loud to be strong. You don't have to be small to be worthy. Art isn't about perfection. It's about truth. And you, Angel... you're full of it."
Y/n's eyes sting, caught off-guard by kindness.
CraftyCorn straightens. "Challenge time." She gestures toward a big easel with a canvas already sketched in faint lines. "You're going to paint a memory."
Y/n swallows. "A... memory?"
CraftyCorn nods. "A happy one. Something that feels like sunshine. When you finish, you'll see your next clue."
The letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CHALLENGE: Paint a Memory
GOAL: Complete the canvas using the correct colors
CONTROLS:
Select color: D-pad
Paint: Hold R2
Clean brush: Tap □
HINT: Sky-blue goes where you feel safe.
The canvas shows faint outlines: a sun, a big friendly shape, a small figure standing beside it—suggestive, not explicit. The palette offers simple colors.
Y/n hesitates. The cursor shakes slightly, reflecting her nerves.
Then you guide her hand.
Sky-blue.
The brush lays down color, smooth and satisfying. A gentle sound plays when the paint fills the outline cleanly.
Yellow for the sun. Warm orange accents. A soft brown for the big figure—DogDay's silhouette, unmistakable in the way the lines curve.
And the small figure... her.
You paint her not as she thinks she looks, but as she feels in that memory: safe, close to warmth, not shrinking.
A quiet "Completion" chime rings out as the final stroke settles.
The finished painting glows subtly. Not flashy—just enough to feel like the game is saying: Good. That mattered.
Letterbox.
Cutscene returns.
CraftyCorn gazes at the canvas, her expression softening into something almost reverent. "Oh, Angel..."
Y/n's voice is barely a whisper. "It's... not good."
CraftyCorn turns, eyes wide with gentle seriousness. "It's beautiful." She taps the canvas lightly. "Because it's honest. You painted how it feels, not how you think you're supposed to paint."
Y/n swallows hard. "I just... I didn't want to mess it up."
CraftyCorn leans down until her smile is level with Y/n's eyes. "You can't mess up being you."
Y/n's breath stutters, emotion rising like a wave.
CraftyCorn reaches behind the easel and produces a small folded note with a tiny elephant doodle and a stamped star. "Next clue. Bubba's waiting for you. He's pretending he isn't, but he is."
Y/n accepts it, fingers lingering on the paper as if it holds warmth.
CraftyCorn straightens and lifts one hoof in a gentle, encouraging gesture. "And Angel?" Her voice turns playful. "If you ever forget you're a masterpiece, come back here. I'll remind you."
Y/n nods quickly, a shy smile flickering.
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CLUE 3: "Brains before brawn. Quiet before loud. Find me where the pages whisper."
SUGGESTED DESTINATION: Library
The waypoint shifts, now a calm gold icon.
Y/n walks out, the hallway noise returning like a tide. Her anxiety begins to crawl back in the spaces between footsteps. She passes kids and staff, trying to avoid being seen, even though nobody is being unkind.
Her mind is louder than the world.
Do I look weird? Am I walking funny? Are they staring?
Then she squeezes DogDay's note in her pocket like a talisman.
Good morning, Angel... show me that brave smile.
Her steps steady.
The Library doors come into view, painted with small storybook characters and a sign that reads Quiet can be joyful.
INTERACT (✕): Enter Library
Inside, hush immediately blankets her. Soft lights. Beanbags. Shelves lined with colorful spines. A staff member at the desk gives a gentle nod.
And there, sitting at a low table like a professor with a stack of books arranged by size, is Bubba Bubbaphant—huge, blue, attentive, his posture steady like he holds the world together just by standing in it.
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
Bubba looks up over the rim of a book. "Y/n." He says her name carefully, like it deserves respect. "Good. You made it."
Y/n fidgets. "Hi, Bubba."
Bubba's big eyes soften. "Your route is efficient. Kitchen to Craft House to Library is the shortest path with minimal crowd exposure."
Y/n blinks. "You... you noticed that?"
Bubba closes the book gently. "I notice many things." A beat. "DogDay asked me to make sure your challenge would not overwhelm you."
Y/n's chest tightens at that—at the thought of DogDay planning around her fears like they matter.
Bubba clears his throat, businesslike. "Challenge. A puzzle. Basic cognitive engagement. You can do it."
Y/n's fingers twist. "What if I can't?"
Bubba leans forward, voice calm, steady as a hand on her back. "Then you will try again. And again. And again. That is how learning works. That is how courage works."
Y/n's eyes flick up, shining.
Bubba slides a small wooden box onto the table. It's carved with simple shapes—sun, star, heart, smile. "Open it. Solve the sequence. Then you get your clue."
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CHALLENGE: Bubba's Sequence Box
GOAL: Press the symbols in the correct order
HINTS:
A smile is hope.
Hope leads to love.
Love leads to understanding.
Understanding brings a smile.
CONTROLS: Interact (✕) to press
The box shows four symbols: Smile, Heart, Lightbulb, Sun.
You try an order—wrong. A soft buzzer, not harsh.
Y/n flinches. Her shoulders tighten.
Bubba's voice (non-cutscene, faint from behind) gently rumbles, "Again. Carefully."
You think. The hints loop like Elliot's speech—twisted into something child-friendly. Smile is hope... hope leads to love... love leads to understanding... understanding brings a smile.
A circle.
So start anywhere? But the box wants a specific start—there's a tiny scratch near the Sun symbol, an environmental clue. Sun... hope? Or Sun as spark?
You press: Sun → Smile → Heart → Lightbulb.
The box clicks.
A satisfying mechanical whirr. The lid pops open.
Inside is a folded note with a green hopscotch doodle.
RESULT: Solved!
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
Bubba nods once, proud but not showy. "Correct."
Y/n's voice trembles. "I did it?"
"You did it," Bubba confirms, as if stating a law of nature. Then, softer: "I knew you would."
Y/n's eyes sting with the kind of emotion she doesn't know what to do with. Praise makes her nervous. Praise feels like a trick.
But Bubba's praise feels... factual. Safe.
He hands her the note. "Hoppy next. She will make you move."
Y/n's shoulders tense on reflex.
Bubba notices. Of course he does.
His voice lowers. "Remember: you do not have to be fast to be worthy. You only have to keep going."
Y/n nods, clutching the clue.
Bubba's gaze flicks toward the door, then back. "DogDay is proud of you. He has been proud of you for a long time."
Y/n swallows, and a tiny, shy smile appears.
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CLUE 4: "Find me where feet fly and laughter bounces. Step, hop, don't stop!"
SUGGESTED DESTINATION: Playground
The waypoint jumps to the outdoor area.
The Playground is louder. Brighter. More eyes.
Y/n's confidence—so carefully built in quiet rooms—wobbles as she approaches the doors leading outside. Kids rush past, and she reflexively steps aside, pressing herself to the wall.
Her heart pounds.
A tutorial tip appears, gentle:
TIP: If crowds make you anxious, walk near the walls or use alternate paths.
You guide her along the edge of the corridor, past a mural, into a side route that opens toward the Playground doors.
Outside, the air is cooler. Artificial "sky" lighting casts everything in a constant afternoon glow. Kids run across padded turf. Staff stand at the perimeter, counting heads, smiling.
And in the center—green as spring—Hoppy Hopscotch bounces with restless energy, arms thrown wide like she's trying to hug the whole day.
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
"ANGEL!" Hoppy's voice rings bright. "YOU MADE IT!"
Y/n flinches at the volume, then relaxes when Hoppy kneels a little, lowering her presence so it doesn't crush.
Hoppy's grin is huge. "Hide and seek! Hide and seek! DogDay's doing it again! I knew he'd rope you into fun."
Y/n's cheeks heat. "He... he asked me."
"And you said yes!" Hoppy cheers, then leans in conspiratorially. "That's already a win."
Y/n twists her fingers. "What's my challenge?"
Hoppy straightens, eyes glittering. "A hop course! Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy!" She gestures to a chalked hopscotch path with playful obstacles—balance beams, little jump pads, a short climbing frame. "You get through it, you get your clue."
Y/n's stomach tightens. "In front of everyone?"
Hoppy's energy softens like a volume knob turned down. "Hey." She touches a paw lightly to her own chest. "Eyes on me, Angel."
Y/n looks up.
Hoppy smiles, gentler. "Nobody's judging you. They're just playing. And if you don't want a crowd... we can make this your private runway."
She waves an arm, and a staff member casually redirects a few kids away with a cheerful, "Other side, kiddos!"
The path clears just enough to feel less suffocating.
Hoppy leans close, whispering like it's a secret spell. "You can do hard things, even when your brain says you can't. Ready?"
Y/n nods, nervous, but nods.
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CHALLENGE: Hoppy's Hop Course
GOAL: Reach the end without falling
CONTROLS:
Jump: ✕
Balance: Left Stick
Grab ledge: R2
CHECKPOINTS: Enabled
The course begins with simple squares—hop, step, hop. Then a balance beam. The beam sways slightly. Y/n's arms lift automatically for balance, her breathing quick.
You guide her gently. The meter stabilizes.
A jump pad launches her to a soft platform. Her feet land with a satisfying thump.
Then a short climb. Hands grasp. Pull up. The camera tilts, showing the Playground below—a little dizzying.
She hesitates at the top.
A subtle prompt appears:
ENCOURAGEMENT: Remember DogDay's note.
Y/n's hand squeezes the paper in her pocket.
She jumps.
She lands.
The finish marker glows.
RESULT: Course Complete! ★★★
A soft celebratory chime.
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
Hoppy explodes into quiet-applause—big paws clapping softly so it's not overwhelming. "YES! YES! YES! Look at you!"
Y/n's face goes pink, but there's a spark there now—a flicker of pride she can't quite hide.
"I almost fell," she whispers.
Hoppy beams. "But you didn't!" She leans in, voice sweet. "And even if you did, you'd get back up. That's what we do. That's what DogDay does. That's what you do."
She hands Y/n the next clue, folded with a tiny chicken doodle and a splash mark. "Kickin's next. He's gonna pretend he's too cool to care, but he cares."
Y/n smiles a little. "Thank you."
Hoppy's grin softens. "Anytime, Angel. And... hey." Her voice drops, sincere. "Your courage? It's loud, even when you're quiet."
Y/n's eyes sting again. She nods quickly.
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CLUE 5: "Cool steps, smooth moves. Find me where water shimmers and courage splashes."
SUGGESTED DESTINATION: Splash Zone
The waypoint shifts toward the pool.
The closer Y/n gets, the more the air changes—humid, chlorinated, echoing with shouts and splashes. Her nerves creep back in. Pools mean bathing suits. Bathing suits mean bodies. Bodies mean... her thoughts turn sharp.
She slows at the entrance.
A small optional prompt appears:
OPTIONAL: Take a breath (Hold L1)
You hold it.
Y/n inhales. Exhales. The screen subtly steadies, the edges of the frame losing a faint "anxiety blur."
She steps in.
Kids splash. Staff laugh. Towels hang on hooks. The water glitters under artificial sunbeams.
KickinChicken stands near the edge, bright yellow and effortlessly cool, one wing resting on a lifeguard stand like he owns the place. He turns slowly, grin easy, eyes half-lidded with swagger.
Kickin lifts a wing. "Relax. I'm messin' with you." His grin softens. "You're doin' good, Angel."
Y/n's shoulders loosen a fraction.
Kickin nods toward the pool. "Your challenge is simple. Walk the floating path. No falling in."
Y/n's eyes widen with immediate panic. "I— I can't—"
Kickin's cool persona drops just enough to show kindness underneath. "Hey." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Nobody here is gonna laugh at you. Not on my watch. Not on any watch."
Y/n's throat tightens.
Kickin tilts his head toward a quiet corner where a floating foam path is set up away from the main crowd. "We'll do it over there. Just you and me. And... if you fall in?" His grin turns teasing again. "It's just water. You'll live. Might even feel kinda nice."
Y/n swallows, nodding shakily.
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CHALLENGE: Floating Path
GOAL: Cross the foam platforms without falling
CONTROLS:
Step carefully: Left Stick (slow for stability)
Balance: Tilt Right Stick
Recover: Tap ✕ when wobbling
TIP: Slow is steady.
Y/n steps onto the first platform. It shifts under her weight. The balance meter wavers.
You go slow.
Platform to platform. Her arms lift. Her breathing quickens.
Halfway across, a platform tilts. The meter spikes. The camera wobbles, heart-thump audio rising.
You tap ✕ at the right moment.
She steadies.
Another step.
Another.
She reaches the end and hops onto the tile, wet but not fallen in.
RESULT: Crossed! ★★★
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
Kickin whistles low. "Okay, okay. I see you."
Y/n laughs—tiny, surprised, like she didn't expect sound to come out. It makes her look younger, lighter.
"I did it," she whispers, almost to herself.
"Yeah you did." Kickin leans down a bit, voice sincere now. "And you looked cool doin' it."
Y/n's cheeks flush.
Kickin hands her the next clue, stamped with a red paw print and a little heart. "Bobby's next. She'll make you do the hardest thing."
Y/n's stomach tightens. "Hardest?"
Kickin's grin softens. "The inside stuff. But you're not alone."
He taps her note pocket gently—careful not to touch too much. "DogDay's got you. We all do."
Y/n nods, clutching the clue.
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CLUE 6: "Find warmth where hearts mend. Where kindness speaks softly."
SUGGESTED DESTINATION: Counselor's Office
The waypoint leads back indoors, away from echoing water.
The hallway feels calmer. Y/n's nerves ease as the noise fades. She walks past murals and soft lighting, following the warm red icon.
The Counselor's Office door is half open.
Inside, the lights are gentle. The air smells like chamomile and clean linens.
Bobby BearHug stands in the center, tall and curvy, red fur plush and comforting. She turns as Y/n enters, her expression instantly soft—like love given a body.
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
"Oh, honey." Bobby's voice is a hug made sound. "Come here."
Y/n's instinct is to step back—touch is scary sometimes, even when it's kind.
Bobby notices and stops a comfortable distance away, respecting the boundary without making it a big deal. "Only if you want," she says gently. "No pressure."
Y/n's shoulders loosen with relief.
Bobby smiles. "DogDay's game. Hide and seek. You're doing amazing."
Y/n looks down. "I'm trying."
Bobby nods, proud. "I know. That's why I'm proud."
Y/n's eyes sting again, as if kindness is something sharp inside her.
Bobby's voice turns softly serious. "My challenge is different. No jumping. No balancing. No puzzles."
Y/n looks up, nervous.
Bobby gestures to a small table with little cards—faces drawn on them: happy, sad, angry, scared, lonely, brave. "Pick the ones you feel most days. And... tell me why."
Y/n's breath catches.
That's terrifying.
Not because it's hard—because it's honest.
Bobby watches her with patient warmth. "You don't have to say much. Just enough. I'm here."
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CHALLENGE: Feelings Cards
GOAL: Select 3 feelings and place them on the table
CONTROLS:
Select card: ✕
Place card: ✕
NOTE: There's no wrong answer.
The cards sit there like mirrors.
You hover over scared. Over lonely. Over brave.
Y/n's hand trembles as she picks them up, one by one, placing them down.
When the third card lands, the game pauses control gently.
Letterbox.
Cutscene.
Bobby looks at the cards, then at Y/n, her eyes shining with compassion. "Scared," she says softly. "Lonely. Brave."
Y/n's voice is small. "I... I don't mean to be lonely. I just—" Her words catch. "People look at me and I feel like... like I'm too much."
Bobby's expression doesn't flinch. No judgment. Only understanding.
"Oh, sweetheart," Bobby whispers. "You are not too much. You are a whole person. You are allowed to take up space."
Y/n's eyes fill. She blinks hard, trying not to cry.
Bobby keeps her voice gentle, grounded. "And brave... you picked brave. Do you know why that matters?"
Y/n shakes her head, tears clinging.
"Because even on the days you're scared and lonely... you still get up." Bobby's smile is soft as a blanket. "You still try. You still care about other people. That's bravery."
Y/n's tears spill over, silent, embarrassed.
Bobby steps forward slowly, asking with her eyes.
Y/n nods—tiny, permission given.
Bobby wraps her arms around Y/n in a careful, gentle hug, not squeezing too tight, not trapping—just holding like the world can't hurt her for a second.
Y/n's shoulders shake as she cries into Bobby's fur, and for once she doesn't apologize for it.
When she pulls back, Bobby wipes her cheek with a soft paw. "There," she murmurs. "Now you can keep going."
She hands over the next clue—this one decorated with a sun doodle and a little pawprint trail. "DogDay's close. But there's one more stop."
Y/n sniffs, nodding, clutching the clue like it's a lifeline.
Letterbox fades.
Gameplay.
CLUE 7: "One more friend before the sun. Find where stories are made, where curtains sway."
SUGGESTED DESTINATION: Playhouse / Funzone
The waypoint shifts—gold, bright, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Y/n walks, still wiping at her cheeks. Her anxiety is quieter now, muted by the warmth the Critters keep giving her. She passes kids and staff again, but this time she doesn't press as hard into the walls.
She's still shy.
Still insecure.
Still frightened of being seen.
But she's carrying something now. A string of small victories. A chain of gentle hands.
The Playhouse / Funzone entrance isn't as bright as the signs make it look.
The giant smiling archway is still there, teeth white and cartoon-wide, but the lighting beyond it is dimmer, warmer in the wrong way—like a bulb under a blanket. Sound doesn't bounce here like it does in the Kitchen or the Playground. It sinks. It muffles. It becomes something you can't quite place, like your own heartbeat echoing back at you from somewhere else.
Y/n slows at the threshold. Her fingers pinch the edge of the clue paper until it crinkles.
A tutorial prompt appears—clean, game-like, and just slightly too calm:
STEALTH TUTORIAL UNLOCKED
CROUCH: L2
HIDE: Hold ✕ behind props
DISTRACT: Throw toy (R1)
SILENCE: Hold L1 to steady breathing
AVOID: CatNap
Y/n swallows.
A low purr threads through the Funzone, not cute, not comforting. It's deeper than it should be—like a machine trying to imitate an animal and getting the frequency wrong. The purr vibrates through the floor, through her slippers, through the bones in her ankles.
She steps inside.
Gameplay takes over fully: third-person camera, slightly wider field-of-view, corners dark enough to feel like they have weight. The objective marker sits far beyond the maze of props, glowing gold behind a curtain that looks like sunlight trapped in fabric.
OBJECTIVE: Reach the golden curtain.
As the player nudges Y/n forward, the Funzone reveals itself in slices: stacked foam blocks shaped like candy, a tunnel of warped mirrors, draped carnival curtains, oversized toy chests, toppled clown cutouts with painted smiles. A "Fun!" sign buzzes overhead—faintly, intermittently—like it's struggling to remember what it means.
A silhouette moves at the far end—low to the ground, catlike. Two eyes glow, slow-blinking. CatNap.
Then—something new.
A voice, deep and raspy, slides out of the darkness like smoke.
"Little Angel..."
Y/n freezes so hard her character model almost looks locked in place. The camera subtly tightens, as if the game itself is leaning closer.
CatNap's head turns, not toward her—toward the sound of her breath.
His voice is velvet dragged over gravel.
"Hide and seek," he purrs. "You hide... I find."
A new tutorial line appears, more urgent than before:
CATNAP HEARS BREATHING
Hold L1: Steady breathing to reduce detection
The player holds L1. Y/n's shoulders lift with a quiet inhale, then settle. The screen edges stop faintly pulsing.
CatNap pads forward, silent. Too silent. His purr grows louder with proximity, like an approaching engine.
HIDE (Hold ✕) appears near a foam block stack.
The player pulls Y/n behind it, crouched.
CatNap passes the opening in the blocks—close enough that the shadow of his head crawls over the floor toward Y/n's shoes. His eyes glow through gaps. He pauses.
The purr deepens.
The voice drops to a whisper that still fills the room.
"I can smell fear."
The player remains still. The "Noise" meter stays low.
CatNap moves on.
Y/n slips to the next cover point, heart thundering.
This is longer than a hallway dash now—this is a maze. A real stealth segment with rhythm: wait, move, breathe, hide, distract.
SUB-OBJECTIVE: Find 3 Sun Tokens to unlock the golden curtain.
Three small golden sun icons shimmer in the environment: one near a mirror corridor, one inside a toy chest, one tucked behind a curtain stage.
Y/n has to grab them. To earn the right to meet DogDay.
But CatNap isn't just patrolling—he's playing.
And he's talking.
His voice drifts from different angles, sometimes close, sometimes impossibly far, like the sound system is lying.
"DogDay thinks he keeps you safe," CatNap murmurs, amused. "Does he?"
Y/n flinches at the name. The player guides her deeper, toward the first token.
The first Sun Token glows beside a warped mirror hallway. The mirrors stretch her reflection—taller, thinner, wider, wrong. The camera catches a flash of her own face bending in ways that spike her anxiety.
A prompt:
INTERACT (✕): Collect Sun Token (1/3)
The player presses ✕.
A soft chime.
CatNap's purr stops.
Silence snaps into place like a trap.
Then—his voice, close.
"So bright."
The "Detected" meter spikes.
The player whips the camera around. CatNap is there—behind her—appearing from a shadow that didn't look big enough to hold him.
DETECTED! RUN!
Y/n bolts, feet slapping against the padded floor. The camera shakes. The purr returns, louder, chasing.
She reaches a curtain to hide—
Too late.
CatNap pounces.
FAIL ANIMATION 1: "THE PIN"
He lands gently but decisively, knocking Y/n onto a cushioned mat. No claws. No harm. Just weight and inevitability. He pins her with forepaws like she's a toy he doesn't want to lose. He lowers his face to hers, eyes glowing, smile painted wide.
His voice rumbles right against her ear.
"Found."
Then he nuzzles her cheek, slow and possessive, and drags his tongue across her face—one long, rough lick.
Y/n squeaks, squirming, half horrified, half giggling through panic tears.
CatNap purrs, satisfied.
CAUGHT!
RESTART: Sun Tokens reset to last checkpoint.
The screen fades to black with a soft, unsettling lullaby tone—almost comforting, almost wrong.
Checkpoint loads: Y/n back at the entrance of the Funzone maze, token count restored to (1/3) if the checkpoint was after it, or (0/3) if not—depending on player progress.
The game gives a gentle tip:
TIP: CatNap reacts to collectibles. Move after the chime fades.
Attempt two.
The player moves slower, using distractions: a squeaky clown nose, a rolling ball, a wind-up toy that chatters teeth. Each throw draws CatNap away, his purr sliding across the space as he follows sound like it's delicious.
Y/n collects Sun Token #1 cleanly this time.
She creeps toward Sun Token #2—inside a toy chest surrounded by toppled carnival props.
INTERACT (✕): Open chest
The lid creaks.
A tiny squeal of hinges.
The "Noise" meter jumps.
CatNap's voice slides out from somewhere overhead, amused.
"Ohhh... what's in the box?"
The purr shifts direction—fast.
The player tries to close the chest—
Too late.
CatNap drops from above like falling night.
FAIL ANIMATION 2: "THE DROP"
He lands in front of Y/n, not on her—blocking her escape. A wall of fur and shadow and too-bright eyes. He leans down, nose inches from her face, inhaling like he's reading her.
His raspy voice is almost gentle.
"Don't run."
Y/n stumbles backward.
CatNap steps forward—slow, controlled—until her back hits the toy chest. He presses his head into her stomach like an enormous cat demanding attention, and then rubs his cheek against her, purring hard enough to vibrate the chest behind her.
A sudden lick—quick, messy—across her chin.
Y/n yelps and tries to squirm away, cheeks burning.
CatNap's purr becomes a pleased rumble.
CAUGHT!
RESTART: Last checkpoint.
When the player loads back in, there's a brief moment where the Funzone seems... slightly darker. Like the game has adjusted the lighting by a fraction. Like it wants you to feel the cost of failure without punishing you.
Attempt three.
The player uses the "Steady Breath" mechanic more often, holding L1 when CatNap is close. The screen edges stop pulsing, the "Detected" meter calms.
Y/n collects Token #2 successfully.
Only one left.
Sun Token #3 sits behind a small stage curtain. A spotlight flickers, then steadies, illuminating a painted sun on the floor. The gold token glows at its center like a prize.
But the stage is open. No cover.
The player waits for CatNap's patrol path to shift.
CatNap prowls nearby, purring. His voice drifts in and out like a radio station.
"I used to watch them sleep," he murmurs. "All those little breaths. All those little hearts."
Y/n's stomach twists. Something about the way he says it—like it's tender, like it's ownership—feels wrong in a way she can't name yet.
A staff voice echoes faintly from far away—someone calling kids to an activity. The sound doesn't reach the Funzone properly. It arrives warped, muffled.
CatNap's voice follows it like a shadow.
"They can't hear you in here."
The player makes the run for it anyway—quick, careful steps.
Y/n reaches the token—
INTERACT (✕): Collect Sun Token (3/3)
Chime.
CatNap's purr stops again.
That silence—sharp, sudden—feels like teeth.
The "Detected" bar skyrockets.
A whisper hits from behind:
"Mine."
Y/n spins—
CatNap is close enough that the camera barely frames him.
The player tries to sprint—
CatNap pounces, but instead of the pin, he does something different.
FAIL ANIMATION 3: "THE CARRY"
He scoops Y/n up—not roughly, but effortlessly—lifting her off the ground like she weighs nothing. Her legs kick in the air, slippers dangling. His purr returns, loud and triumphant.
Y/n's breath comes out in panicked little sounds.
"Put me down—!"
CatNap's raspy voice rumbles under her, almost amused.
"No."
He nuzzles her neck, then licks her cheek—slow, indulgent—like he's soothing a kitten. Like he's calming her, not catching her.
It's affectionate. It's gentle.
And it's horrifying anyway, because it ignores what she wants.
Because it's love-shaped control.
CatNap lowers her back to the floor with care, then bumps his head against her chest once—claiming.
"Again," he whispers.
CAUGHT!
RESTART: Last checkpoint.
The game fades out with that lullaby tone again—sweet enough to be wrong.
When it fades back in, the objective updates.
Because you did collect all three tokens before being caught. The game remembers.
OBJECTIVE UPDATED: Unlock the golden curtain.
NOTE: CatNap remains active. Reach the curtain without being caught.
Now the maze becomes a final stealth run—CatNap patrols faster, purr louder, voice closer.
But the player knows the route now. The cover points. The distraction spots.
Y/n crouches behind foam blocks, breath held. CatNap passes so close his tail brushes the corner and makes it twitch.
His voice murmurs, almost fond.
"Angel. Angel. Angel."
Y/n squeezes her eyes shut, fighting the urge to bolt.
A prompt:
HOLD L1: Steady breath.
You hold it.
Her breathing quiets. The "Detected" meter drops.
You throw a toy—R1—into the far tunnel.
A wind-up chatter-toy clacks and laughs.
CatNap turns, intrigued, purr shifting away like a current.
And for a moment—just a moment—his silhouette crosses a flickering light patch and the game's lighting catches something about him that isn't cute.
The way his smile seems too still.
The way his eyes glow without warmth.
The way the purr sounds like it could become something else if he ever stopped pretending to be gentle.
Foreshadowing without a scream—like a shadow behind a curtain.
Y/n moves.
Low. Quiet. Fast when she can, slow when she must.
She reaches the golden curtain, fingers trembling.
INTERACT (Hold ✕): Pull curtain
The screen letterboxes.
Cutscene begins.
Y/n slips through into warm light—sunlight in fabric form—leaving the Funzone behind like waking from a bad dream you can't explain.
And behind her, just out of frame, CatNap's purr fades... then stops.
His voice, distant now, rasps like a promise he's saving for later.
"Good work...Angel...hurry now...Dogday is waiting..."
The golden curtain parts beneath Y/n's trembling hands.
For one heartbeat, the Funzone tries to follow her—its dimness clinging like fog, its hush pressing against her ears. Then she slips through, and the world on the other side feels like stepping into warmth that doesn't ask questions.
Light spills over her first—soft, honey-gold, strung in tiny sun-shaped bulbs that glow like fireflies caught in a jar. The air is different here, too. Cleaner. Warmer. It smells faintly of laundry soap and citrus and the kind of cozy sweetness that lives in shared secrets—blankets warmed by bodies, pillows that have been hugged a hundred times.
The sound changes. The Funzone's muffled emptiness drops away, replaced by something gentle: the quiet crinkle of fabric, a faint hum of ventilation, and the steady, comforting rhythm of someone breathing nearby.
Y/n stands still, clutching the curtain behind her as if she's afraid she'll fall back through it by accident.
Her chest rises and falls too fast.
Her cheeks are still damp—either from the Funzone's air or from her own nerves she hasn't realized she's been crying through. A smear of panic lingers in her limbs, the memory of glowing eyes and a voice in the dark that knew her name.
Angel. Angel. Angel.
She swallows and looks around.
She's in a hidden alcove built out of softness: a little fort of cushions and blankets tucked behind stage props, away from the traffic and noise. Oversized plush toys sit like guardians at the edges. A small pile of craft paper suns—cut and colored by hand—hangs from a string like a homemade constellation. There's a low table with a mug of cocoa gone cold and a plate with a single cookie that looks like it's been waiting a long time to be eaten.
It doesn't feel like a place made by Playtime Co.
It feels like a place made by someone who knows what it means to need somewhere safe.
And there—half in shadow, half in sun-glow—DogDay stands with his back turned, as if he's been listening all along.
His shoulders are squared, but not tense. More like... braced. Ready. Like he's been holding his breath for her without letting the world see it.
When he turns, his smile is already there.
But it isn't the painted, public smile. It isn't the "mascot" smile meant for cameras and little crowds. It's softer—real in the way a sunrise is real. The kind of expression that belongs only to the people you trust enough to be unguarded with.
His eyes find Y/n, and something in him visibly melts, like he's been carrying worry in the shape of his ribs and finally sets it down.
The screen letterboxes—cinematic bars sliding in—because this moment is too important to be interrupted by UI.
Cutscene.
DogDay takes one step toward her, then stops, careful. He doesn't rush her. He never does.
"Y/n," he says, voice warm as light through curtains. He says her name like it's a gift he's glad he gets to hold. "There you are."
Y/n's throat tightens. She tries to answer, but her voice gets caught somewhere behind her ribs.
She nods instead, small.
DogDay's smile flickers into something even gentler. "You made it through."
Y/n's hands, still clinging to the curtain, loosen only when she realizes she's safe. Only when she realizes he's here. That he's really here, and not just a hope she carried like a lantern.
"I... I got caught," Y/n blurts, because the words tumble out when she's nervous, and she hates that she's still embarrassed even now. "CatNap—he—"
DogDay's expression changes. Not to anger, not to panic—but to a quiet, protective seriousness that settles into his face like a shield being raised. His ears tilt forward slightly, attentive.
"Did he hurt you?" he asks, low and immediate.
Y/n shakes her head quickly. "No. He just—" Her cheeks go hot. "He licked my face. And... and pinned me. And—" She makes a helpless gesture, mortified. "It was gross."
DogDay's mouth twitches, a laugh trying to break through the concern.
But his eyes stay on her, scanning—checking for tears, for scrapes, for the subtle signs of fear he's learned to recognize in the way she holds herself.
"You're okay," he says, like he's confirming it for both of them. Then softer, as if speaking directly to the part of her that still feels the dark behind the curtain. "You're here."
Y/n's shoulders sag in relief so sudden it almost looks like she's collapsing. She takes a small step forward, and another, pulled toward him by something that feels like gravity.
DogDay watches her approach like he's trying not to spook a frightened animal—like he knows that sometimes even kindness can feel too loud.
"I didn't think I could do it," Y/n admits, voice trembling. "Not... not the whole thing. Not the running and the hiding and—" She swallows, eyes shining. "I got scared."
DogDay nods slowly, as if she's told him something sacred. "I know."
Y/n blinks. "You... you know?"
DogDay's smile softens. "I know the way your courage works," he says. "It's quiet. It doesn't shout. It doesn't show off." He takes a careful step closer, still giving her space, still asking without asking. "But it's there. Every time."
Y/n chest aches. She looks down, fingers twisting at her sleeves. "I don't feel brave."
"You don't have to feel it," DogDay says. "You just have to do it."
She laughs weakly through the tightness in her throat. "That sounds like something you'd say."
DogDay's grin brightens, just a little, the sunshine returning. "That's because it's true."
A beat passes. The soft lights hum. The little fort looks like a pocket of peace stolen out of the world.
Then DogDay's gaze drops to Y/n's pockets, the edges of folded papers peeking out—clues, doodles, small proof of all the steps she took.
"You went to everyone," he says, voice full of pride he doesn't try to hide.
Y/n nods. "Picky made me bake. Crafty made me paint. Bubba made me think. Hoppy made me jump. Kickin made me cross the floaty thing." Her face warms at the memory. "Bobby..." Her voice catches. "Bobby hugged me."
DogDay's expression goes soft at that last part. His eyes flicker, as if something tender moves through him.
"She did," he murmurs, pleased. "Good."
Y/n looks up, confused by the weight in his tone. "Why did you... set all that up?"
DogDay holds her gaze. His smile fades into something deeper—something raw and honest that doesn't belong to mascots or games.
"Because I wanted you to see yourself the way we see you," he says quietly.
Y/n breath hitches.
DogDay continues, slow, deliberate, like he's laying each word down so it won't hurt her when it lands.
"You spend a lot of time hiding," he says—not accusing, just naming. "You hide in hallways. You hide behind your hair. You hide behind your sleeves. You hide your laugh like it's something you're not allowed to have." His eyes soften. "You hide even when no one is chasing you."
Y/n's eyes sting. She tries to look away, but DogDay gently shifts so she can't—so she has to face him, face the kindness, face the truth.
"I wanted today to be different," he says. "Not because you need fixing. You don't." His voice grows warmer, firmer. "But because I wanted you to have proof. Proof in your hands, in your muscles, in your memory—that you can move through the world and nothing terrible happens just because you exist in it."
Y/n tears spill over, sudden and silent, like they've been waiting for permission.
DogDay's posture softens immediately, like he feels each tear as if it's falling on him.
"Hey," he says, tender, and reaches toward her—stopping halfway, still asking. "Can I...?"
Y/n nods, a tiny motion.
DogDay wipes her tear with the gentlest touch, like he's afraid the world might bruise her if he presses too hard.
"You did so good," he murmurs. "I'm proud of you, Angel."
That word cracks something open in her chest.
Y/n makes a small, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and presses the heel of her palm to her eye like she can push the emotion back in.
"I'm sorry," she whispers automatically, the old habit.
DogDay's expression changes instantly—soft sunshine turning into quiet insistence.
"No," he says, gentle but firm. "No sorry."
Y/n blinks up at him, startled.
DogDay leans down slightly, voice low enough to feel like it belongs only to her.
"You don't have to apologize for being soft," he says. "You don't have to apologize for taking up space in the world. And you never have to apologize for feeling."
Y/n's lips tremble. "I'm trying," she whispers. "It's just... my brain is mean."
DogDay nods like he understands that intimately. "I know." His smile returns—warm, stubborn. "That's why I'm here. To fight it with you."
A beat of silence, filled with tiny sun-lights and Y/n shaky breathing.
Then DogDay straightens as if remembering something, and his eyes brighten with a gentle, excited energy.
"Okay," he says, and the playfulness returns like sunshine after rain. "Now. Surprise."
Y/n breath catches. She almost forgot—almost lost the thread in fear and tears and relief.
DogDay reaches behind a cushion and pulls out a folded bundle of fabric.
An oversized tee shirt.
Soft, thick, clean. It looks brand-new, but not factory-new—like it's been chosen, not produced. Like hands and heart were involved.
He holds it out to her with both hands.
Y/n eyes go wide, confused at first. Then she sees it.
The front is embroidered with a cheerful sun emblem. Beneath it, in careful stitching that looks like it took time:
DOGDAY & ANGEL
—small, warm letters like a promise.
On the sleeve, stitched in a tiny script:
ANGEL
Y/n hands rise slowly, like she's afraid if she moves too fast it will vanish.
DogDay's voice softens. "I had it made for you."
Y/n throat tightens. "For... me?"
DogDay nods. "For you." His smile turns shy for the first time, as if he's nervous she won't like it. "And—" He lifts the hem of his own shirt.
He's wearing the matching one.
Same sun emblem. Same soft fabric. Same custom stitching—his sleeve reads:
SUNNY
A pair.
A set.
Something shared.
Y/n s breath stutters as the meaning lands. Her eyes fill again, faster this time.
DogDay watches her reaction like he's holding his own heart in his hands.
"I wanted you to have something you can put on when I'm not right next to you," he says quietly. "Something that feels like..." He searches for the right words, then finds them. "Like being held. Without anyone having to see."
Y/n swallows hard, tears spilling. "You thought about... that?"
DogDay's eyes soften, and the love in them is so obvious it almost hurts to witness.
"I think about you a lot," he admits. No teasing. No deflection. Just truth. "I notice when you skip meals. When you try to make yourself smaller at the table. When you laugh and then look around like you're scared someone will punish you for it." His voice drops. "I notice when you're alone."
Y/n chest aches. She clutches the shirt tighter, like it's already the only safe thing in the world.
DogDay continues, words slow and careful.
"I can't be everywhere," he says. "I wish I could. But I can't." His smile trembles at the edges, like even he feels the frustration of that. "So I wanted you to have something that says what I would say."
Y/n looks up at him through tears. "What would you say?"
DogDay steps closer, just close enough that his warmth reaches her.
He speaks softly, like he's telling her a secret that's also a vow.
"I would say you're good," he whispers. "Not perfect—good. Kind. Gentle. Worth knowing. Worth loving." His smile brightens. "I would say the world is better because you're in it."
Y/n face crumples.
She tries to speak, but the emotion is too big. It swallows her words and turns them into shaking breaths.
DogDay doesn't rush her.
He just stands there, steady as sunrise, letting her feel everything without shame.
Then Y/n makes a tiny sound—barely there—and steps forward with the shirt pressed between them like a bridge.
DogDay opens his arms.
Not demanding.
Not pulling.
Just offering.
Y/n collapses into the hug like she's been waiting her whole life to be allowed.
DogDay's arms wrap around her carefully—big enough to make her feel completely held, gentle enough that she doesn't feel trapped. He tucks her close, chin resting lightly above her head, and for a moment the whole world looks like it might actually be safe.
Y/n's shoulders shake as she cries—quiet, messy, real.
DogDay murmurs against her hair, voice thick with tenderness.
"I've got you," he says. "I've got you, Angel. Always."
Y/n clutches his shirt, the fabric under her fingers grounding her, proof that he's real and warm and here.
"I love you," she whispers before she can stop herself—small, frightened of the words, frightened of how big they are.
DogDay goes still for half a second.
Then he hugs her just a little tighter, like the words are something precious he doesn't want to drop.
His voice, when it comes, is soft as sunlight.
"I love you too," he says.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Certain.
Like a truth that has existed longer than the sentence.
Y/n sob turns into a tiny laugh, broken and bright at the same time, because she can't hold that much warmth without it spilling out somewhere.
DogDay pulls back just enough to look at her face, wiping another tear from her cheek with his thumb.
"Hey," he whispers, smiling. "Put it on?"
Y/n nods quickly, still crying.
DogDay helps—careful hands guiding the fabric over her head, straightening the shoulders, tugging it gently so it falls comfortably—oversized in the way that feels safe, the way that doesn't cling, the way that lets her breathe.
When she looks down, she sees the word stitched on her sleeve.
ANGEL.
She presses her fingers to it like she's afraid it might not be real.
DogDay beams like he just watched the sun rise.
"There," he says, voice warm and proud. "Perfect."
Y/n laughs again, wiping her face. "It's... it's really big."
DogDay's grin turns playful, but his eyes stay tender. "Good. Then you can hide in it when you need to." He tilts his head. "But I hope one day you won't feel like you have to."
Y/n's breath catches at that—at the quiet hope wrapped in the joke.
She nods, too emotional to answer.
DogDay's gaze flicks briefly toward the golden curtain behind her, toward the darkness beyond it.
For just a second, a shadow crosses his eyes—something protective, something watchful.
Then he looks back at Y/n and the shadow vanishes, replaced by sunshine again.
"Come on," he says gently. "Let's go get you something sweet. You earned it."
Y/n nods, slipping her hand into his—small fingers swallowed by his warmth.
He squeezes once, reassuring.
And as the sun-lights glow above them and the fort's blankets rustle softly, the camera pulls back—slow, cinematic—framing the two of them in a pocket of golden warmth surrounded by a world of painted smiles.
Just before the screen fades, the sound of the Funzone returns for one breath: a distant purr that stops too abruptly, and a deep, raspy whisper from behind the curtain that doesn't belong to any lullaby.
"Next time..."
DogDay's grip tightens around Y/n's hand, subtle but immediate.
(If you like this story, please give it some love over at Wattpad. So others can read and share it to. Poppy Playtime: An Orphans Revenge. - 0. - Wattpad)
Description: Thrown into the heart of Tokyo's most competitive teaching hospital, foreign intern Y/N L/N is already fighting the odds—late on day one, underestimated for their size, and surrounded by prodigies who treat medicine like a battlefield. At Karasuno General, the rules are simple: survive the shift, save the patient, and don’t let the pressure break you.
With Chief Resident Daichi Sawamura breathing fire, Coach Ukai running the floor like a warzone, and rival doctors watching for any crack, Y/N must prove they’re more than a misfit in scrubs. This isn’t high school. This is life and death. And here, every heartbeat counts.
Warnings/Before we begin:
-I do not own Haikyuu or ER, both shows belong to the owners.
-This story is very mature, and filled with adult like content like blood, sex, surgery, mentions of sensitive topics like suicide, self harm, and many things that people see in a hospital, so please if your triggered, nauseas, anxious, or disgusted by any of the warnings and content listed above then please do not read. IF YOU ARE A KID PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS FANFIC.
-This is my first story in a long time I will be continuing and writing on my own. As I really worked hard on this story, so please out of the kindness of your heart, share this story with others as it will really mean so much to me. :-)
- Each week, I'll post a chapter on my days off from work, as my work schedule changed every so often so chapter posting dates will be different.
-A big thank you to people who are now just reading this or have been reading this story, your support means a lot and writing helps me coap with my depression and axiety, as I haven't written about Haikyuu in over 6 years, so I'm excited to see where this story will go!
-Anyways, I'll stop talking and ranting and enjoy the prologue of ER haikyuu edition!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tokyo doesn’t sleep.
It thrums—loud and alive, pulsing with a tempo that never slows, never falters. Neon signs flicker like arrhythmias in the dark, train stations beat with a thousand footsteps a minute, and somewhere beneath it all, hearts are breaking and healing in equal measure.
And towering in the center of it all is Karasuno General Hospital—sixteen floors of steel, glass, and impossible expectations.
Inside, the air is cold, clinical. The lights are too bright, the walls too white. Every hallway echoes with the staccato rhythm of urgency—heels against linoleum, stretchers wheeling past, codes being called out like battle cries.
This is not a hospital. It’s a pressure cooker.
And tonight, the lid comes off.
The lecture theater on the fourth floor isn’t much different. Unforgiving lights. Metal chairs lined in rigid rows. A podium scarred by years of sharp words and worn hands. It smells like antiseptic and tension.
Dozens of new interns sit straight-backed and wide-eyed, still soft around the edges. Some have been up since the night before. Some haven’t eaten in sixteen hours. All of them are trying not to look like they’re seconds from throwing up.
Karasuno’s cohort sits front and center.
Hinata Shouyou fidgets with the pen in his coat pocket like it’s a live wire. Kageyama Tobio stares down the projector screen like it personally insulted him. Tsukishima pretends he’s above it all, chewing gum with his eyes half-lidded, and Yamaguchi’s got that faint tremor in his hands that betrays just how hard he’s trying not to show fear. Nishinoya and Tanaka whisper across their notebooks, their bravado barely masking the anxiety beneath.
But it’s the three figures standing at the front that command all attention.
Daichi Sawamura, Chief Resident of Emergency Medicine, cuts a towering figure in crisp scrubs and steeled resolve. His presence is less about volume and more about gravity—like everything centers around him whether you want it to or not.
Koushi Sugawara, second-year attending, stands just behind him with a clipboard in one hand and a ghost of a smile on his face. He looks soft, gentle even—until you see his eyes. That’s where the fire lives.
And pacing in front of the screen like a lion in a cage, sipping black coffee from a mug that says "I perform miracles on caffeine and rage"—is Dr. Ukai Keishin, Resident Advisor, the youngest attending in Karasuno’s history.
He stops suddenly, turns on a heel, and addresses the room.
“You all think you know what’s coming.”
The silence in the room is absolute.
“You’ve watched your dramas. Read your textbooks. Maybe even convinced yourself this’ll be like a prolonged episode of Grey’s Anatomy where everyone’s sexy, overqualified, and emotionally constipated.”
A few people chuckle nervously.
Ukai’s eyes narrow.
“You’re wrong.”
Dead silence.
“You’re going to fail. You're going to freeze. You’re going to stand over someone bleeding out and realize you have no idea what the hell you’re doing—and no one to save you but yourself. This hospital doesn't give out participation trophies. It gives you two choices: learn fast, or get the hell out of the way.”
He takes another long sip of his coffee.
“This is not the time to cry or get your head stuck up your ass.”
That’s when the doors burst open.
Every head snaps toward the sound.
And there—framed by the harsh light of the corridor and the judgmental silence of fifty interns—is you.
Y/N L/N.
You’re late. You know it. Everyone else knows it. The world feels it.
Hair frizzed from humidity and nerves, coat slightly wrinkled from the sprint up the stairs. The standard-issue scrubs pull tighter over your body than they’re meant to—no one thought to order sizes past a certain point, of course—but you walk in anyway. Shoulders square. Chin up. Breathing like you just ran a marathon, but eyes clear.
You don’t apologize.
You never apologize for showing up.
Ukai doesn’t miss a beat.
“Miss L/N,” he growls. “You’re late.”
You nod once, steady. “Yes, sir. Traffic jam. A funeral procession. And a truck full of… fish, I think.”
A couple snorts break through the silence, but Ukai’s stare doesn’t waver.
“I assume the fish survived. You might not, if you pull that again.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gestures. “Sit.”
You make your way down the aisle, feeling every eye on you. You’re used to that. You’ve always taken up more space than the world thought you should—but never once less than you deserve.
You slide into the only open seat—next to Yamaguchi, who offers a small, nervous smile and nudges a spare pen toward you.
Ukai continues like you hadn’t just flipped the room upside down.
“You are the least experienced, most vulnerable people in this hospital. But the moment you put on that coat, you became part of this machine. And when the machine breaks, someone dies.”
He steps aside, and Daichi takes his place.
Daichi’s voice is quieter. Deeper. More weighted.
“You will see blood. You will see bodies. You will lose patients. And it will hurt. But if you're here to be praised or protected, you're in the wrong damn profession.”
His gaze sweeps over the room, then lands—just for a second—on you.
“There are people who will question if you belong. Because of your background. Because of how you look. Because you don’t match their idea of what a ‘real’ doctor should be.”
He lets that hang in the air.
“But you're here. You earned this.”
He straightens.
“And Karasuno doesn’t throw people away.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s electric.
Outside, a siren wails. Distant, but growing louder.
Ukai turns toward the sound like a soldier hearing the drums of war.
“Shift starts now.”
And with that, the room empties in a controlled panic of coats, clipboards, and adrenaline.
You stand with them, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You’re in a new country. In a hospital that wasn’t built for you. Surrounded by brilliance and pressure and people who already seem to be sprinting while you’re still tying your shoes.
But this is what you came for.
To heal. To fight. To prove something—not just to them, but to yourself.
You square your shoulders, adjust your coat, and walk toward the ER floor.
Where the lights are harsh.
The blood is real.
And the story’s just beginning.
The elevator ride down to the Emergency Wing was silent—until it wasn’t.
“Okay but what if I accidentally stab someone with the IV needle?” Hinata whispered, his voice high and panicked. “Like not on purpose—but my hands are gonna be shaking and—”
“You’re not stabbing anyone,” Kageyama muttered, glaring at the floor numbers like he could make them move faster.
“You don’t know that!” Hinata hissed.
Y/N stood quietly near the back of the elevator, arms crossed over your chest, pulse still hammering in your ears. You weren’t the only one radiating anxious energy, but being new to the entire country added a particular kind of dissonance. The signs above the emergency doors were in both Japanese and English, but the vibe? That was pure battlefield.
A shuffle beside you.
“Y/N, right?” Yamaguchi asked, offering you that gentle half-smile again. “I—I’m Tadashi. It’s cool you made it even with the… uh, fish truck?”
You couldn’t help but huff a laugh. “Not my ideal first impression, but hey—at least I’m memorable?”
“Honestly,” Tanaka cut in from the front of the group, “late or not, that entrance had main character energy.”
“Agreed,” Nishinoya said with a grin. “Bet you’re gonna save someone’s life tonight and get a standing ovation.”
“Or pass out,” Tsukishima muttered. “Ten bucks on that.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re betting on me passing out?”
“I’m not hoping for it. I’m just playing the odds.”
“Don’t mind him,” Yamaguchi murmured. “That’s just his way of being… helpful. Ish.”
The elevator doors finally opened with a ding that sounded way too cheerful for what lay beyond.
They spilled out onto the ER floor like students onto a battlefield.
It was chaos. Controlled chaos—but chaos all the same.
Gurneys flew past. A trauma team ran down the corridor in scrubs stained with something dark. Monitors beeped, machines hissed, and someone was screaming—maybe in pain, maybe in grief, maybe in frustration. Nurses moved with terrifying speed. Doctors barked orders with clipped precision. It smelled like bleach, blood, and burned coffee.
The Karasuno interns huddled tighter without even realizing it.
A clipboard smacked into Tanaka’s chest.
“Interns!” A nurse snapped, not even looking up. “Get the hell out of the walkway unless you wanna become a trauma case.”
They scattered like startled pigeons, pressing up against the wall as stretchers flew past.
“Jesus,” Hinata whispered.
“So…” Nishinoya rubbed the back of his neck. “Who do you think we’re gonna train under first?”
You caught your breath and tried to scan the floor for anyone you recognized. The seniors had told stories—legends, even—about the doctors who ruled Karasuno like gods.
“Maybe Dr. Sugawara?” Yamaguchi guessed. “I heard he does bedside training rotations.”
“Pray for that,” Tsukishima said dryly. “At least he’s calm. If we get Kuroo, we’re dead. He teaches like a drill sergeant.”
“Or Bokuto,” Tanaka added with a groan. “Apparently he makes you run through trauma simulations blindfolded.”
“I wouldn’t mind Oikawa,” Nishinoya said with a grin. “They say he’s a jerk, but he’s hot. Could be worse.”
You raised an eyebrow. “A hot jerk is still a jerk.”
“Fair.” He winked.
A voice called out down the hall.
“Karasuno Interns!”
It was Daichi, standing beside Ukai, both holding stacks of assignment folders. The look on their faces was unreadable. Deadpan. Dangerous.
Oh no.
“This is your assignment split,” Daichi said. “Pairs. One attending each. They’ve been told not to go easy on you.”
He handed out folders without ceremony.
Kageyama and Hinata – Trauma Team Alpha.
Yamaguchi and Tsukishima – Infectious Disease.
Tanaka and Nishinoya – Ortho Rotation.
You…?
Your folder was heavier than the others.
Daichi handed out the last folder with a slower motion, his expression unreadable.
When you reached for it, his fingers didn’t let go right away.
“Y/N L/N,” he said, voice steady but low. “You’re assigned solo.”
Your heart paused in your chest. “Solo?”
Ukai stepped beside him, arms crossed. “Odd numbers this year. Someone had to be the unlucky one.”
You opened the folder.
ER / Musculoskeletal Trauma Rotation – Attending: Dr. Iwaizumi Hajime.
The name hit like a sucker punch.
There was a beat of silence—then a slow ripple of reaction from the others. Even Tsukishima’s face flickered with something like discomfort.
“Holy crap,” Tanaka murmured.
“Rest in peace,” Nishinoya whispered.
“I heard he made an intern cry before orientation,” Hinata said in awe.
“Wasn’t there that rumor he made someone quit med entirely?” Yamaguchi asked.
“Three people,” Kageyama corrected, flatly.
You glanced between them, trying to read between fact and fear. But the looks said enough.
Even Daichi seemed unsure how to soften the blow. “Dr. Iwaizumi’s… demanding.”
“That’s polite,” Ukai muttered. “He doesn’t tolerate mistakes. He doesn’t hold hands. He doesn’t explain things twice. You’re either sharp, or you’re gone.”
Your stomach coiled tight, but you forced a breath through it.
You’d survived med school in a system that never made room for bodies like yours. You’d studied under professors who forgot your name but remembered your weight. You’d worked twice as hard to get half as far. And you were still here.
You looked up, jaw tight but voice calm.
“I’ll manage.”
Daichi studied you a moment longer. Then he gave a small nod.
*An Anime twist on Detroit become human, and the crime show Blue Bloods.*
Description: In a world where CyberLife dominates the tech industry with its revolutionary anime android lineup, reality and fiction blur like never before. Y/n, a plus-size, mentally ill, and struggling drug addict, spends her days at a dead-end job, feeling the ever-present weight of being watched. But one night, upon returning to her crumbling apartment, she finds an enormous 6’7 package from CyberLife waiting at her doorstep. Inside stands Dracule Mihawk, the legendary swordsman, now reborn as an artificial intelligence with piercing golden eyes and an unwavering presence. At first, Mihawk is merely another product, an expensive collector’s item brought to life. But as he observes Y/n’s fractured world—her poverty, her addiction, and the shadows clawing at her sanity—he makes a choice no android was programmed to make: he will carve his own path. Determined to protect the woman fate has bound him to, Mihawk takes an unlikely job in the real world—as a detective. Teaming up with the cynical yet brilliant Vincent Corneals and the resourceful investigator Ming Rodrigo, Mihawk throws himself into the dark underbelly of human crime. Their mission? To uncover the truth behind a chilling case that shakes the foundations of both the organic and artificial world: "Does Cyber Blood Live?" As androids begin exhibiting unexplained emotions, free will, and perhaps even something akin to a soul, Mihawk and his team are thrust into a conspiracy that threatens to rewrite existence itself. But as he battles criminals, corruption, and his own growing sense of self, Mihawk faces the most dangerous mystery of all: What does it mean to be truly alive?
WARNINGS: Violence, Blood, mentions of Alcohol, Drugs, and crime stuff. There will be cursing, some sexual content included.
Before the story begins:
-I DO NOT OWN ONE PIECE, DETROIT BECOME HUMAN, OR BLUE BLOODS. THEY BELONG TO THE CREATORS.
-THE ONE PIECE CHARACTERS IN THIS STORY ARE THE ANDROIDS BEING FOCUSED ON INTO THE STORY. NONE OF THE ORIGINAL DETROIT BECOME HUMAN CHARACTERS WILL BE IN THIS BOOK. THE ONLY CHARACTER REALLY IN THIS STORY WILL BE THE FOUNDER OF CYBER LIFE. ELIJA.
-Anyways. Enjoy the prologue of my newest book!
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The city never really slept anymore. Not since CyberLife changed the world.
Detective Vincent Corneals sat at the far end of the dimly lit precinct, his broad shoulders hunched over a stack of case files that all blurred together in a haze of bad coffee and worse decisions. The overhead fluorescents flickered with an uneasy hum, as if the building itself was as exhausted as he was.
“Android-related crime rates are up another thirty percent this month,” Ming Rodrigo muttered beside him, flipping through her own stack of reports. She was younger, sharper in the way rookies still had hope left in their bones, but even she was starting to sound tired. “Ever since they were given full freedom rights, it’s been one case after another—murders, thefts, disappearances. Shit, even the mafia’s getting in on the action. Using androids as hired muscle now. Bulletproof, no DNA to trace, no family to rat them out.”
Vincent grunted, rubbing his temple. “You’d think giving them ‘human rights’ would’ve made things better, not worse.”
Ming scoffed. “Yeah, well, you give a machine a conscience, and it’s gonna start making human mistakes. And human mistakes, Vincent, are usually violent.”
She tossed a report onto his desk. A mugshot stared back at him—an android, its synthetic skin still gleaming under the harsh police lighting, but its eyes were unsettlingly human. Too much emotion. Fear, maybe. Or something close enough.
“This one hacked his own behavioral inhibitors and shot his owner,” Ming continued. “Said he was tired of ‘being property.’”
Vincent exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ.”
The precinct’s ancient TV crackled to life, filling the room with an artificial cheerfulness that didn’t belong here.
“CyberLife presents its latest breakthrough in anime AI technology!”
Both detectives turned their heads toward the screen.
A shiny commercial played, full of bright neon, flashing kanji, and artificial enthusiasm. A corporate model, all plastic smiles and perfect teeth, presented a sleek new lineup of anime androids—impossibly beautiful, designed to bring fiction into reality. The camera panned across a lineup of perfectly sculpted, impossibly proportioned figures, ranging from wide-eyed schoolgirls to brooding warriors.
And then, the final reveal.
A towering, 6’7 figure, dressed in a long black coat, with piercing golden eyes and a massive blade strapped to his back. The name scrolled across the screen in bold letters:
"CYBERLIFE MODEL: DRACULE MIHAWK. THE GREATEST SWORDSMAN."
The advertisement cut to a demonstration—a swift, effortless display of swordsmanship. The Mihawk model split a metal pole clean in half, his eyes never wavering. The voice-over boomed with corporate pride:
"For the first time ever, experience the legends of anime, not just on screen, but in your own home! Cutting-edge AI meets masterful design—this is more than just a companion, it’s a warrior, a protector, a dream brought to life!"
Vincent let out a slow, tired breath. “Jesus. They really made Mihawk, huh?”
Ming folded her arms. “Y’know, sometimes I think CyberLife does this shit on purpose. One day, they say ‘androids have rights.’ The next, they’re making six-foot-seven anime war machines and selling them to civilians. And then we’re the ones left dealing with the mess.”
Vincent leaned back in his chair, watching as the screen showed the sleek CyberLife logo before cutting to another round of news about an android-led armed robbery uptown.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “And something tells me the real mess hasn’t even started yet.”
Author: here is the master list guys!! :) Enjoy my book!
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP as to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prologue:
Winter is coming..
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Description:
Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her
Chapter one:
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fierce
Chapter two:
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fierce
Chapter three:
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fierce
Chapter four:
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fierce
Chapter five:
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fierce
Chapter six:
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fierce
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.
Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP as to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!
The days at Crocodile’s fortress began to blur together, a monotonous routine punctuated by moments of unease. Y/N had grown used to the imposing walls of Rainbase, the endless desert stretching beyond its borders, and the chill of the nights that seemed at odds with the blazing heat of the sun.
Crocodile, for his part, kept his distance most days. He watched her closely but rarely spoke to her unless it was to issue a command or question her care for the dragon eggs. His moods were difficult to read—sharp and calculated one moment, distant and contemplative the next.
But today, there was something different about him.
As Y/N stepped into the grand dining hall to begin her morning, she found Crocodile already there, leaning against the head of the table with a cigar between his teeth. His hook tapped idly against the wood, a rhythmic clink that echoed faintly in the expansive room.
His expression was dark, his brows drawn together in a deep scowl. His usual air of composed authority was marred by something else—something closer to irritation, or perhaps even dread.
Y/N hesitated at the threshold, her fingers brushing against the fur-lined cloak he had insisted she wear in the mornings to ward off the chill. She wasn’t sure if she should speak, but the weight of his gaze made it impossible to ignore him.
“Good morning,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.
Crocodile grunted in response, his eye flicking toward her briefly before returning to the table.
Y/N stepped closer, her hands clutching the edges of the cloak. “Is something wrong?”
He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the cigar between his fingers glowing faintly in the dim light. “You could say that,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.
She tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to elaborate.
After a moment, he sighed heavily, straightening to his full height. “We’re expecting a visitor,” he said, his tone clipped. “Someone I’d rather not deal with.”
Y/N frowned faintly, her curiosity piqued. “Who?”
Crocodile’s lips curled into a sneer, his irritation evident. “Donquixote Doflamingo.”
The name sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. She had heard of Doflamingo in passing—a man of infamy and cruelty, a fellow Warlord whose reputation rivaled even Crocodile’s.
“Why is he coming here?” she asked cautiously.
Crocodile’s eye narrowed as he extinguished his cigar in a nearby ashtray. “He wants to ‘discuss’ something,” he said, his tone laced with disdain. “But I know what this is about.”
Y/N shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her mind turning over the possibilities. She didn’t need him to say it to know what Doflamingo’s visit likely involved. The arranged marriage between her and Crocodile had become a topic of rumor and speculation.
And Doflamingo, like any good spider, couldn’t resist a web of intrigue.
By midday, the atmosphere in the fortress had grown heavier, the anticipation of Doflamingo’s arrival settling over the halls like a storm cloud. Crocodile paced the main hall, his expression dark as he barked orders to his guards, ensuring that everything was in place.
When Doflamingo finally arrived, it was with his usual flair.
The sound of boots echoed through the hall as the towering figure strode in, his pink feathered coat swaying dramatically with every step. His ever-present smirk curled across his face, his sunglasses glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Crocodile!” Doflamingo called, his voice loud and mocking as he spread his arms wide in greeting. “It’s been too long!”
Crocodile’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained composed as he stepped forward to meet the other Warlord. “Doflamingo,” he said, his voice low and measured. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, come now,” Doflamingo replied, his smirk widening. “You know why I’m here.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Y/N, who stood near the edge of the room, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The faintest gleam of amusement flickered in his eyes as he added, “I had to see for myself if the rumors were true.”
Crocodile’s eye narrowed, his hook tapping against his side. “Get to the point.”
Doflamingo chuckled, taking a leisurely step closer. “Relax, Crocodile. I’m here as a friend.” The word dripped with sarcasm, his smirk never faltering. “I’m just curious about your… bride.”
Y/N stiffened at the word, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to keep her expression neutral.
Crocodile’s posture shifted subtly, his broad shoulders squaring as he stepped between Doflamingo and Y/N, his presence a deliberate barrier. “She’s none of your concern,” he said flatly.
Doflamingo’s grin widened, his sunglasses hiding whatever thoughts swirled behind his eyes. “Oh, but she is,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “A Targaryen princess married to a Warlord? That’s quite the alliance. People are talking, Crocodile. They’re wondering what you’re planning.”
Crocodile’s lips curled into a snarl, his patience wearing thin. “Let them wonder. It’s none of their business.”
“Or mine?” Doflamingo pressed, his voice lilting with mock innocence.
“Exactly,” Crocodile snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut.
The two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like lightning. For a moment, it seemed as though the room itself held its breath.
Then, unexpectedly, Doflamingo laughed—a low, throaty sound that filled the space and grated against Y/N’s nerves. “You’re so serious, Crocodile,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve always been like this. No sense of humor.”
Crocodile didn’t respond, his golden hook gleaming faintly in the firelight as he crossed his arms over his chest.
Doflamingo’s gaze shifted to Y/N once more, his smirk softening into something almost predatory. “And what about you, princess?” he asked, his voice honeyed. “Do you feel the same? Do you believe your new husband’s plans are none of my business?”
Y/N swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced at Crocodile, whose expression darkened further at Doflamingo’s question.
“Don’t talk to her,” Crocodile growled, stepping forward. The protectiveness in his tone surprised even him, though he masked it well with his usual command.
Doflamingo raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Alright, alright,” he said, though the gleam in his eyes suggested he was anything but sorry. “I’ll behave. For now.”
The rest of the conversation was tense, with Crocodile deflecting Doflamingo’s thinly veiled jabs and attempts to pry into his affairs. Y/N watched in silence, her hands gripping the edge of the fur cloak as she tried to make herself small and unnoticeable.
When Doflamingo finally left, it was with the same dramatic flair he had arrived with, his laughter echoing through the halls long after he was gone.
Crocodile stood in the center of the room, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists. He didn’t look at Y/N immediately, his mind clearly preoccupied with the lingering tension of the encounter.
Finally, he turned to her, his expression softening slightly as he took in her tense posture. “You’re alright,” he said, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.
Y/N nodded slowly, her hands still clutching the cloak. “I’m fine,” she said quietly, though the unease in her voice betrayed her.
Crocodile’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he exhaled heavily, running a gloved hand over his face. “Doflamingo is a pest,” he muttered. “But he’s not your concern. Let me deal with him.”
Y/N nodded again, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Crocodile’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her, his frustration shifting into something more protective. “You don’t have to be afraid of him,” he added, his tone softer now.
She met his gaze briefly, her heart skipping a beat at the unexpected gentleness in his voice.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, her voice steadier now.
Crocodile nodded once, his expression hardening again as he turned back toward the center of the room. His thoughts churned, but one thing was certain:
He would not let Doflamingo—or anyone else—interfere with what was his.
But.
The fortress felt like a coiled snake waiting to strike.
Ever since Donquixote Doflamingo arrived, tension gripped Rainbase like an iron vice. The maids moved hurriedly, their heads down as they avoided the Warlord’s gaze, whispering nervously when he was out of earshot. The guards stationed throughout the halls were equally on edge. They had faced dangers before, but Doflamingo was something else entirely—a man whose reputation alone was enough to make even the bravest soldiers uneasy.
His devil fruit, the Ito Ito no Mi, was infamous. Whispers of strings sharp enough to sever flesh and bind souls followed him wherever he went, and the stories weren’t exaggerations. Doflamingo’s power was terrifying, not just for its raw strength but for the cruelty with which he wielded it.
And yet, Doflamingo wasn’t acting out of malice—not today.
Crocodile remained distant after their tense lunch, retreating to his quarters with a scowl that could curdle wine. Y/N had returned to her own chambers, doing her best to stay out of sight and out of mind. But Doflamingo…
Doflamingo had other plans.
As the day dragged on, Doflamingo found himself intrigued.
The rumors of the Targaryen princess had reached him weeks ago, long before Crocodile’s marriage. But to see her in person—to observe her closely—was something else entirely.
She was polished, he thought. Quiet. Well-behaved, like a bird in a gilded cage. A creature shaped by survival rather than strength.
It amused him, at first. The way she carried herself, always with a rigid composure, as if expecting the world to collapse around her at any moment. But as the hours passed, he began to see the cracks—the faint hesitation in her steps, the way her fingers clutched at the edge of her cloak when she thought no one was looking.
Pity, he thought, the word curling through his mind like smoke.
But pity was not the only thing that lingered.
That evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon and bathed the desert in hues of gold and red, Doflamingo followed Y/N. It was not a conscious decision, not at first. He had been wandering the halls, his sharp mind turning over the events of the day, when he caught sight of her moving down one of the fortress’s quieter corridors.
She carried something in her arms, cradling it carefully like a mother with her child.
Curiosity flickered in his chest, and before he realized it, his feet were carrying him forward, his long strides closing the distance between them with ease.
Y/N didn’t notice him at first. Her attention was focused on the objects in her arms—three smooth, scaled eggs that glinted faintly in the fading light. Their surfaces were textured and warm, their colors rich and vibrant—red, green, and black, like jewels from some forgotten age.
Doflamingo stopped abruptly.
For the first time in years, something twisted in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. No, this was something else—something primal and ancient.
Dragons.
The word echoed through his mind like the tolling of a bell, loud and impossible to ignore.
He had dismissed the stories, of course. Everyone had. Dragons were a relic of a forgotten age, creatures that had burned themselves out centuries ago. Yet here, in the arms of this quiet, frightened girl, were three dragon eggs—alive.
He could see it now, the faint shimmer in the air around them, the pulsing warmth that radiated from their cores. The eggs were not mere relics. They were waiting.
Waiting to hatch.
Y/N froze when she finally noticed him. She turned slowly, her breath hitching as her gaze met his. Her arms tightened instinctively around the eggs, shielding them as though she could protect them from the Warlord’s piercing gaze.
“Fascinating,” Doflamingo murmured, his smirk curling wider.
Y/N didn’t respond, her heart pounding in her chest. She had been told to avoid him, to stay far away from the man in the pink coat with the predatory grin. Yet here he was, standing before her, his presence as oppressive as the desert heat.
“What are those?” he asked, though his tone carried more curiosity than threat.
“They’re mine,” Y/N said quietly, her voice steadier than she expected.
Doflamingo chuckled softly, the sound low and unsettling. “Yours?” he echoed, tilting his head. “Do you even know what you’re holding, little princess?”
Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “Yes. I do.”
His grin faltered ever so slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. “Dragons,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue like poison.
Y/N nodded, her arms tightening further around the eggs.
For a moment, Doflamingo said nothing. He simply stared at her, his mind racing. The implications of what he was seeing were staggering. Dragons. Real dragons. If these eggs hatched, the balance of power in the world would shift in ways no one could predict.
And yet… as he looked at her, standing there with defiance in her eyes and vulnerability etched across her face, something else stirred within him.
She was no threat. Not yet.
But the eggs? The eggs were a promise.
A promise of fire and blood, of power that could not be controlled.
He took a step closer, his smirk returning. “Does Crocodile know what you’re holding?” he asked, his voice soft but pointed.
Y/N hesitated, her silence betraying her answer.
Doflamingo chuckled again, shaking his head. “Of course he does,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “He wouldn’t let you keep them otherwise. He must think he can use them—use you.”
Y/N flinched, the words cutting deeper than she cared to admit.
Doflamingo’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned, his coat sweeping dramatically behind him as he strode away.
“You should be careful, little princess,” he called over his shoulder. “Not all power can be tamed.”
Y/N stood frozen in the corridor, her arms still cradling the eggs as her heart raced.
Doflamingo’s words echoed in her mind long after he disappeared, their meaning as heavy as the warmth pulsing from the eggs in her arms.
For the first time, she felt not just fear… but something else.
Something that felt like fire.
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Speaking of fire.
The streets of Rainbase buzzed with life, the city pulsing with its usual energy as the desert sun poured down like molten gold. Vendors called out from stalls brimming with spices, fabrics, and trinkets, their voices blending with the chatter of townsfolk and the clinking of coins exchanging hands.
Children darted between the crowds, laughing as they chased one another through the marketplace, their bare feet kicking up small clouds of sand. Guards patrolled the streets, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight, keeping a watchful eye on the bustling activity.
Rainbase, the heart of Crocodile’s territory, was thriving.
Among the crowds, a man walked with a carefree swagger, his bare chest exposed beneath an open shirt, a hat tipped low over his face to shield him from the sun. A confident grin tugged at his lips as he took in the sights and sounds of the city, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Portgas D. Ace, the second division commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, had arrived.
But not as a pirate.
For once, Ace wasn’t here on business—or trouble. Dressed simply, with none of the fanfare or chaos that usually accompanied his name, he blended seamlessly with the crowd. No one recognized him, nor did they give him a second glance as he wandered the marketplace, taking in the vibrant energy of Rainbase.
Ace loved exploring new places. Every island, every town held something unique, something worth discovering. Rainbase, with its sprawling streets and lively crowds, was no exception.
He stopped at a vendor’s stall, examining a display of fruit with mild interest. The vendor, a stout man with a broad smile, began rattling off prices, but Ace’s attention drifted elsewhere.
It wasn’t the fruit. It wasn’t even the vendor.
It was the whispers.
“Queen Y/N… Have you heard?”
“They say she’s beautiful. A Targaryen princess married to Crocodile, can you imagine?”
“Did you hear about the dragon eggs? They say she carries them with her like treasures from the gods.”
“And Doflamingo’s still here, isn’t he? Makes you wonder what he’s up to.”
Ace’s head tilted slightly, his grin fading as the words reached his ears. He turned away from the stall, his dark eyes scanning the crowd as he listened carefully.
The whispers were everywhere. Citizens of Rainbase spoke in hushed tones about their new queen, their words tinged with awe, curiosity, and speculation. Y/N, the Targaryen princess—now Queen of Alabasta. Married to Crocodile.
Ace’s brow furrowed faintly. He hadn’t expected to hear about royalty during his visit, let alone royalty tied to Crocodile, one of the Warlords. The name Targaryen tugged at something in the back of his mind, a faint memory of stories he’d heard during his travels—tales of dragons and a bloodline steeped in fire and power.
But it was the mention of the dragon eggs that truly caught his attention.
Dragon eggs?
The idea sounded ridiculous, almost laughable. Dragons didn’t exist—they were creatures of legend, nothing more. Yet the way the townsfolk spoke of them, their voices hushed but excited, made it clear that they believed the rumors.
Ace’s lips curved into a faint smile, his curiosity piqued.
“Queen Y/N, huh?” he muttered under his breath.
He continued walking, his steps slow and deliberate as he allowed the buzz of the city to guide him. The marketplace was alive with color and sound, but Ace’s thoughts were focused elsewhere.
Crocodile wasn’t the type to marry for love. If he had taken a wife—a queen, no less—there was more to the story than met the eye. And the mention of Doflamingo lingering in Rainbase only added another layer of intrigue.
Ace wasn’t here to stir up trouble, but the whispers of dragon eggs and a queen who carried them… He couldn’t ignore it.
His wandering eventually brought him to a shaded corner of the market, where a small group of townsfolk had gathered near a fountain. They were talking animatedly, their voices low but audible enough for Ace to catch snippets of the conversation.
“…the eggs are real, I tell you. My cousin saw them himself when he delivered supplies to the fortress.”
“Dragons? Impossible.”
“Impossible or not, the Queen has them. You’d think Crocodile would be the one carrying them, but no—she holds them like they’re her children.”
“That’s why Doflamingo’s here, isn’t it? He’s after the eggs.”
Ace leaned casually against a nearby wall, his arms crossed as he listened. The more he heard, the more curious he became.
He had never met Crocodile, but the man’s reputation was enough to paint a vivid picture. Ruthless, cunning, calculating—those were the words most often associated with the Warlord of the Sea. A man like that didn’t do anything without a reason.
And yet, the rumors of his new queen… Ace couldn’t help but wonder what kind of woman Y/N was to stand beside someone like Crocodile.
“Dragon eggs, huh?” Ace muttered to himself, his grin returning as he pushed off the wall. “Guess I’ll have to see this queen for myself.”
As he made his way deeper into the city, his steps light and purposeful, Ace couldn’t shake the feeling that Rainbase held more secrets than it was letting on.
And he intended to uncover every single one of them.
But.
As he walked.
He wasn’t walking with the leisurely pace he’d had earlier. The rumors swirling in the air had taken root in his mind, weaving together into a tapestry of intrigue that he couldn’t resist unraveling.
The Queen of Alabasta. A Targaryen princess. A forced marriage to Crocodile. Dragon eggs. And now, whispers of seven nations beyond the Grand Line, of an iron throne, and even a possible war.
Ace was no stranger to the weight of power or the games people played to seize it, but the scope of these rumors was something else entirely. His curiosity had shifted into something more—a need to know what was true.
And for that, he needed to meet her.
Not as a pirate. Not as a threat. Just as himself.
The sun dipped lower in the sky as Ace slipped through the bustling streets, moving with a predator’s ease. He kept his hat low, his movements unassuming, blending into the crowd with the practiced grace of someone who had spent his life evading attention.
Rainbase’s sprawling marketplace gave way to narrower streets, quieter corners where the fortress loomed larger with each step. The closer he got, the heavier the air seemed to grow.
By the time he reached the outer perimeter of the fortress, the crowds had thinned to almost nothing. Guards patrolled the area, their weapons gleaming under the fading sunlight. Ace crouched behind a stack of crates, his grin widening as he watched them from the shadows.
“Too easy,” he muttered under his breath, his confidence unwavering.
Getting past the guards was laughably simple. Ace had slipped through tighter security in far more hostile places. These men, though alert, weren’t expecting someone like him—someone who moved like a ghost, leaving nothing but whispers in his wake.
Inside the fortress, the atmosphere was even heavier. The grand halls were dimly lit, the air cool and thick with the faint scent of smoke and incense. Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, but the corridors near Ace were eerily quiet.
He moved with purpose, his instincts guiding him as he navigated the labyrinthine halls. The rumors he’d overheard played over in his mind, piecing together an image of the woman he was about to meet.
A princess. A queen. A woman who carried dragon eggs.
He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he couldn’t deny the excitement thrumming in his chest. There was something thrilling about sneaking into a fortress ruled by one of the most dangerous men in the world to meet the woman who shared his throne.
The room he found was smaller than he expected, tucked away in a quieter wing of the fortress. The faint glow of a fire flickered from beneath the door, casting dancing shadows along the stone floor.
Ace hesitated for the first time. He hadn’t planned this far ahead, and now, standing outside what he assumed was the Queen’s chamber, he realized he had no idea what he was going to say.
“Hi, I’m Ace. Just wanted to see if you really have dragon eggs.”
The thought made him grin, but he knew he’d have to tread carefully.
Pushing the door open just enough to slip inside, Ace stepped into the room as quietly as possible.
It was warm, the air heavy with the faint smell of burning wood and something faintly sweet. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting a golden glow across the room.
And there she was.
Y/N sat near the fire, her back turned to him. She wore a simple robe, the fabric pooling around her as she leaned forward, her hands carefully cradling one of the dragon eggs. The other two rested on a padded surface nearby, their scaled shells glinting faintly in the firelight.
Ace’s breath hitched, his grin fading into something softer as he took in the sight.
She was unlike anyone he’d ever seen. Her figure was fuller, her form soft where most others he knew were hardened by battle and survival. Yet there was a quiet strength in the way she moved, a tenderness in her hands as she stroked the surface of the egg, her fingers tracing its ridges as if memorizing every detail.
Ace stepped forward, his boots silent against the stone floor. He didn’t want to startle her, but his curiosity got the better of him.
“Those are real, aren’t they?” he asked softly, his voice breaking the silence like a ripple across still water.
Y/N froze.
Her shoulders tensed, her fingers stilling against the egg as her head turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her eyes widened, her breath catching as she took in the sight of the man standing in her chamber—a stranger, yet somehow not a threat.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice steady despite the faint tremor in her hands.
Ace held up his hands in a gesture of peace, his grin returning as he stepped closer. “Just a traveler,” he said lightly. “Name’s Ace.”
Y/N turned fully now, her grip tightening slightly around the egg. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her tone firm.
Ace shrugged, his grin unfaltering. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t resist. I’ve been hearing all kinds of rumors about you—and those.” He nodded toward the eggs.
Y/N’s gaze flicked between him and the eggs, her expression cautious. “What do you want?”
“To meet you,” Ace said simply. “And maybe find out if the stories are true.”
Y/N frowned, her brow furrowing. “What stories?”
Ace tilted his head, his grin softening. “That you’re a queen. A Targaryen. And that you’re carrying the last dragon eggs in the world.”
Her silence was answer enough.
Ace stepped closer, his movements slow and unthreatening as he crouched beside her. He kept his eyes on the egg in her hands, the firelight dancing across its surface.
“They’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and genuine.
Y/N watched him carefully, unsure of what to make of this man who had appeared so suddenly, yet seemed so at ease. “They’re not just beautiful,” she said softly. “They’re alive.”
Ace’s gaze snapped to hers, his eyes widening slightly. “Alive?”
She nodded, her fingers brushing against the egg’s warm surface. “I can feel their hearts beating,” she said. “They’re waiting.”
Ace exhaled slowly, his grin fading into something more serious. “That’s incredible,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, the room fell silent again, the weight of her words settling over them both.
Finally, Y/N spoke. “Why are you really here, Ace?”
He met her gaze, his dark eyes steady. “Honestly? I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I think… maybe I just wanted to see something real. And you—” He gestured toward her and the eggs. “You’re about as real as it gets.”
Y/N’s lips parted slightly, her expression softening. She didn’t know what to say, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel alone.
Ace grinned again, his boyish charm returning as he leaned back slightly. “So, think we can be friends?”
Y/N blinked, startled by the question.
“I mean, I know you’re a queen and all,” Ace continued, his tone light. “But I’m pretty good company. And I make a mean campfire stew.”
Despite herself, Y/N felt a faint smile tugging at her lips.
“We’ll see,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the faintest hint of warmth.
Ace’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The fire crackled softly between them, the tension in the room easing as they sat together, the weight of their worlds momentarily forgotten.
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.
Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP as to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!
The heavy doors of the throne room closed with a faint thud, leaving Y/N and Crocodile alone in the cavernous space. The torches burned low now, their flames casting long, flickering shadows that danced along the dark stone walls. The air, though stifling in its quiet tension, felt colder somehow, the warmth of the firelight failing to reach her skin.
Y/N sat stiffly in the throne beside Crocodile’s, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her shoulders were hunched slightly, though she didn’t realize it, her posture betraying the unease simmering within her. The weight of Mihawk’s parting words lingered in the air, as though the man himself had left behind an unseen specter.
Crocodile said nothing for a long while, his golden hook resting against the arm of his jagged throne, his visible eye focused on the smoldering embers in the braziers. The silence between them grew heavier with each passing second, stretching taut like the string of a bow pulled too tight.
Y/N could feel his presence beside her—a dark and brooding weight that seemed to fill the room. She kept her gaze forward, refusing to meet his eye, though the tension in her neck made it impossible to relax.
Finally, Crocodile’s voice broke the silence, low and sharp. “Back straight.”
The command snapped through the air like a whip.
Y/N startled slightly, her breath hitching as her head turned toward him in confusion. His tone carried an edge of irritation that made her chest tighten, but his gaze wasn’t on her face—it was on her posture.
“Sit properly,” he continued, this time in the Alabastan tongue—a sharp, guttural language steeped in command and tradition. His words rolled off his tongue like the growl of a predator. “Do you think this is how a ruler carries themselves?”
Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her robe. She straightened her back as best she could, though the motion felt forced and unnatural. Her body was already heavy with exhaustion, her muscles stiff from the lingering cold that clung to her skin.
Crocodile’s single visible eye narrowed slightly as he studied her, his expression hard and unreadable. For a moment, it seemed as though he might snap again, but then he paused.
He saw it.
The faint tremble in her hands. The way her shoulders, though stiff, shivered ever so slightly. Her lips, pale and pressed tightly together, barely concealing the signs of discomfort. She was cold.
His brow furrowed faintly, though his expression didn’t soften. He leaned back in his throne, his golden hook tapping idly against the armrest as his gaze flicked toward the firelight.
The silence stretched again, though it carried a different weight now—less oppressive, more contemplative.
Then, without a word, Crocodile shifted in his seat, the fur-lined cloak that draped his shoulders rustling faintly as he moved.
Y/N’s head turned slightly, her brows furrowing in confusion as she saw him shrug off the iconic garment, its heavy fabric pooling in his hand like liquid shadow. The inside of the cloak gleamed faintly, lined with dark, luxurious fur that radiated warmth even from where she sat.
Crocodile didn’t speak as he leaned forward, his movements deliberate but unhurried. With a rough motion, he draped the cloak over her shoulders, the weight of it settling heavily across her back.
The warmth was immediate, the fur brushing against her skin like a living thing, chasing away the lingering cold that had settled into her bones. Y/N blinked in surprise, her lips parting as she turned her head slightly to glance at him.
Crocodile’s expression was unreadable, his golden hook resting against his knee as he leaned back once more. His visible eye didn’t meet hers—instead, it lingered on the dragon eggs resting on the table beside her.
The cloak draped over her shoulders spilled partially over the eggs, its heavy folds shielding them from the chill of the room.
“Can’t have you freezing to death,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as though annoyed with himself for the gesture. “You’re no use to me like that.”
Y/N said nothing, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the cloak as she adjusted it across her lap. The warmth seeped into her, soothing the ache in her limbs and the tightness in her chest.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Crocodile’s lips curled faintly into a smirk, though he still didn’t look at her. “Don’t mistake this for kindness,” he said, his tone sharp but lacking venom. “You’re mine to protect. Nothing more.”
Y/N nodded faintly, lowering her gaze as her fingers tightened around the edges of the cloak. She didn’t know what to make of the gesture—whether it was genuine concern or simply another way to assert his control.
But the warmth was real. And for now, that was enough.
Crocodile’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, his thoughts turning unbidden to Mihawk’s parting question: “Is she your queen?”
The question had been meant to provoke, to plant doubt, and perhaps even to mock. Yet it had stirred something in him—a question he hadn’t thought to ask himself.
His eye traced the curve of her shoulders, the way the fur of his cloak framed her face, softening the sharp angles of her sorrow. She was a contradiction—a woman of fire and quiet resilience, scarred by the world yet unbroken.
Was she his queen?
The thought lingered in his mind like smoke, refusing to dissipate.
Crocodile leaned back further in his throne, his golden hook catching the firelight as it moved idly against the armrest. His expression hardened once more, though his thoughts remained distant.
“Get some rest,” he muttered, his voice curt. “You’ll need your strength.”
Y/N glanced at him briefly, unsure of what he meant, but she nodded. The weight of the cloak and the warmth it brought made it easier to relax, though the tension in her chest never fully left.
As the fire crackled low, the silence returned to the throne room, though it no longer felt quite so cold.
The tension that had hung in the air earlier now softened by an unspoken truce. Crocodile leaned back in his jagged sandstone throne, the faint smirk on his lips fading as he turned his gaze toward Y/N.
She sat beside him, her smaller throne dwarfed by his imposing seat of power. The fur-lined cloak he had draped over her shoulders pooled around her, its weight a barrier against the lingering chill in the room. She hadn’t said much after thanking him, her posture slowly relaxing as the warmth began to lull her into a rare moment of peace.
Crocodile’s visible eye remained fixed on her as the minutes stretched on. He noted the way her hands had loosened their grip on the edges of the cloak, her shoulders no longer hunched. Her breathing slowed, soft and even, as her body gave in to the pull of exhaustion.
Then, almost imperceptibly, her head tilted to the side, her chin dipping as her eyes closed.
She had fallen asleep.
Crocodile’s heart swelled unexpectedly, a sensation he hadn’t felt in years—if ever. His brow furrowed slightly, but his gaze softened as he observed her. She looked… vulnerable, her usually guarded expression now relaxed in slumber. The faint tear stains on her cheeks caught the firelight, a reminder of the weight she carried even in moments of rest.
Foolish girl, he thought, though the thought lacked its usual bite.
His eye drifted downward, landing on the dragon eggs cradled in her lap beneath the cloak. She had insisted on keeping them close, her hands occasionally brushing against their smooth, scaled surfaces as though she were drawn to them instinctively.
Crocodile sighed softly, a sound that might have been mistaken for annoyance, though it carried something deeper. He leaned forward, careful not to disturb her as he reached out with his gloved hand.
One by one, he lifted the eggs, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as he moved them from her lap. Their weight was solid, familiar now after watching her handle them with such care. He placed them carefully on a low table near the fire, arranging them so that the warmth of the flames would reach them evenly.
Crocodile had observed her closely in the days since the eggs arrived, noting the way she treated them as if they were already alive. He had scoffed at first, dismissing it as sentimental nonsense, but the longer he watched, the more intrigued he became.
The faint pulse he felt when he touched the eggs… It wasn’t his imagination.
Behind him, a faint snort broke the silence, accompanied by the muffled sound of poorly concealed laughter.
Crocodile’s head snapped around, his gaze zeroing in on the two guards stationed near the far end of the room. They straightened immediately under the weight of his glare, their faces paling as they exchanged nervous glances.
One of them coughed awkwardly, forcing his companion to mimic the action as they hastily returned to their rigid postures.
Satisfied, Crocodile turned back to the eggs, his lips curling faintly into a smirk. His men knew better than to comment on his actions—or at least they should by now.
The fire crackled softly as the eggs rested by its warmth, their textured surfaces glinting faintly in the flickering light. Crocodile’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before shifting back to Y/N.
Her head had lolled to the side slightly, her cheek pressing against the fur of the cloak. Her breathing remained soft and even, her hands now resting loosely against her lap.
The sight stirred something deep within him—a quiet, unspoken tenderness he couldn’t quite place. It was… unfamiliar, uncomfortable even, but not unwelcome.
The peace of the moment was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching. Crocodile’s expression darkened slightly as he turned his gaze toward the source. A guard entered the room, his face tense as he carried a folded note in his gloved hand.
“My lord,” the guard said, bowing his head as he stopped a few paces away. “A message for you.”
Crocodile held out his hand, his golden hook gleaming in the firelight as he motioned for the note. The guard approached cautiously, placing the folded parchment into his hand before stepping back quickly.
Unfolding the note, Crocodile’s visible eye scanned the neat, bold handwriting that marked the page. His jaw tightened slightly as he read, his grip on the paper growing firm enough to crinkle the edges.
The message was brief, but it carried enough weight to set his teeth on edge:
"Crocodile—
A unique opportunity has come to my attention. Let’s discuss it over lunch. You know where to find me.
D. Doflamingo."
Crocodile’s lips curled into a snarl, the faintest growl escaping his throat.
Doflamingo.
The name alone made his blood boil. The man was an arrogant, manipulative bastard—a spider weaving his webs of deceit across the seas. Crocodile had dealt with him before, but never willingly. Doflamingo’s presence in anything always signaled chaos.
The mention of Y/N and the rumors surrounding their marriage made the note all the more grating. What game is he playing now? Crocodile thought bitterly.
He folded the note sharply, his mind already churning as he considered his next move.
The faint sound of Y/N’s breathing brought his attention back to her, her peaceful slumber starkly contrasted with the growing storm brewing in his mind.
Crocodile exhaled slowly, his irritation subsiding just enough for him to refocus. Whatever Doflamingo wanted, he would deal with it. But for now, he let the note rest on the arm of his throne, leaning back as his gaze drifted between Y/N and the dragon eggs by the fire.
The Red Force rocked gently on the waves, the bright sun gleaming off its crimson sails as the infamous Red-Haired Pirates reveled in yet another impromptu party. Laughter, cheers, and the clink of mugs filled the air as the crew sprawled across the deck, their boisterous energy as wild as the sea itself.
Shanks sat in his usual spot, leaning back against a barrel near the ship’s helm. A wide grin split his face as he raised his mug of ale high, the sunlight catching the faint scars that crisscrossed his rugged features. His red hair gleamed like fire, tousled and untamed, matching the carefree energy that seemed to radiate from him.
“Another toast!” Shanks bellowed, his voice carrying over the noise of the crew. “To the sea, to freedom, and to the poor bastards who think they can catch us!”
The crew roared with laughter, mugs clinking together as they downed their drinks. Benn Beckman leaned against the railing nearby, a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips as he smirked at the scene. Lucky Roux let out a loud guffaw, already reaching for another hunk of meat to stuff into his mouth.
“Shanks, you’re going to drink the whole barrel dry!” Yassop teased, striding over with his own mug in hand.
“Maybe I will!” Shanks shot back with a laugh, his grin widening.
But as the festivities continued, something caught Yassop’s attention—a shadow that swept across the deck, followed by the soft flutter of wings. He turned his head just in time to see a seagull descending, a newspaper clutched in its talons.
The bird dropped the paper unceremoniously at Shanks’s feet before flapping away, leaving the captain to glance down at it with mild curiosity.
“Well, what’s this?” Shanks muttered, leaning forward to snatch up the paper.
Yassop’s expression shifted, his carefree grin faltering as his gaze lingered on the rolled-up newspaper. Something about it made his stomach twist—an unshakable sense of unease.
Shanks, oblivious to Yassop’s sudden silence, unrolled the paper with one hand, his grin still in place. But as his eyes scanned the bold headline on the front page, the smile faded.
“WARLORD CROCODILE FORGES MARRIAGE ALLIANCE WITH TARGARYEN PRINCESS.”
Shanks’s brow furrowed deeply, his jaw tightening as he read further. Details of the arrangement, vague as they were, painted a clear enough picture. Crocodile had struck a deal with Y/N’s brother, Viserys Targaryen, to marry her—a union meant to strengthen his position in Alabasta.
The paper crumpled in Shanks’s hand before he even realized it.
“Captain?” Yassop’s voice was careful, his concern evident as he stepped closer.
Shanks didn’t look up immediately. His mind churned, memories surfacing unbidden—memories of the Targaryen family.
He remembered Viserys well enough: a spoiled, conniving little shit with a mouth too big for his own good. The boy had always strutted about like a king, using his family’s legacy as a shield to hide his own weakness. A whore in all but title, selling anything—anyone—if it suited his ambitions.
And then there was Y/N.
The contrast between the siblings couldn’t have been starker. Y/N had been kind, soft-spoken, and graceful in ways Viserys would never understand. Despite the weight of her family’s reputation, she had carried herself with quiet dignity, her kindness shining even in the darkest moments.
Shanks had met her years ago, during one of his many escapades. She had been young then, though already burdened by the shadow of her brother. She had been unlike anyone he’d ever met—gentle, empathetic, but with a quiet strength that lingered beneath her soft exterior.
And she was beautiful.
Even now, Shanks could recall the way her smile had lit up a room, her laughter a balm to the soul. Her weight, her fuller frame, had never diminished her beauty in his eyes. If anything, it had made her more radiant—a stark defiance against the cruel standards of nobility.
But now, to see her name in this paper, tied to Crocodile of all people…
“Shanks,” Yassop said again, his voice firmer now.
Shanks finally looked up, his scarlet hair falling across his face as he met Yassop’s gaze. The anger in his eyes was unmistakable, though it was tempered by something deeper—disgust.
“He sold her,” Shanks muttered, his voice low and venomous.
Yassop frowned, his brow furrowing. “Viserys?”
“Who else?” Shanks growled, tossing the crumpled paper to the deck. “That bastard sold his own sister to Crocodile—a fucking warlord. He didn’t even think twice.”
The crew had gone quiet now, their laughter and chatter fading as they picked up on the tension radiating from their captain. Benn Beckman stepped closer, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
“Do you know her?” Benn asked quietly, his sharp eyes studying Shanks carefully.
Shanks nodded, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled heavily. “Yeah. I knew her.” He paused, his jaw clenching. “She didn’t deserve this. Not her. She’s nothing like that snake she calls a brother.”
Benn said nothing, his gaze drifting to the crumpled paper on the deck.
“She was kind,” Shanks continued, his voice softer now, though the anger still lingered beneath the surface. “She didn’t belong in that family—didn’t belong in his world. And now he’s thrown her to Crocodile like she’s nothing.”
Lucky Roux, who had been quietly listening, frowned deeply. “What are you gonna do about it, Captain?”
Shanks’s lips curled into a grim smile, his grip tightening around the handle of his mug. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I can’t let this sit. Not with her involved.”
Benn stepped closer, his voice calm but firm. “If you go after Crocodile, it’ll draw attention. You know that.”
“Let it,” Shanks snapped, though his tone softened almost immediately. He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. “I just need to figure out what’s really happening here. Why Crocodile? Why her? This doesn’t add up.”
Yassop stepped forward, resting a hand on Shanks’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” he said simply. “You’ve got all of us, Captain. Whatever you decide, we’re with you.”
Shanks glanced around at his crew, their faces serious, their loyalty unwavering. His heart swelled with gratitude, though the anger in his chest burned brighter still.
“Good,” Shanks said quietly, his voice steady now. “Because I’m not letting him win. Not this time.”
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, the sun casting the sea in shades of crimson and gold. Somewhere out there, Y/N was trapped in a world of power and ambition, her fate tied to a man who saw her as nothing more than a piece on his board.
And Shanks would be damned if he let that stand.
“Set a course for Alabasta,” Shanks ordered, his voice firm and resolute. “It’s time we paid Crocodile a visit.”
The Red Force roared to life, the crew springing into action as they prepared to set sail.
But.
As Shanks leaned down to pick up the crumpled newspaper yet again, the bold headline about Y/N and Crocodile still stared back at him, the ink smudged from his grip. He smoothed the page absentmindedly, his thoughts churning as he turned to the next section of the paper.
And then he froze.
His eyes scanned the smaller headline, and a sharp, bark-like laugh escaped his throat before he could stop it.
“PRINCE VISERYS TARGARYEN FOUND DEAD IN ALABASTA.”
Shanks read further, his grin widening as he took in the details. Viserys, the so-called "last dragon" of his line, had been found naked in a noble’s estate in northern Alabasta. The scene was described with gruesome simplicity: a single sword strike to the chest, precise and unmistakable, had ended his life.
But it wasn’t the death itself that caught Shanks’s attention—it was the description of the wound. The clean, singular strike. The exacting precision of it. The kind of strike that only one man in the world could have delivered.
“Mihawk,” Shanks muttered, shaking his head with a low chuckle.
“Captain?” Yassop’s voice broke through the moment, drawing Shanks’s attention. The sharpshooter’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer, his concern etched across his face. “What’s so funny? You’re laughing like a damn madman.”
Shanks held up the paper, tapping the section about Viserys with his finger. “He’s dead,” Shanks said simply, his grin widening. “The little shit’s finally dead.”
Yassop blinked, caught off guard. “Viserys? What the hell happened to him?”
“Mihawk happened,” Shanks replied, tossing the paper onto the barrel beside him. “The mark on his chest—one clean stroke. That’s Hawk Eyes, no doubt about it.”
Lucky Roux let out a laugh, his mouth half-full of meat. “Mihawk killed the bastard? Guess someone finally got sick of him.”
“Good riddance,” Benn Beckman muttered, picking up the paper and scanning the article himself. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his expression thoughtful. “The question is, why was Mihawk even there? Alabasta’s a long way from his usual haunts.”
Shanks’s grin faltered slightly, his expression turning more serious. “That’s what I’d like to know,” he said quietly.
He leaned back against the railing, his hand brushing absently through his red hair as he thought it over. Mihawk wasn’t the type to kill without reason. If he’d been in Alabasta, striking down someone like Viserys, it wasn’t by coincidence.
“Think he was there for Crocodile?” Yassop asked, his voice low.
“Maybe,” Shanks replied, though his tone carried uncertainty. “Or maybe he was there because of Y/N.”
The thought hung heavy in the air, a weight that neither Shanks nor his crew could ignore.
Despite the satisfaction of knowing Viserys was dead—naked, humiliated, and stripped of whatever power he thought he’d had—it didn’t change the reality of Y/N’s situation. She was still in Alabasta, still bound by the chains of a forced marriage to one of the most dangerous men in the world.
The fire in Shanks’s chest reignited, his earlier laughter fading into a grim determination. “Mihawk might’ve done her a favor by taking out her brother,” he said, his voice steady. “But it doesn’t change the fact that she’s still in Crocodile’s grasp.”
Benn folded the paper neatly, tucking it under his arm as he met Shanks’s gaze. “So what’s the plan, Captain?”
Shanks straightened, his grin returning, though it carried a sharper edge now. “We sail to Alabasta. Find out what Crocodile’s really up to. And if Mihawk’s still there…”
He trailed off, his grin widening into something almost feral.
“...well, it’ll be nice to catch up with an old friend.”
The crew roared in agreement, the energy on the ship shifting into high gear as they adjusted their course.
As the Red Force cut through the waves, Shanks turned his gaze toward the horizon, the light in his eyes as fierce as the sun.
Viserys was dead. Y/N was alive. And the game was far from over.
“Hold on, princess,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low but resolute. “We’re coming for you.”
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.
Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!
The chamber had grown quiet, the earlier drumbeats now little more than echoes in the air. Deep within the stone walls of Rainbase’s fortress, Crocodile sat alone in his private quarters. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows that flickered against the walls. The room was sparse and utilitarian, devoid of unnecessary luxury. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, muting the desert moonlight, leaving the fire’s glow to dominate the room.
Crocodile sat in a wide leather chair near the fire, his legs stretched out before him. In one hand, he held a glass of whiskey—its deep amber liquid catching the firelight, swirling faintly with each slow turn of his wrist. His golden hook rested heavily against the armrest of the chair, its polished edge glinting with an almost predatory light.
The silence in the room was his only companion, and for once, he didn’t find it as comforting as he usually did.
Her voice lingered in his mind—soft, trembling, laced with defiance and pain. “Is this… what you wanted?”
The words had been spoken in Valyrian, but the tone—gods, the tone—had been universal. Her voice shook not just with fear, but with something deeper. And those tears… Crocodile could still hear the faint sound of them hitting the marble floor.
A soft plink, like drops of rain.
The image of her standing there, shoulders bared, vulnerable and trembling, returned unbidden. The way the guards had stared at her, their low laughter barely concealed as they took in the shape of her body. Their disrespect had irritated him more than he cared to admit. Not because of her, he told himself. Because they forgot their place.
Crocodile scowled faintly, bringing the glass of whiskey to his lips and taking a slow, deliberate sip. The burn of it slid down his throat, bitter and sharp, but it did nothing to silence the noise in his mind.
He could still hear her words. He could still feel the weight of that moment—how her fire, even dimmed by humiliation, still refused to go out.
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of the door opening. Crocodile didn’t look up, didn’t turn his head as the sharp click of heels echoed faintly against the stone floor. He knew who it was before she spoke.
“Miss All Sunday,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.
Robin stepped into the room, her figure silhouetted briefly by the firelight before she moved further in, her cloak trailing behind her. She paused near the edge of the hearth, her sharp eyes fixed on Crocodile as he stared into the flames.
“You didn’t follow through with the ceremony,” she said softly, though there was no accusation in her tone. “The men noticed. They’re talking.”
Crocodile exhaled a slow breath, tilting the glass of whiskey in his hand, watching as the liquid swirled. “Let them talk,” he said coolly.
Robin’s lips quirked faintly, though her eyes remained unreadable. “It’s not like you to deviate from tradition.”
Crocodile’s gaze flicked toward her then, sharp and assessing, though he said nothing for a moment. The firelight danced across the deep lines of his face, casting harsh shadows beneath the scar that ran from his brow to his cheek.
“She’s not worth the effort?” Robin asked, though there was a glimmer of curiosity in her tone—curiosity that Crocodile noticed.
He chuckled softly, though the sound lacked humor. “That’s what they’ll think,” he said, leaning back into the chair. His golden hook tapped against the armrest, the faint metallic clink punctuating the silence. “They’ll tell themselves I spared her because she’s weak, or useless.”
Robin tilted her head faintly, stepping closer to the fire. “And is that what you think?”
Crocodile’s eye narrowed slightly, his fingers tightening around the glass. He turned back toward the fire, the flames reflecting in his gaze like molten gold. “She’s not weak,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “Not yet.”
Robin studied him carefully, the faintest hint of intrigue flickering across her features. “Then why didn’t you break her? It’s what the ceremony was meant for—to ensure loyalty, to solidify power.”
Crocodile scowled, his lips curling faintly as he stared deeper into the fire. “Because broken things are only useful for so long.”
Robin didn’t respond immediately. She knew better than most how Crocodile’s mind worked—how he viewed the world like a chessboard, every person a piece to be played. And yet, there was something different here, something unspoken in the way his expression hardened as he spoke.
“You’re thinking about what she said,” Robin said softly, her tone more knowing than questioning.
Crocodile didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to.
The words echoed again: “Is this… what you wanted?”
He had been called many things in his life—tyrant, pirate, monster. He didn’t care. He had built his empire through blood, ambition, and sheer will, and he owed nothing to anyone.
But those words… they had struck something he hadn’t expected.
Because in that moment, as he had stood behind her—her body trembling, her voice breaking—he had felt a flicker of disgust. Not toward her, but toward the scene unfolding before him. The guards, the spectators, the ceremony itself—it all seemed small, like a pathetic imitation of power.
And she, with her trembling voice and silent tears, had stood stronger than any of them.
“She’ll fight back,” Robin continued, breaking the silence. “Even if she doesn’t know how yet.”
Crocodile chuckled again, the sound low and gravelly. “Good.”
Robin regarded him carefully. “You plan to use her, then?”
Crocodile’s smirk returned faintly, though his gaze remained fixed on the fire. “Everyone’s useful, Robin. You know that.”
“And if she’s more than you bargained for?” Robin pressed, though there was no mockery in her tone—only curiosity.
Crocodile finally turned to look at her, his golden hook gleaming as he shifted slightly in his seat. “Then I’ll find out soon enough, won’t I?”
Robin said nothing more. She tilted her head in acknowledgment before stepping back into the shadows, her figure disappearing into the dark as silently as it had come.
Crocodile turned back to the fire, his fingers brushing absently against the edge of his glass as he stared into the flames.
Her voice whispered in his mind again—shaky, trembling, yet filled with fire all the same.
“Is this… what you wanted?”
For the first time in years, Crocodile found himself without an answer.
And that, he thought with a flicker of irritation, made her far more dangerous than she looked.
But.
Eventually.
Rainbase was alive in the dimming light of evening, its streets teeming with life. The desert city never truly slept—too much money flowed through its veins for silence to linger long. Merchants hawked their wares beneath colorful awnings, gamblers crowded around makeshift tables in open alleys, and mercenaries loitered in dark corners, their hands never straying far from their blades. Laughter, curses, and the clink of coin carried through the air like a constant hum, weaving together a city that thrived on shadows and secrets.
And tonight, Dracule Mihawk moved silently among them.
The greatest swordsman in the world, the man feared as Hawk Eyes, walked with quiet ease through Rainbase’s crowded streets. His heavy black coat, wide-brimmed hat, and massive cross-shaped sword strapped to his back should have made him stand out, yet no one seemed to truly see him. Mihawk had a way of blending in when he wished—his presence deliberate and calculated, like a predator camouflaging itself in the brush.
His golden eyes, sharp and unrelenting, scanned the crowd as he moved. Merchants, beggars, mercenaries—each face was cataloged and dismissed in an instant. Mihawk wasn’t here for them. He was here to gather information. To watch. To listen.
The rumors were easy to find. People in Rainbase talked, though rarely with trust or care. There were whispers about Crocodile—Sir Crocodile, as they called him—and his rule over Alabasta. His influence stretched far beyond Rainbase, but it was here, in his city, that his power pulsed strongest.
Mihawk’s steps carried him toward a crowded bazaar at the city’s center, where voices shouted over one another in competition. Torchlight burned bright, illuminating stalls draped in fine silks, glittering jewelry, and exotic trinkets. Mihawk moved through the throng like a ghost, his presence unnoticed as he wove between groups of people.
He stopped near a gathering of men huddled beside a shaded stall, their voices low but animated. They were rough-looking—mercenaries, by the look of their worn armor and the weapons strapped haphazardly to their backs. Mihawk paused at the edge of their circle, pretending to examine a table of knives and trinkets, his ears trained on their conversation.
“You hear about the girl?” one of the men murmured, his voice gravelly.
“The Targaryen princess?” another replied, snorting softly. “Yeah. Crocodile brought her here—some marriage deal, they say.”
“Marriage? Hah!” the first man laughed bitterly. “If that’s true, then the poor thing’s got no idea what she’s in for. Crocodile doesn’t wed. He uses. She’ll be just another tool for his schemes.”
“Maybe,” the second man said, leaning closer. “But have you heard what she came with?”
The others shifted, their interest piqued. Mihawk’s sharp gaze flicked to the side, though he kept his head bowed, his expression hidden by the brim of his hat.
“What?” the first man asked.
The second man lowered his voice further, his tone conspiratorial. “Dragon eggs. Three of them. That’s what they say. Last ones in the world, smuggled in just for her.”
The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of the claim settling over them.
“Bullshit,” one of them muttered finally, though his voice lacked conviction. “Dragons are gone. Long gone.”
“That’s what everyone says,” the second man shot back. “But people who’ve been inside the fortress saw them—large as a man’s head, gleaming like they’re alive. Crocodile’s keeping them close.”
“What for?”
“Who knows?” The man shrugged. “Leverage? Power? You think he cares about the girl? He cares about those eggs.”
Mihawk’s fingers brushed over the edge of a blade on the table, his mind sharpening like the steel beneath his touch. Dragon eggs.
He had heard many legends in his life—tales of ancient creatures and forgotten kings. The dragons of the Targaryens had always been myth to him, distant as fairy tales told to children. Yet now, here in Alabasta, whispers of eggs came like echoes of something ancient. And Crocodile, ever the opportunist, had tied himself to it.
Mihawk didn’t believe in coincidences.
He moved away from the stall quietly, his boots soft against the stone streets as he let the crowd swallow him once more. The guards who patrolled Rainbase paid him no mind, their focus trained on the city’s more obvious troublemakers.
Mihawk’s gaze, however, remained sharp as he made his way toward the fortress that loomed in the distance. From here, he could see its jagged spires silhouetted against the desert sky, a dark wound in the golden horizon.
The girl is there, Mihawk thought, his steps measured and deliberate.
Crocodile had plans—of that, Mihawk had no doubt. But the girl—this Targaryen princess—was more than a pawn in this game. Mihawk could sense it, like the faintest tremor in the earth before a quake. The whispers of her fire, her tears, her silence—all of it intrigued him in a way he couldn’t yet explain.
And if dragon eggs were involved, the stakes were far greater than anyone realized.
As Mihawk approached the gates of the fortress, the guards on either side tensed slightly, their hands twitching toward their weapons. Mihawk’s presence, though quiet, carried a weight that unsettled lesser men.
“State your business,” one of the guards demanded, his voice rough and firm.
Mihawk tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes glinting faintly beneath the shadow of his hat. “I’ve come to see Crocodile,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
The guard exchanged an uneasy glance with his partner, clearly uncertain. “Sir Crocodile doesn’t see uninvited guests.”
“Then tell him Dracule Mihawk wishes to speak,” Mihawk replied evenly, his tone carrying the kind of finality that left no room for argument.
The guards froze, the name sinking into them like a stone. One of them swallowed visibly before nodding, motioning for Mihawk to follow. “Wait here. I’ll inform him.”
Mihawk said nothing, stepping back slightly to lean against the stone wall of the gate. His hand rested casually on the hilt of Yoru—the massive black sword strapped across his back—as he let his gaze drift toward the fortress once more.
Inside those walls lay answers—about Crocodile, about the Targaryen girl, and about the game that had only just begun.
For now, Mihawk would wait.
And when the time came, he would find the truth, no matter what shadows it lay hidden in.
The silence in her chambers was deafening, broken only by the soft whisper of the wind outside and the faint crackle of the low-burning lamps. The room was dim, bathed in shadows that crawled along the stone walls, the faint light unable to chase them away. The fire in the hearth had long since died to embers, and the air held a coolness that did little to ease the tightness in Y/N's chest.
She sat on the edge of the ornate bed, her body curled into itself, knees drawn up as though she could make herself smaller—less noticeable. Her cheeks were stained with tears that had dried sometime in the night, leaving thin, salty trails that burned faintly against her skin. Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed, but dry now, staring at the nothingness before her.
Humiliation lingered over her like a shroud, suffocating and cruel. The memory of the ceremony haunted her—every touch, every sound, every pair of unseen eyes watching her. Crocodile’s hands loosening the silk ties of her robe, the mocking laughter of the guards as they took in her form, the shame that had gripped her tighter than a vice.
Her brother’s words echoed in her mind, venomous and sharp as daggers. “You are nothing but a pawn, Y/N. Silent, obedient, as a wife should be.”
Silent, she thought bitterly, staring at the hands curled tightly in her lap. And broken.
And yet…
Her gaze lifted, falling on the three dragon eggs that sat on a small table before the window. The faint light of the rising sun filtered through the glass, illuminating them softly, casting their colors in shades of gold and crimson.
The eggs called to her.
She didn’t know how else to describe it. Even now, as she sat in her grief and shame, they felt alive—as though they pulsed with something ancient and fierce.
Slowly, Y/N pushed herself off the bed, her movements stiff and clumsy as she walked toward the table. Her bare feet were silent against the cold stone floor, her robe hanging loosely around her shoulders. She stopped before the eggs, her breath catching as she looked down at them.
The red egg.
Her eyes were drawn to it—deep crimson, like blood and fire. Its surface shimmered faintly in the light, textured with fine scales that seemed to shift when she moved. She could feel it, even from here—a warmth, faint but steady, like a heartbeat waiting to be awakened.
Y/N reached out with trembling hands, her fingertips grazing the surface of the egg.
It was warm.
Warm, and… alive.
Her pulse quickened as she cupped the egg gently, lifting it into her hands. Its weight was solid but not overwhelming, as though it were meant to be held. She held it close to her chest, her thumbs brushing along the smooth ridges of its scales.
The pulsing heartbeat grew stronger. She could feel it through her fingertips, steady and certain, as though the egg itself recognized her.
“Your Grace!”
The sudden voice startled her, breaking the moment. One of Crocodile’s maids—a woman with sharp features and dark eyes—stood in the doorway, her face contorted in shock and concern.
The maid rushed toward her, her slippers barely making a sound against the floor. “Your Grace! Be careful!” she said hurriedly, her voice rising slightly as she reached for the egg.
“It’s fine,” Y/N said quietly, though the words came out uncertain and dazed.
The maid didn’t listen. She reached out to take the egg from Y/N’s hands, her expression a mix of fear and desperation. “You’ll burn yourself! Let me—”
Her hands closed around the egg, and a sharp hiss escaped her lips as her fingers made contact.
The maid dropped the egg immediately, her hands jerking back as though she’d touched a live coal. The egg landed softly in Y/N’s arms again, perfectly cradled, as though it had never left.
The maid stumbled back, cradling her burned fingers, her face pale with shock. “It burns!” she gasped, her voice trembling. “It’s hot as fire!”
Y/N stared at her, uncomprehending at first. Slowly, she looked down at the egg still nestled in her arms. She turned her hands over, palms up, studying them carefully.
Her skin was unmarked.
Not even red.
The maid gawked at her, her expression flickering between awe and fear. She stepped forward hesitantly, her burned fingers still trembling. “Your hands…,” she whispered. “Your Grace, your hands are untouched.”
Y/N looked up at her then, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words came.
The maid’s dark eyes darted between Y/N and the egg, the shock in her gaze now mingling with something that resembled reverence—or perhaps fear. “What are you?” she whispered, though the words were not meant to be cruel.
Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the egg, her mind whirling. She could still feel its pulse, its warmth. It didn’t burn her. It didn’t hurt her. Somehow, the egg accepted her.
And she accepted it.
“I’m fine,” Y/N said softly, her voice steadying now. She stepped back, cradling the egg as though it were a living thing. “You don’t need to worry.”
The maid hesitated, her expression flickering with uncertainty before she bowed her head. “As you say, Your Grace.” She turned and hurried from the room, leaving Y/N alone once again.
Y/N moved toward the window, holding the egg close as she stared out at the horizon. The city of Rainbase sprawled before her, its dark towers and twisting streets a reminder of the power that kept her trapped here.
And yet, in her arms, she held something greater.
The last dragons in the world.
Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the faint, steady heartbeat of the egg thrumming in her hands. For the first time in a long time, the fire she had buried deep within herself seemed to stir, like coals being fanned back to life.
Her brother had called her weak. The guards had laughed at her, mocked her body, her silence. Crocodile thought he could use her, mold her into a pawn to serve his ambitions.
But they were wrong.
The egg’s warmth spread through her, filling her veins with something fierce and ancient.
Y/N opened her eyes, the faint glow of the rising sun reflecting in their depths as she stared out over the desert.
They thought they could break her. They thought they could use her.
But the fire was awake now.
And soon, the world would burn.
But.
With Mihawk's boots we then see, trotting in the halls of the fortress, the air within was thick and heavy, carrying a faint scent of smoke, incense, and desert stone baked under the relentless Alabastan sun. The guards at the gate had finally relented, though not without visible hesitation. Mihawk’s reputation carried far beyond the seas of the Grand Line, and his presence here had unsettled even the most seasoned among Crocodile’s men.
The hallways of the fortress were long and shadowed, lit dimly by flickering wall sconces. Mihawk’s boots echoed softly against the smooth stone floor as he followed the guard who had been sent to escort him. The man was silent, his posture stiff and his movements brisk, though he couldn’t stop himself from glancing nervously over his shoulder now and then.
Mihawk paid him little mind, his golden eyes sweeping over his surroundings with the quiet precision of a predator surveying its prey. The fortress was as he expected—imposing, cold, designed more for intimidation than comfort. Every corner spoke of power, not hospitality.
As they approached the central chamber, the faint murmur of voices reached Mihawk’s ears, low and distant at first, then growing more distinct as they neared a set of heavy double doors. The guard hesitated for a brief moment before pushing them open, the iron hinges groaning faintly in protest.
“Sir Crocodile,” the guard announced stiffly, bowing his head. “Dracule Mihawk is here to see you.”
The room beyond the doors was as grand as it was foreboding. The throne room of Rainbase was a cavernous space, its high ceilings lost in shadow. Tall braziers burned at intervals along the walls, their flames casting flickering light over the dark, polished stone floor.
At the far end of the room, seated upon his jagged sandstone throne, was Crocodile.
He lounged in his seat, his posture relaxed but radiating power, one leg crossed over the other as he swirled a glass of dark liquor in his gloved hand. The ever-present cigar hung lazily from his lips, a thin curl of smoke rising above him and disappearing into the shadows above. His golden hook rested against the armrest of his throne, gleaming faintly in the firelight.
Crocodile’s single visible eye turned toward the doors as Mihawk entered, his expression unreadable, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Dracule Mihawk,” Crocodile said smoothly, his deep voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Mihawk stepped forward with deliberate ease, his movements unhurried but purposeful. His coat swept behind him like a shadow, and the massive black blade strapped to his back caught the firelight as he came to a stop several paces from the throne.
“You should know why I’m here, Crocodile,” Mihawk replied, his voice low and calm, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of authority.
Crocodile’s smirk deepened slightly as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin against his gloved hand. “I can think of several reasons, Mihawk. Enlighten me.”
Mihawk’s golden eyes narrowed faintly, though his expression remained composed. “The Targaryen girl,” he said simply. “And the dragon eggs.”
The room seemed to grow quieter, the crackle of the braziers the only sound. Crocodile’s smirk didn’t falter, though his eye glinted with something sharp and dangerous.
“Ah,” he said softly, drawing out the word as though savoring it. “So you’ve heard the whispers already. News travels fast, it seems.”
Mihawk didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on Crocodile. “Whispers have a way of finding me,” he said finally, his tone unbothered. “And when I hear something worth my attention, I act.”
Crocodile chuckled lowly, leaning back in his throne. “And I take it you’re here to see if the rumors are true.”
Mihawk’s lips twitched faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Something like that.”
Crocodile exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the thin curl rising between them like a barrier. “You’ve come a long way for answers, Mihawk. I wonder… what do you plan to do if you don’t like what you find?”
Mihawk tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes glinting in the firelight. “That depends on what I find.”
The tension between the two men was palpable, the air between them charged with unspoken challenge. Crocodile’s smirk didn’t falter, though his gaze sharpened as he regarded Mihawk carefully.
“You’re not the type to meddle in other people’s affairs without reason,” Crocodile said finally, his tone thoughtful. “So tell me, Mihawk—what’s your stake in this?”
Mihawk was silent for a moment, his gaze unwavering. “Let’s just say I dislike uncertainty,” he replied evenly. “And you’ve created quite a stir.”
Crocodile’s chuckle was low and rumbling, though there was no true humor in it. “Fair enough,” he said, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting the glass down on the armrest. “If it’s answers you want, then ask your questions. I have nothing to hide.”
Mihawk’s gaze flicked briefly around the room, taking in the shadows, the flickering flames, the faint movement of the guards stationed along the walls. Then his eyes returned to Crocodile, sharp and unrelenting.
“The girl,” Mihawk said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why her?”
Crocodile’s smirk returned, faint and calculating. “Ah, the princess,” he said softly, the word dripping with mockery. “She’s useful. Her bloodline, her name—it carries weight. That’s what men like her brother believe, anyway.”
“And you?” Mihawk pressed. “What do you believe?”
Crocodile leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded Mihawk with a faintly amused expression. “I believe she’s more than what she seems,” he said simply. “And that’s all you need to know.”
Mihawk’s gaze narrowed slightly, though he said nothing.
“As for the dragon eggs,” Crocodile continued, his tone turning cooler, “I assume you’ve heard the stories. Ancient relics, last of their kind, powerful symbols of a forgotten age.” He shrugged faintly, the motion almost casual. “Whether they’re real or not… doesn’t matter. They serve a purpose.”
Mihawk’s lips pressed into a thin line, his thoughts churning behind his sharp eyes. Crocodile’s words, while vague, carried enough truth to set his mind further on edge. This wasn’t just about power or prestige. There was something deeper at play, and Crocodile, ever the opportunist, had his sights set on it.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Crocodile,” Mihawk said quietly, his voice edged with warning.
Crocodile chuckled again, leaning back in his throne with a dismissive wave of his golden hook. “Life is a dangerous game, Mihawk. But I think you, of all people, already know that.”
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, the tension between them crackling like the flames that burned around them.
Finally, Mihawk turned, his coat sweeping behind him as he began to walk toward the door. “This isn’t over,” he said without looking back.
Crocodile’s smirk widened faintly as he watched Mihawk began leave, his voice low and amused. “It never is.”
BUT.
Mihawk’s boots clicked softly against the stone floor as he strode toward the exit, his mind already turning over the conversation with Crocodile. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, though the picture remained incomplete. His sharp instincts told him there was more—something Crocodile wasn’t saying, something he had yet to see.
Then he heard it.
Soft steps—bare feet pattering faintly against the cold marble floor. The sound was a whisper in the grand silence of the chamber, out of place and entirely unexpected. Mihawk’s steps slowed. He paused just before the heavy double doors, his golden eyes narrowing faintly as the quiet footsteps drew closer.
He turned his head, ever so slightly, and saw her.
Y/N entered the chamber like a shadowed figure from a dream, her presence soft but undeniable as she moved toward Crocodile’s throne. She wore a flowing robe—fine fabric that still managed to cling awkwardly at her sides, its fit imperfect as though chosen for formality rather than her comfort. The hem swept along the floor as she walked, her bare feet silent, her shoulders straight despite the obvious weight pressing upon her.
Mihawk's golden gaze swept over her once, measured and deliberate. She was not what he had expected—not at all.
Her frame was fuller, her form soft where others might be carved of stone, yet there was something undeniably regal about the way she moved, as though she were stubbornly carrying a burden far heavier than her own weight. Her beauty was not conventional by the standards of a cruel, judgmental world, but it was there nonetheless—deep and unapologetic, rooted in the way her face remained composed even when shadowed by exhaustion.
Tear stains marked faint trails down her cheeks, though her face was carefully blank, her expression as unreadable as the desert sands. There was no fire in her eyes, not now—not like Mihawk had imagined. Instead, there was a kind of quiet determination, the embers of something yet to awaken.
She passed him without sparing him a glance, completely unaware of who he was, of what name he carried. Mihawk, for his part, said nothing—he simply watched.
Y/N approached the throne where Crocodile sat, his form a shadow of power and leisure. She walked directly to the smaller seat that had been placed just beside his—her throne, though it felt more like a mark of submission than of sovereignty.
Without hesitation, she sat.
Crocodile’s gaze flicked toward her as she settled into her chair, though his expression remained one of faint amusement, as if seeing her enter had only deepened his curiosity. The cigar burned faintly between his fingers, its smoke curling lazily through the air.
“You’re late,” he muttered, though his tone lacked bite.
Y/N said nothing, keeping her gaze forward, her back straight despite the exhaustion weighing her down. She did not look at him, nor did she look at the powerful stranger she had unknowingly passed.
Crocodile’s smirk deepened faintly, the gleam of his golden hook catching the firelight as he tilted his head. “Silent again? You make me wonder what’s happening in that head of yours.”
Still, Y/N didn’t respond. She only folded her hands in her lap, her fingers curling against the fabric of her robe.
Mihawk, still standing at the edge of the room, watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. He had seen countless queens, princesses, and pawns in his lifetime—women who were given seats of power but rarely the freedom to wield it. This one, however, intrigued him.
The silence surrounding her was deliberate, not weak. It was a wall, built brick by brick, though Mihawk doubted it was one of her own making. Silent. Submissive. He recognized the signs of someone who had been shaped, molded by others’ expectations, yet who had not yet been broken.
Not yet, he thought, his golden eyes narrowing faintly.
He turned his gaze back to Crocodile, who seemed almost amused by Y/N’s presence. For a moment, Mihawk considered speaking, but he decided against it. Whatever this woman was to Crocodile, she was important enough to share his space—to sit beside him in this throne room where few dared to stand.
And that alone told Mihawk all he needed to know:
She was at the center of this storm.
And storms had a way of revealing the truth.
“Is this your queen, Crocodile?” Mihawk finally said, his voice low, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Y/N froze.
The words startled her, dragging her attention toward the source of the voice she hadn’t noticed before. She turned her head slightly, her gaze falling on Mihawk for the first time.
Her breath caught faintly.
He stood like a living shadow, his tall figure framed by the torchlight. The wide brim of his hat cast his face in partial shadow, but she could see the glint of his golden eyes—sharp and piercing, like a predator’s gaze locking onto prey. His coat swept down to his boots, dark and elegant, while the massive black sword strapped to his back gave him a weight of undeniable authority.
There was no mistaking it: this man was dangerous.
Crocodile chuckled softly at Mihawk’s words, exhaling a thin curl of smoke as he regarded the swordsman. “A queen?” he echoed, amusement threading through his voice. He tilted his head slightly, glancing at Y/N, who sat frozen beside him. “She’ll have to earn that title, don’t you think?”
Y/N’s jaw tightened faintly, though she said nothing. Her hands curled tighter in her lap, her gaze flicking between Crocodile and Mihawk, unsure of what game was being played before her.
Mihawk watched her for a moment longer, his sharp eyes studying her with unnerving focus, though he said nothing else. Instead, he turned back toward Crocodile, his voice calm once more.
“You’re collecting interesting pieces for your board, Crocodile,” Mihawk said. “Be careful they don’t move on their own.”
Crocodile’s smirk widened, the scar along his face twisting faintly as he regarded Mihawk. “If they do, I’ll remind them whose board it is.”
The unspoken challenge hung in the air between them like a blade suspended by a thread.
Y/N sat perfectly still, her mind reeling, though her face remained carefully blank. Whoever this man was, he was no mere visitor. The tension in the room was palpable, a silent clash of wills between two forces she could barely begin to comprehend.
The stranger—Mihawk, she realized as the name finally struck her—turned slightly, giving her one last look before he moved toward the door. His golden eyes lingered on her for a beat too long, as though seeing something in her that she couldn’t yet understand herself.
Then he was gone, his boots clicking softly against the stone as the heavy doors closed behind him.
Y/N let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her gaze drifting forward once more.
Crocodile leaned back into his throne, swirling his glass of whiskey idly as he regarded her. “He’s not someone you want to cross,” he said casually, though his tone carried an edge.
“Who is he?” Y/N asked quietly, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.
Crocodile’s smirk returned faintly as he glanced toward the door where Mihawk had disappeared. “Dracule Mihawk,” he said simply. “The greatest swordsman in the world.”
Y/N’s blood ran cold.
The world around her seemed to shrink as the realization sank in. She had just walked past one of the most dangerous men in existence, completely unaware.
And yet, when he had looked at her, there had been no cruelty—no laughter. Only curiosity.
The storm swirling around her was growing darker, deeper, and she knew then that whatever path lay ahead would be carved by fire, steel, and blood.
MERRY X-MAS EVERYTHONE!!!! Here is some chapters today that I've worked on!!!!! :-) I hope you enjoy and have a great holiday! A master list will be added by the end of the week!
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.
Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!
The noble estate stood quiet under the waning Alabastan sun. Its once-majestic sandstone walls now seemed tainted, sullied by the decadence within. Behind closed doors, laughter and moans bled out faintly into the halls, carried by the thick, musky air of indulgence. Inside the sprawling chambers of the noble house, Viserys Targaryen sat as though he were already a king—untouchable, triumphant, and cruel.
The grand hall had been transformed into something obscene. The vast room, which had once hosted dignitaries and formal banquets, now reeked of sweat, spiced wine, and sin. Fine tapestries hung over tall windows, stifling any light or breath of fresh air, leaving only flickering firelight to dance along the tangled forms of bodies strewn across the silk-covered floors.
Viserys reclined in the center of it all, sprawled across a massive divan of deep red velvet. The thin silk sheets around him barely clung to his pale, sweat-slick skin, his lithe body half-propped up on one elbow. Golden goblets and overturned trays of fruit littered the marble floor around him.
The room writhed with movement. Naked bodies tangled together—women and men alike—gripping and gasping, oblivious to anything beyond their own pleasure. The heat of it all made the air feel heavy, suffocating.
Viserys was grinning broadly, his teeth bared in a self-satisfied sneer as a woman knelt before him, her head bobbing rhythmically between his legs. His golden hair hung damp and wild across his forehead, and the sharp lines of his face seemed almost grotesque in the dim, flickering firelight.
“Yes…” he hissed softly, tilting his head back as though basking in his imagined glory. “This is what I deserve. This is what I have earned.”
The others in the room moved around him, either ignoring or worshipping him, but Viserys barely noticed. In his mind, he had already won. The alliance with Crocodile was as good as sealed. Soon, the Warlord would lend him an army—an unstoppable force that would sail across the seas to reclaim what was his.
“Dragons rule the world,” Viserys muttered to himself, a sharp grin tugging at his lips as he gripped the hair of the woman in front of him. “And I will—”
A sharp, hesitant knock at the chamber doors shattered the oppressive atmosphere.
The sounds of moans faltered slightly. Someone hissed in irritation, but no one moved to answer. Viserys’s grin faltered, his pale brows pulling together in annoyance. He glanced toward the heavy double doors, his lips curling into a snarl.
“What is it?” he barked, his voice sharp and biting.
The doors creaked open slightly, and the nobleman who owned the estate stumbled inside. He looked haggard and pale, as though he had just received news of his own funeral. His hands fidgeted nervously with the edges of his robe, his face slick with sweat.
“My lord…,” the nobleman began, his voice trembling. “Y-You have… a visitor.”
Viserys’s expression darkened. He released the woman’s hair with a shove, causing her to stumble back slightly, though she said nothing. The grin that had stretched his face only moments ago was gone, replaced with something cold and angry.
“A visitor?” Viserys repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “Do you see me entertaining visitors right now, you fool?”
The nobleman swallowed thickly, stepping further into the room. “My lord, please forgive the intrusion, but this is… not someone to ignore. He… he insists on speaking with you.”
“Tell them to leave,” Viserys snapped, waving a hand dismissively as though swatting at a fly. “I don’t care who it is. I’ve no time for peasants or debtors. Go!”
The nobleman hesitated, wringing his hands more frantically now. “My lord… it is Dracule Mihawk.”
The room fell eerily silent. The sounds of pleasure and laughter died instantly, as if someone had cut the air itself. Viserys froze mid-motion, his sneer faltering, his lips parting slightly in disbelief.
“Mihawk?” he repeated, his voice weaker now.
“Yes, my lord,” the nobleman whispered. His gaze darted nervously toward the doorway, as though he expected the man in question to step through it at any moment. “He… is waiting.”
Viserys swallowed, his throat bobbing as the name settled over him like a storm cloud. Dracule Mihawk. The name alone carried weight—enough to make even kings and admirals wary. The greatest swordsman in the world. A man whose very presence struck fear into anyone foolish enough to cross him.
And he was here. Now.
Viserys sat up sharply, the silken sheets sliding off his body as he glared at the nobleman. “Why is he here? I didn’t summon him.”
“I-I don’t know, my lord,” the nobleman stammered. “But he says it’s urgent. He… will not leave without speaking to you.”
Viserys hesitated, his mind whirring. The others in the room shifted uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. None of them dared to move, not with that name hanging heavy in the air.
“Fine,” Viserys snapped, his voice brittle. “Send him in.”
The nobleman blanched. “Here, my lord? In…” He glanced meaningfully at the disheveled, naked bodies still sprawled across the chamber floor.
Viserys scowled, shoving himself to his feet. He grabbed a discarded robe—deep violet silk embroidered with faint golden dragons—and threw it haphazardly over his shoulders, tying it loosely around his waist. “In the sitting room. I will receive him there. Now go!”
The nobleman didn’t need to be told twice. He bowed deeply before turning and all but fleeing from the chamber.
Viserys exhaled sharply, smoothing his damp hair back from his face as he turned on the others, his eyes wild with irritation. “Get out. All of you. I want this room cleared!”
The tangled bodies scrambled into motion, hurriedly gathering clothing and slipping out through side doors as quickly as they could. The woman Viserys had been so gleefully using earlier disappeared without a word, her face blank and unreadable. Within moments, the room was empty, leaving Viserys alone in the heavy silence.
He paced for a moment, breathing deeply to calm himself before straightening his back and schooling his expression into something that might pass for dignity. Dracule Mihawk was not someone he could dismiss, no matter how much he wanted to. But Viserys was a Targaryen—a name that carried weight, even in these lands.
He will see me as a prince, Viserys thought, his lips curling faintly into a forced smile. He will respect me.
Still, as he moved toward the adjoining sitting room, his heart hammered traitorously in his chest.
Dracule Mihawk stood in the center of the sitting room like a living shadow, his figure tall and unshakable against the grand decor of the estate. His dark coat hung heavily at his shoulders, the wide brim of his hat casting a faint shadow over his sharp, piercing golden eyes. The massive, ornate black blade strapped across his back gleamed faintly, even in the dim firelight.
Viserys entered with feigned confidence, his violet robe sweeping behind him as he forced a smile onto his face. “Lord Mihawk,” he greeted, his voice carrying an edge of bravado. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
Mihawk turned his head slightly, fixing Viserys with a gaze so cold and direct that the prince felt his mouth go dry. The swordsman said nothing for a moment, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably.
Finally, Mihawk spoke, his voice low and smooth. “Viserys Targaryen.”
The name alone felt like a judgment.
Viserys’s forced smile faltered slightly, but he held his ground. “Yes. I am he.”
Mihawk took a step closer, his movements unhurried, though his presence seemed to fill the room. “You’ve made dangerous allies, little prince.”
Viserys’s brow twitched, the insult grating against his pride. “Allies?” he scoffed. “Crocodile is no danger to me. He is—”
“Enough,” Mihawk interrupted, his voice cutting like a blade.
Viserys stiffened, the words dying on his lips. Mihawk tilted his head faintly, his golden eyes narrowing. “I came here for information. If you value your life, you will give it to me.”
Viserys swallowed hard. This was not going to be the victory he imagined.
The silence in the sitting room was stifling, thick with an oppressive weight that smothered the air. Viserys Targaryen, draped in his loose violet robe and drenched in false confidence, stared across the room at the figure standing before him. Dracule Mihawk—Hawk Eyes—was not a man to be trifled with, and for all of Viserys's bravado, he could feel his stomach churn at the sight of him.
Mihawk didn’t move. He stood with the stillness of a predator—motionless, yet every muscle seemed taut, coiled, ready to strike. His golden eyes, like those of a hunting falcon, pinned Viserys in place, stripping him of whatever dignity he thought he still possessed. The room, no matter how opulent, felt too small now.
Viserys swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I… I don’t know what you think you’ve come here for, Lord Mihawk,” he began, forcing his voice into something resembling authority. “But whatever it is, you’ll find no trouble here. I am a prince—”
“Spare me,” Mihawk interrupted, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, and Viserys instinctively stepped back, the air crackling with unspoken menace.
“Your bloodline means nothing to me,” Mihawk continued, his tone calm, almost bored. “I’ve seen kingdoms rise and crumble. The weight of your name is hollow if you cannot bear it.”
Viserys’s face twisted, his pride flaring despite the instinctive fear that coiled in his chest. “How dare you speak to me that way?” he hissed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I am Viserys Targaryen! Son of dragons! I am—”
Mihawk’s gaze sharpened, and the room seemed to grow colder. “Enough,” he said again, this time with more force. The word cut through Viserys’s rant like a sword cleaving flesh, leaving him trembling in silence.
“You speak like a boy who has seen nothing of the world,” Mihawk said softly, his voice now quiet and dangerous. “A boy who mistakes his birthright for power.”
Viserys swallowed again, his lips parting as if to respond, but Mihawk did not give him the chance. The swordsman stepped forward again, his dark coat sweeping behind him like a shadow. The massive black blade strapped to his back gleamed in the firelight, a silent reminder of who this man was—what he could do.
“You’ve made a deal with Crocodile,” Mihawk continued, his golden eyes narrowing. “And yet you parade yourself here like a fool, drinking and whoring, believing yourself victorious. Tell me—what, exactly, do you think Crocodile intends to do with you?”
Viserys flinched at the words, his confidence visibly cracking as Mihawk’s question hit home. The truth was, he didn’t know. He had been so blinded by his own imagined triumph—so drunk on the thought of an army, of reclaiming what he believed was his—that he hadn’t stopped to question Crocodile’s intentions.
“I…” Viserys started, but his voice faltered.
Mihawk tilted his head faintly, his expression as sharp and unreadable as ever. “You think he will give you an army,” Mihawk said, the faintest note of mockery threading through his voice. “You think he sees you as an equal. But you are nothing to him. A pawn. A means to an end.”
Viserys’s face paled, though he tried to hide it. “You’re lying,” he spat, though his voice lacked the strength he intended. “Why would Crocodile waste his time on me if he didn’t intend to honor the agreement?”
Mihawk’s lips quirked into a faint smirk—a cruel, knowing thing that only made Viserys’s stomach churn harder. “Crocodile wastes nothing. That is precisely why you should be afraid.”
Viserys shook his head, his golden hair sticking damply to his face as he stumbled back another step. “He needs me! My bloodline—my name—will give him legitimacy! You don’t understand!”
Mihawk sighed faintly, as though he found the entire display tiresome. “Crocodile doesn’t need anything, little prince. Least of all you.”
The words struck like a hammer. Viserys stared at Mihawk, his mouth opening slightly, but no words came.
The silence stretched unbearably until Mihawk took another step forward. This time, he tilted his head just slightly, the faint smirk on his lips disappearing into something colder. “Where is she?”
Viserys blinked, confusion mingling with his fear. “What?”
“The girl,” Mihawk said simply. “The one you sold to Crocodile. Your sister.”
Viserys’s expression darkened, his lip curling. “She is of no concern to you.”
Mihawk’s gaze hardened, the air in the room growing even colder. “I decide what concerns me.”
Viserys bristled, his pride flaring again in the face of Mihawk’s utter dismissal of his authority. “Y/N is where she belongs,” he sneered, though his voice wavered at the edges. “She serves a purpose—my purpose. Crocodile sees her value, just as I do.”
“Value?” Mihawk echoed softly, his tone dripping with disdain. “You mean you offered her up as a bargaining chip.”
“She is mine to do with as I please!” Viserys snapped, his voice rising. “She—”
He froze mid-sentence as Mihawk moved.
It was just a step—a single, measured stride—but it carried the weight of an unspoken threat that made the blood drain from Viserys’s face. Mihawk didn’t even need to unsheath his blade. The promise of violence radiated from him like heat off steel, tangible and absolute.
“You’re fortunate I do not kill you where you stand,” Mihawk said softly, his voice a low murmur that held far more menace than a shout ever could. “But your life is of no interest to me. Yet.”
Viserys’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his earlier bravado now completely shattered.
“I’ll find her myself,” Mihawk said, turning abruptly as if Viserys no longer existed. He strode toward the door, his heavy boots ringing sharply against the marble floor.
Viserys could only stare after him, his body frozen, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. Mihawk didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
As he reached the threshold, Mihawk paused, his head turning slightly to glance back over his shoulder. “You play at being a king, Viserys Targaryen,” he said, his voice carrying an edge as sharp as the blade on his back. “But men like Crocodile eat kings for breakfast. Pray you don’t choke on your own ambition before he decides you’re no longer useful.”
With that, Mihawk stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the hall, leaving only silence in his wake.
Viserys staggered back, collapsing onto the nearest divan as his legs finally gave out beneath him. His hands trembled as he wiped at the sweat beading his forehead, his breath ragged and uneven.
He gripped the edge of the goblet still sitting on the table, his knuckles white. Mihawk’s words rang in his ears, circling like vultures, stripping away what was left of his fragile pride.
Crocodile doesn’t need me…
For the first time, the truth began to sink in, and with it came the faintest shadow of terror.
Out in the hall, Mihawk’s boots clicked softly against the marble as he walked, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever.
The girl, he thought to himself. She’s the key to this mess.
Crocodile’s plans had already begun to unfold. And Mihawk intended to see just how far the pieces had been set on this board—and how the Targaryen girl fit into it all.
The greatest swordsman in the world had been set on a path, and the sands of Alabasta would bear witness to what came next.
Rainbase at night was alive with heat and flame. Fires burned high in braziers, casting wild, flickering shadows across the sandstone walls of Crocodile’s fortress. The city outside was a restless beast, filled with drunken laughter and the thrum of music carried through the streets like a pulse.
Inside the throne room, however, the world was more… intimate.
The chamber had been transformed for the occasion, though Y/N couldn’t decide if it was a celebration or a performance. The air was heavy with incense, the cloying sweetness mixed with the tang of wine and the sharp scent of fire. Oil lamps hung low from the ceiling, their light diffused through colored glass, casting red and gold hues across the room.
It was hot—not just in temperature, but in atmosphere.
The center of the chamber was cleared, save for a small troupe of dancers—maidens draped in thin silks, their forms moving sensually, languidly, as though they were part of the flames that surrounded them. The pounding of drums set a rhythm that was primal and raw. Their bare feet slapped softly against the marble floor as they spun and swayed, their bodies grinding against the air and sometimes against the guards who stood stoically, though their gazes burned with something far less composed.
Y/N sat beside Crocodile on a raised platform overlooking the ceremony, her seat slightly lower than his. A throne for him—dark, carved, sharp—and a cushioned seat for her, more ornate but no less subservient in its placement.
Her hands rested stiffly in her lap, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her robe as she watched the scene unfold below. Her face was blank, her expression carefully composed, but inside, her stomach churned with unease.
The music, the dancing, the moans that sometimes escaped from the edges of the crowd—it all felt obscene, like something she wasn’t meant to witness. Bodies moved together in ways that were far too intimate for the public eye, maidens pressing themselves against soldiers with a sensual confidence that turned her stomach.
What kind of ceremony is this? she wondered, though she didn’t dare ask. She could feel Crocodile’s presence beside her, the heat of him despite the cool, shadowed authority he radiated. He watched the dancers below with an expression of boredom, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Y/N sat still, her spine straight, her face blank. She had learned long ago to wear such masks, to endure moments like these without faltering. But gods, she wanted to leave this place—to tear herself away from this performance of debauchery and greed.
She glanced at Crocodile from the corner of her eye, studying him carefully. He leaned back in his throne, one arm draped casually over the armrest, the golden hook on his left hand gleaming faintly in the firelight. A cigar rested between his fingers, a thin trail of smoke curling lazily into the air. His visible eye was sharp and calculating, though there was no hunger in his gaze as he observed the scene below.
“Uncomfortable?”
The word was spoken so softly that Y/N almost thought she’d imagined it. Her heart jumped as Crocodile turned his head slightly toward her, his smirk more pronounced now.
She stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze. “No, my lord.”
His chuckle was low, rumbling. “You’re a poor liar.”
Y/N said nothing, forcing her hands to unclench slightly in her lap. She couldn’t risk speaking further. A wife stays quiet. The words had been drilled into her by her brother, his threats sharp as knives against her skin.
Crocodile exhaled a slow cloud of smoke before turning his attention back to the dancers. “You’ll learn to stomach it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “There are worse things in the world.”
Y/N wanted to argue, to tell him that this was already too much. But she stayed silent.
The music built to a crescendo then, the drums pounding louder, the dancers spinning faster. A cry of triumph rose from somewhere in the room, and the crowd—guards and servants alike—responded with cheers and clapping.
Y/N gritted her teeth, refusing to react.
Then, as if to signal the ceremony’s shift, a figure stepped forward—one of Crocodile’s guards, his dark armor glinting in the light. He carried a large wooden crate in his arms, the weight of it clearly a burden as he walked toward the raised platform where Crocodile and Y/N sat.
The crowd stilled. The music faded into an eerie silence.
Y/N’s brow furrowed slightly as she watched the guard ascend the steps, his breathing heavy from the effort of carrying whatever lay within the crate. He paused at the foot of Crocodile’s throne, kneeling down as he placed the crate carefully onto the floor.
“My lord,” the guard said, his voice low and reverent. “A gift. For the lady.”
Crocodile raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained composed. He flicked the ash from his cigar, his gaze shifting lazily to the crate. “A gift?”
The guard nodded, his head still bowed. “Yes, sir. From a benefactor whose name we do not know. They arrived this morning.”
Y/N blinked, her unease only deepening as she stared at the crate. It was large, wooden, with faint carvings etched into its sides. She couldn’t place the symbols, but something about them felt old. Ancient.
Crocodile waved a hand, and the guard quickly moved to open the crate. The lid creaked as it was lifted away, revealing what lay inside.
The room seemed to grow quieter still.
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart thundered painfully against her ribs.
Inside the crate, nestled in a bed of dark velvet, were three eggs.
Not ordinary eggs. They were large, nearly the size of a man’s head, their surfaces smooth yet textured—scales of red, black, and deep green shimmered faintly in the firelight. They looked alive somehow, as though something slumbered just beneath the shell.
The guard’s voice broke the silence. “Dragon eggs, your grace. The last three to exist.”
Y/N stared, frozen, her mind unable to process what she was seeing. Dragon eggs? She had heard the stories, of course. Every Targaryen child grew up on tales of dragons—creatures of fire and blood, beasts that had shaped the world and crowned kings. But those tales were just that—tales. Dragons were gone. Extinct.
And yet…
Her hands moved before she realized it, reaching forward as if compelled. She ignored Crocodile’s gaze on her as her fingers brushed against the surface of the middle egg—the one that glowed with faint shades of red and gold. It was warm beneath her touch.
And then she felt it.
A heartbeat.
Faint, steady, but there.
Y/N inhaled sharply, her eyes wide as her other hand reached out to touch the other two eggs. She felt it again—three heartbeats, pulsing softly, as though the eggs themselves were alive.
How?
She couldn’t speak. The words lodged in her throat, her breath quick and shallow as her mind reeled. She was connected to them somehow, as though they reached back toward her in recognition.
Crocodile watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. He leaned forward slightly, his golden hook glinting in the firelight as he regarded the eggs.
“Well,” he said softly, his voice low and measured. “It seems our little princess has found something of interest.”
Y/N didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her hands trembled as she held the red egg in her lap, the faint pulse of its heartbeat echoing in her palms. For the first time in years, she felt something stir inside her—something fierce, something ancient.
Fire.
She could feel it in her blood, in the warmth spreading from the eggs to her very core.
Crocodile smirked, leaning back again as he took a long drag of his cigar. “Let’s see what you do with them, girl.”
The music began again, the drums pounding softly, but Y/N heard nothing.
The last dragons of the world lay in her hands. And the fire inside her burned brighter than ever.
The air in the chamber had turned suffocating, thick with heat and expectation. The pounding of drums continued—a steady rhythm, deep and primal—that seemed to reverberate through Y/N’s bones. The flames in the braziers burned low now, casting the room in long, flickering shadows that moved like creatures of their own making.
She stood at the center of it all, on a raised platform of black stone draped with silk. The dancers were gone now. The guards, however, remained. Rows of them stood silent and watchful around the chamber, their faces hidden beneath dark veils, their gleaming weapons strapped to their sides. Their eyes—dozens of them—were fixed on her.
Watching. Always watching.
Crocodile moved like a shadow just outside her periphery, circling her with slow, deliberate steps. She could hear his boots scuff faintly against the stone, the sharp click of his golden hook punctuating the sound, each step echoing in time with the relentless drumbeats. He was in no hurry. This moment, it seemed, belonged to him.
Y/N’s body trembled beneath the weight of it all. The silks she wore—those same pieces of fabric that had been tugged and adjusted to “present” her—felt as though they might dissolve under the heat of so many eyes. Her robe had already loosened slightly, the ties at her sides barely holding the thin layers in place.
The room’s tension settled over her skin like a layer of dust, clinging to her, pressing into her, making every breath feel heavier than the last. This is tradition, they had said. This is royal Alabasta.
But tradition felt like violence.
And the horrors were just beginning.
The guards said nothing. The servants said nothing. No one in the room seemed willing to acknowledge what was about to happen, though they knew. Y/N knew.
A wedding in Alabasta—a traditional union of ruler and bride—required consummation. And the consummation, as dictated by ancient rites, was not private. It was a spectacle. A display of power, of submission, of ownership. The bride was expected to be humbled before the kingdom, her body offered openly, witnessed by the court and guards who pledged their loyalty.
Y/N had learned this only moments before, whispered to her in clipped tones by one of the attendants. The realization had left her frozen—trapped—as the final ties of her fate seemed to tighten around her neck.
Crocodile stopped behind her.
She felt his presence before she heard him speak, the weight of his gaze burning into her back like the searing heat of the desert sun. He said nothing at first, but she could feel him there—studying her, considering her. The silence dragged on, and for a moment, she dared to hope that perhaps he would change his mind.
Then his hand touched her.
The large, gloved hand settled at the base of her back, where the silk ties of her robe held the fabric together. Crocodile’s touch wasn’t rough or hurried. It was calm. Methodical. As though this were nothing more than a matter of routine.
Y/N stiffened, her throat tightening as she stared straight ahead, refusing to turn, refusing to let him see the tears already pricking at the corners of her eyes. Don’t cry, she told herself. Don’t show weakness. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
Crocodile said nothing as his fingers began to tug at the ties, one by one, loosening them with agonizing slowness. The silk at her shoulders began to shift, slipping away to expose her skin. The air of the chamber, though warm, felt ice cold against her pudgy back and arms.
Her breathing grew shallow as she felt the fabric give way, the delicate robe hanging more loosely now. She imagined the guards watching—staring—their eyes fixed on every inch of her exposed flesh. Humiliation burned through her chest like a hot coal.
She felt disgusting. Exposed. Worthless.
The whispers of the servants earlier—their cruel words about her weight, her size—returned to her in an endless loop. “Too big.” “Like a cow.” “Unpresentable.” She hated herself for remembering. She hated herself for caring.
Crocodile’s gloved hand returned to her, this time tracing up her back—slowly, deliberately—until his fingers brushed the nape of her neck. The leather felt cool against her flushed skin. She shivered beneath his touch, though not from pleasure—only disgust, only fear.
He stepped closer then, so close that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint tang of cigar smoke that clung to his coat. Her tears spilled silently, leaving thin, hot tracks down her cheeks. She wanted to scream. To run. To fight. But she knew she couldn’t—not here, not now.
“Is this…” she whispered shakily, her voice barely audible as it slipped from trembling lips. “…what you wanted?”
She spoke the words in Valyrian, the ancient tongue of her bloodline—a language her brother had forbidden her to speak. It felt like the smallest rebellion, a refusal to let Crocodile understand the depths of her pain.
Crocodile’s hand paused.
For a moment, the chamber seemed to hold its breath.
He understood the tone of her words, even if he didn’t know the language. His fingers traced back down her spine, stopping at the small of her back. Then, to her surprise, he spoke.
“Interesting,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, though not cruel. “Even now, you have fire in you.”
Y/N’s tears continued to fall, though her face remained forward, her expression blank. She didn’t know what he meant, and she didn’t care.
Crocodile chuckled softly—a dark, low sound that sent a chill through her bones. “You think I’m here to humiliate you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “To tear you apart in front of my men. To break you.”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.
He stepped back then, the weight of his presence retreating, though it didn’t ease the tension in her chest.
“I don’t need to humiliate you,” he said, his tone sharper now, edged with something unreadable. “You’ll either break on your own… or you won’t.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Crocodile turned, stepping away from her as he walked back to his throne. The guards watched, their faces unreadable beneath their veils. The air in the chamber shifted—confusion rippling through the silent audience, though none dared to question their ruler.
Y/N stood frozen on the platform, her robe still loose, the silk slipping awkwardly across her shoulders. Her tears dripped silently onto the marble floor, though she refused to make a sound.
Crocodile sat down heavily in his throne, his golden hook catching the firelight once more as he regarded her with an expression she couldn’t place—curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe disappointment.
“Cover her,” he said finally, waving a hand.
A pair of servants approached hurriedly, pulling the silks back over Y/N’s shoulders, their touch quick but careful.
“You may think you hate me,” Crocodile continued, his voice carrying through the hall like the final strike of a drum. “But hatred burns brighter than fear. Hold onto it, girl. It’ll keep you alive.”
The servants guided Y/N off the platform, leading her toward the exit of the chamber. Her legs trembled as she walked, but she forced herself to keep her head high, to ignore the stares, the whispers, the weight of her shame.
As she stepped through the doors, the sound of the drums began again, slow and steady.
And behind her, Crocodile’s smirk remained, though his gaze lingered on the platform where she had stood.
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.
Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP as to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!
The interior of Crocodile’s fortress was as cold and unwelcoming as its exterior promised. The air was still, the temperature markedly cooler within the stone walls, though it lacked the comfort of relief. The chill wasn’t soothing—it was oppressive, like stepping into a crypt. Echoes of their footsteps bounced off high, vaulted ceilings that loomed in shadow, the torchlight casting flickering shapes that danced along walls carved with faint, swirling patterns of sandstorms and serpents.
Robin led the way, her strides calm and deliberate, the sound of her heels steady against the marble floor. Y/N followed just behind her, her hands clasped tightly to keep from trembling. The grand hall stretched on endlessly, every inch of it carved to intimidate. It was not beautiful—there was no warmth, no lavishness. It was a space meant to remind anyone who entered it who owned it.
Crocodile.
They rounded a final corner, and the path opened into a massive chamber, the throne room. Y/N’s breath hitched ever so slightly as her gaze lifted.
The chamber was cavernous, lit only by tall braziers that lined the walls, their fire crackling softly. The ceiling rose high into darkness, and shadows played tricks on the eyes, making the space seem infinite. At the far end of the room, elevated on a dais of smooth dark stone, stood Crocodile’s throne—though “throne” was hardly the right word. It was carved from sandstone, stark and jagged, its design resembling the shifting patterns of a desert dune frozen in place. Behind it, large tapestries hung, each one bearing an emblem of a crocodile coiled in the heart of a swirling sandstorm.
And seated there, like a phantom risen from the sands, was him.
Crocodile leaned back lazily in his chair, the thick fur collar of his coat framing his sharp features like a mane. His legs were crossed at the knee, a cigar balanced between his gloved fingers, its ember glowing faintly. The golden hook on his left arm glinted cruelly in the torchlight, resting casually against the arm of the chair, as though it, too, were waiting.
He exhaled a slow cloud of smoke, the faint curl of his lips twisting into a smirk as his single visible eye fixed on Y/N.
This is him, Y/N thought as she stood frozen at the threshold of the room. She had seen him before—briefly, from a distance—but seeing Crocodile here, in his own domain, was something else entirely. He radiated power, the kind of power that was quiet and lethal, the kind that made the air heavier and the room feel colder.
“Welcome to Rainbase,” Crocodile said, his deep voice breaking the silence. His tone was smooth, mocking, like a man who already knew the answers to the questions you hadn’t yet asked.
Robin stepped aside, her role as escort complete, and turned her gaze toward Y/N, wordlessly prompting her to step forward.
Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to move, her steps slow and deliberate as she walked across the vast chamber. The hem of her robe dragged against the cold marble, the sound faint but echoing in the oppressive stillness. She could feel Crocodile’s gaze on her, measuring her with each step.
She stopped at the base of the dais, her head tilting up slightly to meet his eye. She would not bow. She would not kneel. Not to him.
Crocodile’s smirk deepened, the scar across his face twisting faintly. He tapped the ash of his cigar onto the floor carelessly, the embers falling like dying sparks. “You’re quieter than I expected,” he said. “Most people talk too much when they’re nervous.”
Y/N swallowed the sharp retort that rose to her lips and forced herself to remain steady. “I have nothing to say to you.”
Crocodile raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her defiance. “Is that so?” He leaned forward slightly, his golden hook catching the firelight as it shifted. “A bold answer. You’re not afraid of me, then?”
“Should I be?” Y/N countered, the words escaping her mouth before she could stop them. Her voice sounded stronger than she felt, but she would not let him see her falter.
For a long moment, Crocodile simply stared at her, his smirk fading into something quieter, sharper. The air in the room seemed to still, the crackle of the flames growing fainter. Then he chuckled softly, the sound low and rumbling, though there was no warmth in it.
Robin, standing quietly to the side, tilted her head slightly as though intrigued by the exchange, but she said nothing.
Crocodile leaned back again, flicking his cigar dismissively as smoke curled around his face. “You’re not what I expected.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly. “And what exactly did you expect?”
“A pawn,” he replied smoothly. “Your brother offered you like one, after all. A piece on his board—something to bargain away for a chance at my favor.”
Y/N’s chest tightened at the mention of her brother, but she said nothing, waiting.
“But you’re no pawn,” Crocodile continued, his voice lowering slightly. “At least, not yet. You’ve got fire in you, girl. I can see it.”
Y/N clenched her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms as she fought to keep her composure. “What do you want from me?”
Crocodile tilted his head slightly, as though considering her question. “Want?” he repeated, his voice softening into a mockery of curiosity. “That depends on you. You’re here now, in my city, in my palace. Whether you’re worth keeping depends on what you can offer me.”
“I’m not a prize,” Y/N said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension.
Crocodile’s smirk returned, slow and predatory. “Good.” He tapped his hook against the stone arm of his chair, the sound metallic and deliberate. “If you were, this would be over already.”
Robin spoke then, breaking her silence as she turned toward Crocodile. “Shall I show her to her chambers?”
Crocodile didn’t take his eyes off Y/N. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply watching her, as though daring her to speak further. Finally, he gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “Do what you want. I’ll decide what to do with her soon enough.”
Robin nodded once before gesturing for Y/N to follow. Y/N hesitated, her gaze lingering on Crocodile for a moment longer, though he seemed already disinterested, leaning back into his chair and taking another slow drag of his cigar.
He’s testing me, Y/N thought as she turned to follow Robin. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the hall, mingling with the faint hiss of fire and the soft click of Robin’s heels. He wants to see if I’ll break.
But she wouldn’t.
As they left the throne room, the heavy doors closing behind them with a resounding thud, Y/N exhaled slowly. Her mind raced, replaying every word Crocodile had said.
Robin glanced at her as they walked. “You did well.”
Y/N frowned slightly, her voice low. “What do you mean?”
Robin smiled faintly, though it wasn’t unkind. “You didn’t crumble. Most do.”
Y/N said nothing, her gaze fixed ahead as they walked deeper into the fortress. The halls were dimly lit, the air cool and silent, but her mind burned with a single, unshakable thought.
I won’t crumble. I won’t break.
Whatever Crocodile wanted, whatever game he intended to play, Y/N would face it. And if she was to be a piece on this board, then she would be the one to decide how to move.
For now, the lion had seen the girl. But the fire he thought he could tame still burned.
And Y/N would make sure he never forgot that.
The chambers Robin led her to were unlike anything Y/N had ever seen. They were vast and cold—much like the rest of Crocodile’s fortress—designed more for intimidation than comfort. The walls were stone, carved with swirling patterns of sandstorms, though they offered no warmth or beauty. A massive arched window framed the desert outside, the dunes stretching on endlessly beneath the dying light. It wasn’t a prison, not yet, but it felt like one.
Robin paused just inside the door, turning slightly toward Y/N. “These are your quarters for now,” she said simply, her voice calm and measured. “You’ll be expected to prepare yourself. Sir Crocodile will summon you again when he sees fit.”
Y/N’s throat felt dry, but she managed a nod, her gaze sweeping over the room before settling back on Robin. “And what does that mean?” she asked quietly.
Robin’s lips curled faintly, though there was no humor in her smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
She turned to leave, her heels clicking softly against the stone. The door shut behind her with a finality that made Y/N’s stomach sink. She exhaled slowly, scanning the chambers once more. A wide bed, covered in fine silks and dark fabrics, sat near the center of the room. An ornate wardrobe, a standing mirror, and a bathing basin had all been set along the far walls. A low table was laden with water and dates—enough to sustain, but not to comfort.
Y/N moved toward the window, her fingertips brushing against the cold stone as she looked out at the desert. The sun was sinking lower now, staining the dunes red and orange as if the earth itself bled. She wrapped her arms around herself, the wind outside howling faintly like a ghost calling her name.
What am I doing here?
She didn’t have long to dwell on the thought. The door creaked open again, and a group of women entered—Crocodile’s servants, judging by their identical pale linen robes and headscarves. They carried bundles of cloth, basins of water, and small boxes that jingled softly with whatever was inside.
The maids moved with silent precision, their eyes barely flicking toward Y/N as they set down their burdens. It wasn’t until one of them gestured toward her that Y/N realized their intent.
They were here to dress her.
“No,” she said firmly, stepping back instinctively. “I can manage on my own.”
Her refusal didn’t seem to matter. The women advanced with practiced efficiency, reaching for the ties of her robe without asking. Y/N flinched at their hands—small, quick, and impersonal—as they began pulling at her clothing as though she were a doll in need of repair.
“Stop it!” she hissed, trying to twist away. “I said I can do it myself!”
But they didn’t stop. The women spoke to each other in hushed tones, their words flowing smoothly in the Alabastan tongue—words that Y/N recognized, though they clearly assumed she couldn’t understand.
“Too big.”
“This won’t fit.”
“Why did he want her? She’s like a cow.”
The words hit her harder than she expected, each one a sharp blade that sliced through whatever shred of dignity she still held. Y/N froze, her face heating as they tugged and prodded at her, the Alabastan words swirling around her like gnats, stinging her over and over.
“The fabric won’t tie at the waist. It’s useless.”
“She’s so round—how do we make this look presentable?”
The sharp sound of laughter escaped one of them, though it was quickly hushed by the others. Y/N clenched her jaw tightly, her fists curling at her sides as she forced herself to stay silent. She wanted to scream at them, to tell them she understood every cruel word, but what would it accomplish? Nothing would make them stop. Nothing would make this moment hurt less.
She felt raw—exposed in ways she had never been before—as they struggled to wrap the fabrics around her body. The fine silk tugged awkwardly against her form, refusing to sit the way they wanted it to. The women muttered their frustration, occasionally pausing to pull tighter or tug harder, as though she were an object they could reshape with enough force.
I’m not an object, Y/N thought bitterly, tears pricking her eyes. I’m not—
“Enough!” a voice cut through the room sharply, startling everyone.
The maids froze, their hands hovering mid-air as they turned toward the door. Robin stood there, her dark eyes narrowed behind her red-tinted glasses. Her tone was quiet but edged with an authority that demanded obedience. “Leave us.”
The women exchanged hesitant glances before stepping back. They gathered their fabrics and boxes in hurried silence, retreating toward the door like shadows fleeing from the light. The door closed behind them with a dull thud, and for a long moment, the room was silent again.
Y/N stood there, her shoulders trembling slightly, her body still half-wrapped in fabric that hung awkwardly from her frame. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet Robin’s eyes.
Robin stepped forward, her movements softer now, though she didn’t speak immediately. She regarded Y/N carefully, her gaze lingering on the faint red marks left on her arms where the maids had pulled too tightly.
“Did you understand what they said?” Robin asked finally, her voice low.
Y/N swallowed hard, forcing herself to nod. “Yes.”
Robin tilted her head slightly, something unreadable flickering across her expression. “And yet you didn’t stop them.”
“What good would it have done?” Y/N shot back, her voice quieter than she intended. She finally lifted her gaze to meet Robin’s, her eyes glassy but determined. “They’re not the first people to look at me that way. To talk about me that way.”
Robin regarded her for a long moment, her expression softening slightly. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said finally.
Y/N blinked, taken aback by the words. “What?”
Robin stepped closer, her voice calm but certain. “They wanted to break you, even if they didn’t know it. But you didn’t let them. You’re still standing.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath, her fists uncurling as she forced herself to relax. “What does it matter?” she muttered. “They still think I’m useless. That I’m…” She hesitated, her voice cracking faintly. “…ugly.”
Robin tilted her head, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “They’re wrong.”
Y/N looked up sharply, meeting her gaze again. Robin’s expression held no mockery, no lies—only quiet honesty.
“They’re wrong,” Robin repeated. “Sir Crocodile didn’t summon you here because of what they see. He doesn’t care about appearances. He cares about what’s inside—a will that refuses to bend, fire that refuses to burn out. You think you’re weak, but you’re here. You survived your brother. You survived this day. And you’ll survive what comes next.”
Y/N stared at her, the words settling over her like a heavy blanket. She wasn’t sure whether Robin’s intent was to comfort her or simply to prepare her for what lay ahead. Either way, it worked.
She straightened her back slightly, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand as she steadied herself. “Why do you care?”
Robin smiled faintly, though it was small and fleeting. “I don’t,” she replied softly. “But I admire people who survive.”
With that, she turned toward the door, pausing briefly to glance back. “Dress yourself however you see fit. You don’t need their approval.”
She left the room then, the door clicking shut behind her.
Y/N stood there alone, the silence settling once more, though it no longer felt as suffocating as before. She looked down at the discarded fabrics on the bed, her fingers brushing against the soft silk.
Robin’s words echoed in her mind. “You survived your brother. You survived this day.”
Y/N took a deep breath, her gaze hardening as she picked up the fabrics and began wrapping them herself, letting the material fall however it would.
If Crocodile wanted fire, then she would show him fire.
The Marine base bustled with its usual sounds of shouting voices, clashing steel, and the thuds of boots against the packed dirt. Morning drills were in full swing, recruits sprinting across the field as they carried weighted packs, their breath sharp and labored in the crisp morning air.
Vice Admiral Garp stood atop a raised platform overlooking the training yard, arms crossed over his broad chest as his sharp eyes surveyed the scene below. His coat hung loosely over his shoulders, the billowing Marine insignia catching the wind as he grinned at the sight before him.
“Look at ‘em go!” he barked with a laugh, his voice carrying over the clamor of the courtyard. “Good! That’s how you build strength! You hear me, Koby? I don’t want to see you slow down!”
Koby, panting heavily, stumbled slightly under the weight of the pack strapped to his back. His face was red, his glasses fogged from exertion, but he pushed himself forward, his small frame a blur of determination as he struggled to keep up with the others. “Yes, sir! I won’t slow down!”
Garp’s grin widened, the deep lines of his face crinkling with satisfaction as he watched the young recruit. “Good kid,” he muttered to himself, though loud enough for Bogard—his ever-silent companion—to hear. “The brat’s got fire. I like that.”
Bogard nodded faintly, as he always did, though his gaze remained distant and watchful.
For a moment, Garp allowed himself the luxury of feeling pride. He’d seen too many men lose their edge—lose their fire—over the years, but Koby? Koby had something that reminded Garp of an earlier, hungrier time. Maybe the kid wasn’t strong yet, but he was honest and willing to fight through the pain.
Garp exhaled contentedly, though the moment of peace didn’t last. A sudden voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Vice Admiral Garp, sir!”
A Marine jogged up the stairs to the platform, breathing heavily as he stopped in front of the Vice Admiral and snapped to attention with a sharp salute. He held a tightly folded newspaper in one hand, its edges smudged faintly with ink.
“What is it?” Garp asked, his tone gruff but curious.
“Urgent news, sir,” the Marine replied, holding the newspaper out to him. “It’s about Alabasta—and the Warlord Crocodile.”
At the mention of Crocodile’s name, Garp’s grin faded ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as he snatched the paper from the Marine’s hand. “Crocodile, huh?”
Bogard turned his head slightly, watching as Garp unfolded the paper with a flick of his wrist. The bold headline immediately caught his eye, the black ink stark against the off-white page.
CROCODILE FORGES MARRIAGE ALLIANCE WITH TARGARYEN PRINCESS IN ALABASTA.
The subheading detailed the rumors of the arranged marriage and Crocodile’s intentions, hinting at the power a union with a Targaryen could bring. Garp’s brow furrowed as he read the words, his face darkening with every line.
“Married?” he muttered, the disbelief in his tone almost comical. “That sand bastard’s getting married?”
The Marine standing at attention shifted nervously, unsure whether the Vice Admiral’s reaction was amusement or anger. “Yes, sir. The reports confirm it. Crocodile visited a noble estate in northern Alabasta days ago. A princess of the Targaryen bloodline is involved, and sources say she’s been summoned to Rainbase.”
Garp snorted loudly, his lip curling with distaste as he crumpled the edge of the paper slightly. “Targaryen? That’s one of those ancient noble families, isn’t it? Dragons, thrones, all that nonsense.”
Bogard nodded, stepping closer to glance at the paper. “Yes. Old blood, powerful name. The Targaryens ruled far-off lands in ages past. Their legacy is tied to fire and conquest, or so the stories go.”
Garp scoffed, his fist tightening around the newspaper as he scanned the page again. “So Crocodile’s playing noble now? What’s his angle?” His voice grew darker, the edge of authority returning as his mind worked through the implications. “That bastard doesn’t make moves unless he sees a way to win. If he’s marrying a Targaryen, it’s not for love.”
“No, sir,” Bogard said quietly, his tone grave. “It’s for power.”
Garp lowered the paper, his sharp eyes flicking toward the distant horizon as if he could see all the way to Alabasta from where he stood. “Damn pirates,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain. “They’re all the same. Give ‘em a drop of power, and they start acting like kings.”
The Marine shifted nervously under Garp’s gaze. “Sir, if this alliance is true, it could mean trouble for Alabasta. Crocodile already controls so much of the region—this could solidify his hold completely.”
Garp was silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he considered the weight of those words. He didn’t care about titles or noble houses, but power—real power—was something that could reshape entire kingdoms. If Crocodile thought he could forge an alliance with ancient royal blood, it wouldn’t stop at marriage. It wouldn’t stop with Alabasta.
“What do we know about the girl?” Garp asked abruptly, his tone clipped.
The Marine shook his head. “Very little, sir. Her name isn’t listed in the report—only that she is connected to the Targaryen bloodline and that her brother arranged the meeting.”
“Her brother, huh?” Garp snorted again, though there was no humor in it. “Selling his sister off to a pirate. What a fine family.”
Bogard’s expression remained unchanged, though he spoke quietly. “If Crocodile succeeds in this alliance, it could put him beyond our reach. Alabasta’s people would rally under his banner, believing him to be legitimate.”
Garp’s scowl deepened, the edges of the paper crumpling further in his hands. He hated politics. He hated the games men like Crocodile played—games where innocent people were pawns, traded and discarded to satisfy the ambitions of powerful men.
But most of all, he hated the way pirates slithered into power, masquerading as something greater than they were.
“Keep your ears open,” Garp ordered suddenly, his voice firm. “I want updates on Crocodile’s movements—everything. Where he’s been, where he’s going, who he’s dealing with. If this girl is important enough to tie herself to him, I want to know why.”
“Yes, sir!” the Marine replied quickly, saluting before turning and hurrying off the platform.
Garp watched him go, his gaze lingering on the recruits below as they continued their drills, their movements sharp and coordinated. Koby was still pushing himself, his face a mask of determination as he ran alongside the others.
Garp sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to Bogard. “Damn fools are going to tear the world apart chasing power.”
Bogard inclined his head faintly. “It’s already happening, sir.”
Garp grunted in response, turning his gaze back toward the distant horizon. Somewhere out there, Crocodile was playing king in his desert fortress, and some poor girl—a Targaryen princess, no less—was being dragged into his plans.
The bastard won’t get away with it, Garp thought, his jaw tightening.
Whatever Crocodile was planning, Garp would be watching.
And if the Warlord thought he could solidify his grip on Alabasta without the Marines noticing… he was sorely mistaken.
“Crocodile,” Garp muttered under his breath, the name like a curse. “You’re gonna choke on that ambition of yours one day.”
The wind carried his words out over the courtyard, lost amidst the shouts of Marines training below—unheard by all but Bogard, who stood silent at his side, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt as if waiting for the storm to come.
The quiet clatter of boots on the polished floors echoed softly through the Marine base's corridors as Garp and Bogard walked side by side. The usual din of the base—recruits training, commanders barking orders, and weapons being hauled—faded to a dull murmur as they moved into the quieter, administrative wing. Despite his usual boisterous demeanor, Garp was silent, his heavy brows furrowed in thought.
Bogard remained at his side, ever silent, a shadow who needed no words. He could tell Garp was thinking—thinking hard. That alone was enough to set an ominous undertone to the day.
Garp’s fingers drummed against his arm absentmindedly as he walked, his sharp eyes narrowing toward nothing in particular. The newspaper still sat crumpled under his arm, the words about Crocodile’s rumored alliance and arranged marriage clinging to his mind like oil.
Crocodile, a Targaryen princess, Alabasta, he thought grimly. None of this sat well with him. A man like Crocodile didn’t marry for romance—he didn’t need a marriage. Which meant this wasn’t about the girl. It was about power. An alliance that could tighten his hold on Alabasta and solidify his influence on the Grand Line.
It was dangerous. Dangerous for the Marines. Dangerous for the world.
And yet Garp didn’t have the information he needed—not yet. If there was a scheme, Crocodile had hidden its roots well, and Garp had no interest in wasting time untangling a web of whispers. If he wanted answers, he would need an inside source. Someone who walked the thin line between the law and the lawless.
Someone who already knew the world of the Warlords.
Garp stopped suddenly, his shoulders straightening as a thought struck him like a hammer. He turned sharply toward Bogard, his eyes gleaming with a clarity that hadn’t been there moments before.
“I know just the bastard for this job,” Garp said.
Bogard raised a brow faintly, a silent question.
Garp’s grin returned—not his usual, jovial one, but something sharper and darker. “Dracule Mihawk.”
Bogard’s brow furrowed further. “The Warlord?”
“Who else?” Garp muttered, resuming his pace and striding quickly toward his office. “The greatest swordsman in the world. One of Crocodile’s ‘equals,’ at least in title. If anyone can sniff out what’s happening in Alabasta and get close to the princess’s brother, it’s him.”
“Do you think he’ll agree?” Bogard asked, his tone calm but cautious.
Garp chuckled darkly. “We’re not gonna ask him nicely.”
They reached Garp’s office—a cluttered space that barely reflected the rank of the man who owned it. Maps were strewn across the desk, half-empty bowls of rice crackers sat amid piles of papers, and the walls were plastered with faded Marine notices and bounty posters.
Garp stomped toward the desk and dropped heavily into his chair, grabbing the transponder snail on the corner of the desk. The snail, shaped like a miniature black mollusk, blinked lazily as Garp adjusted the receiver and began to dial.
Bogard folded his arms, stepping to the side as Garp leaned forward, the edges of his mouth curling into a faint smirk.
The snail rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then, with a faint click, the transponder snail’s features shifted—its small eyes narrowing, its mouth curling into a smooth, indifferent line. A voice followed, low and faintly amused, as though it couldn’t be bothered with the world’s affairs.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Dracule Mihawk’s voice drawled through the line. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Vice Admiral Garp?”
The snail perfectly mimicked Mihawk’s expression—detached and calm.
Garp leaned back in his chair, his grin widening slightly. “Mihawk! You’re a hard man to track down, you know that?”
“I don’t make it easy,” Mihawk replied smoothly. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t exchange pleasantries. What do you want?”
Garp’s smile thinned, his tone turning serious. “I need information, Mihawk. About Alabasta. About Crocodile.”
There was a pause on the line, though Mihawk’s expression didn’t change. “Crocodile?” he repeated, a faint edge of interest in his voice.
“You heard me,” Garp said, his grin disappearing entirely now. “Rumors say he’s forging an alliance—marrying a Targaryen princess.” He glanced at the crumpled newspaper on his desk and tapped it pointedly. “You’ve got the freedom to move where you want. And I need you to move to Alabasta.”
Another pause, though this one felt longer. Mihawk was thinking.
“And what, exactly, do you expect me to do there?” Mihawk asked finally, his tone carrying faint boredom. “I’m not a dog you can command, Garp.”
“Don’t need you to be,” Garp shot back. “I need you to look into her brother.”
“Viserys Targaryen,” Bogard interjected softly from where he stood.
“Yeah, him,” Garp grunted, nodding. “Find out what he’s scheming. He’s the one who arranged this whole damn mess. I want to know what Crocodile’s really after. And if there’s something bigger coming, I want to know before the powder keg goes off.”
The snail’s eyes narrowed faintly, Mihawk’s silence stretching as though he were weighing his options. When he finally spoke, his tone carried that faint smirk of amusement again. “Why would I involve myself in your affairs? Crocodile’s ambitions are of no concern to me.”
“Because you’re curious,” Garp said, leaning forward, his voice edged with challenge. “You’re not the kind of man to ignore a storm on the horizon, Mihawk. And you know as well as I do—if Crocodile’s pulling strings, it won’t stop with Alabasta. Whatever he’s after, it’s gonna shake the seas. And you don’t strike me as someone who likes being caught off guard.”
The snail’s expression twitched ever so slightly, the faintest sign that Mihawk was, indeed, listening.
Garp pressed on. “You head to Alabasta. Keep an eye on Viserys, on Crocodile—hell, even on the girl. Find out what they’re planning. I don’t care how you do it. You get me the information I need, and you can go back to drinking wine in whatever castle you’re haunting these days.”
A beat of silence. Then Mihawk’s voice returned, cool and unbothered as ever. “And what do I get in return for playing your errand boy?”
Garp’s grin returned, sharp and wolfish. “You’ll have my word to stay out of your hair for a while.”
The snail blinked slowly, Mihawk’s faint hum of amusement echoing through the receiver. “A tempting offer.”
“Take it or leave it,” Garp said simply.
Another pause. Then, finally, Mihawk replied. “Very well, Vice Admiral. I’ll look into your little conspiracy. I’ve been meaning to stretch my legs anyway.”
“Good,” Garp said, satisfied. “I knew you were smarter than you looked.”
Mihawk ignored the jab entirely. “I’ll contact you if I learn anything worth sharing. Don’t waste my time.”
With that, the transponder snail let out a final click, its features returning to a neutral, blank stare as the call ended.
Garp leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath as he folded his hands behind his head. “Mihawk won’t disappoint,” he muttered, though whether it was to Bogard or himself wasn’t clear.
Bogard nodded once, his expression unreadable. “He’ll find what we need.”
Garp stared at the crumpled newspaper again, his jaw tightening as his thoughts turned back to Crocodile, to Alabasta, and to the Targaryen name that carried far too much weight for comfort.
“Yeah,” he said softly, his voice low and dangerous. “And when he does, we’ll be ready.”
The sound of training exercises outside echoed faintly through the walls, but in Garp’s office, the tension sat thick and heavy, as though the first gusts of an oncoming storm had already begun to blow.
Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.
Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.
Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!
The sun broke over the horizon with a cruel, indifferent glare. The Alabastan desert came alive as it always did at dawn—an ocean of golden dunes that stretched to infinity, each ripple and crest carved by the unforgiving wind. The noble estate in the north was a silent island amidst this vast emptiness, its sandstone walls already glowing faintly under the first fingers of daylight.
The courtyard had been prepared for departure. Horses, draped in dark cloth to shield them from the coming heat, stamped their hooves impatiently, and the guards loitered with a kind of quiet restlessness, their weapons glinting faintly as they checked buckles and saddles.
Y/N stood at the top of the sandstone steps, staring down at the preparations below. Her crimson gown had been exchanged for something more practical—a long, flowing robe of pale fabric, loose enough to move easily but embroidered with enough detail to remind others of her station. A sheer scarf had been wrapped loosely around her neck, ready to pull up over her face when the desert winds inevitably turned fierce.
Behind her, the doors creaked faintly as Robin entered the courtyard, moving with the unhurried grace of someone entirely at ease. She was dressed in black again, a high-collared cloak fluttering softly at her heels, her sharp eyes hidden behind her scarlet-tinted glasses.
Robin glanced up, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “You’re ready,” she noted, her tone carrying neither approval nor disapproval—simply fact.
Y/N looked down at her, squaring her shoulders. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
Robin’s faint smile returned, a shadow of amusement passing over her face. “You’ll learn soon enough, Y/N. There’s always a choice. The trick is knowing which ones matter.”
Y/N said nothing. She had spent much of the night sleepless, staring at the stars beyond her window, her mind filled with endless possibilities of what awaited her in Rainbase. None of those thoughts had brought comfort. Her brother had not come to see her before her departure—perhaps out of frustration, or perhaps because he thought her presence unworthy of his time now that Crocodile’s attention had shifted elsewhere.
And yet, she felt his absence like a thorn in her side.
Robin turned her attention to the horses, raising her voice slightly. “We leave immediately. Bring her belongings.”
The servants moved quickly, loading up the supplies that had been prepared for Y/N’s journey—saddlebags filled with water, food, and fabric to protect against the desert sun. The house host lingered nearby, his rotund figure hunched with visible discomfort. His face was pale, his hands wringing together, as though he were afraid to say anything to Robin directly.
When he finally spoke, his voice was small and trembling. “W-Will there be news, my lady? Will Sir Crocodile… send word?”
Robin turned her head slightly, though her expression was unreadable behind her glasses. “When Sir Crocodile decides there is news, you’ll hear it. Until then, I suggest you stay out of his affairs.”
The nobleman’s face flushed red, and he quickly nodded, bowing deeply. “O-Of course. Of course.”
Robin ignored him, her attention returning to Y/N. “Come. The desert waits for no one.”
Y/N descended the steps slowly, her feet feeling heavier with each step, as though the ground itself were trying to pull her back. When she reached the bottom, Robin gestured to one of the horses—a tall, dark mare draped in protective cloth.
“Can you ride?” Robin asked, her tone polite but pointed.
“Yes.” Y/N lifted her chin, though in truth, it had been years since she had last ridden. But pride would not allow her to show hesitation now.
Robin gave a small nod and turned, mounting her own horse with practiced ease. She watched as Y/N accepted help from one of the guards to settle into the saddle. The mare shifted under her weight but did not protest, and Y/N tightened her grip on the reins, forcing her body to relax into the animal’s rhythm.
Robin gestured to the guards, who climbed atop their own horses, forming a loose perimeter around the two women. “Move out.”
The party set off, the sound of hooves thudding softly against the sand as they passed through the estate gates and into the wide-open desert beyond. The wind picked up almost immediately, carrying the sharp sting of sand and heat that would only grow more merciless as the day dragged on.
Y/N kept her gaze fixed forward, refusing to look back. The estate shrank behind them until it was nothing more than a distant smudge on the horizon.
She was alone now. Alone with Robin, with Crocodile’s guards, and with the reality of what waited for her in Rainbase.
Hours passed in relative silence. The desert was a relentless beast, the sun blazing overhead as if determined to burn through skin and bone alike. The wind hissed through the dunes, and the horses trudged forward with quiet determination, their hooves sinking into the soft sand.
Y/N pulled her scarf higher over her mouth and nose, shielding herself from the worst of the heat. She stole a glance at Robin, who rode ahead of her as though immune to the discomfort. Her cloak barely shifted with the wind, and her posture remained elegant and upright, as though the desert was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Robin must have sensed her gaze, because she turned her head slightly, speaking without looking back. “You’re holding up better than I expected.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I’m not as fragile as you seem to think.”
Robin’s lips curved faintly into a smile. “Good.”
Y/N frowned, adjusting her grip on the reins. “Tell me something, Miss All Sunday. Why does Crocodile want me? I’m not blind—I know this isn’t about me. It’s about my bloodline, my family name.”
Robin didn’t answer immediately, as though weighing her response. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but edged with something Y/N couldn’t quite place. “Sir Crocodile sees opportunities where others see nothing.”
Y/N scoffed faintly. “And I’m an opportunity?”
Robin shrugged one shoulder, the movement almost casual. “That remains to be seen. Perhaps he sees potential. Perhaps he sees something useful. But make no mistake—if he didn’t think you were worth the trouble, I wouldn’t be here.”
Y/N stared at her, frustration and confusion swirling in her chest. “I’m not a weapon. Or a piece on his board.”
Robin turned her head fully this time, her dark gaze pinning Y/N in place. “Then don’t be.”
The words lingered in the air, heavy and sharp. Y/N stared at her, caught off guard by the simplicity of the answer.
Robin turned forward again, her attention back on the path ahead as the desert stretched endlessly before them. “You have fire in you, Y/N. You just haven’t decided how to use it yet.”
Y/N said nothing, her mind churning with the weight of the words.
Fire.
She had always felt it—burning somewhere deep inside, waiting to be called upon. But for so long, others had tried to snuff it out, to smother her with expectations, cruelty, and chains disguised as silk.
Now, though… now she would have to decide.
The dunes ahead rippled like waves frozen in time, and far on the horizon, Rainbase awaited.
And Crocodile—whatever his true intentions—was waiting, too.
Y/N tightened her grip on the reins, her gaze hardening as the sun burned high above them.
The Going Merry sailed peacefully across the open sea, her white sails billowing in the gentle breeze and her wooden hull creaking softly as waves lapped against her sides. The waters were calm today, a stark contrast to the chaos that had marked the crew's last adventure.
Only days prior, Luffy had faced the infamous Arlong Pirates—defeating the cruel fishman Arlong and freeing Nami’s village from years of torment and suffering. The victory was still fresh, a triumph that the Straw Hat Pirates carried in their hearts as they sailed onward. Yet the sea was vast, and the Grand Line loomed somewhere ahead, calling to them with promises of adventure and danger.
The ship was alive with its usual noise and activity.
“LUFFY! You’re going to fall off if you keep doing that!” Nami shouted from the deck as she glared up at their captain.
Luffy hung precariously from the Merry’s mast by one arm, his straw hat miraculously still clinging to his head as he stretched his rubber limbs like a child testing his limits. “What? I’m fine!” he yelled back, laughing. “Look, Nami! I can swing around!”
“You’re not fine!” Nami huffed, throwing her hands on her hips. “If you break the mast, you’ll be swimming to the Grand Line!”
Usopp, sitting cross-legged at the ship’s railing, peered through a long-handled telescope at the empty horizon. “Nah, Nami, I’ll save him!” he declared, puffing out his chest dramatically. “With my incredible marksman skills, I’ll shoot a rope and pull him back to safety! Captain Usopp never lets his crew down!”
“You’re all insane,” Sanji muttered, emerging from the galley with a tray of drinks balanced effortlessly in one hand. He carried a lit cigarette between his lips, his usual calm demeanor intact. “At least let the idiot fall first before you start shouting about saving him.”
Nami groaned, clearly fed up, but before she could shout at anyone else, the sound of flapping wings overhead pulled their attention skyward.
“MORGAN!” Luffy exclaimed, his grin widening.
A large news-carrying seagull—complete with its little mailbag and hat—circled above the ship before swooping down. It cawed loudly as it passed, dropping a rolled newspaper tied with twine straight onto the deck.
“Hey, we got a paper!” Luffy cheered as he let go of the mast and landed on the deck with a thud. He sprinted for the bundle, but Zoro got there first, stepping out from where he’d been napping near the stairs.
The swordsman caught the paper mid-air and snorted at Luffy’s pouting face. “Calm down, Captain. It’s just a newspaper.”
Zoro tore the twine loose and unrolled the paper, his sharp green eyes scanning the front page. As he read, his brow furrowed slightly. “Huh.”
“What? What is it?” Nami asked, suddenly interested as she moved closer.
“Something about the Grand Line,” Zoro muttered, holding the paper up so the others could see. “There’s news about one of the Warlords of the Sea.”
“The Warlords?” Usopp squeaked, his voice high with nerves. “Aren’t they like... super strong pirates that work with the World Government?!”
Zoro ignored him, his gaze fixed on the bold black headline that spread across the page.
CROCODILE OF THE SEVEN WARLORDS ACCEPTS MARRIAGE ALLIANCE WITH TARGARYEN PRINCESS.
The crew stared at the headline for a moment in silence before Luffy tilted his head and scratched it. “Targa-who?”
Nami grabbed the paper from Zoro’s hands, her eyes darting over the details beneath the headline. “The Targaryens… they’re a noble family. Very old and very powerful. There’s been talk about them for years in some circles—something about dragons and royal bloodlines.”
“Dragons?” Luffy’s eyes widened, his mouth stretching into an excited grin. “Cool! Are they real?”
“No, Luffy, they’re not real,” Nami said with an exasperated sigh, shaking her head. “But the name carries weight. And Crocodile… he’s no ordinary pirate. If he’s making an alliance with them, that means something.”
Sanji leaned against the railing, his cigarette smoldering as he exhaled a thin trail of smoke. “An arranged marriage, huh?” He frowned. “Sounds like political nonsense to me.”
“Who cares about that?” Luffy asked, already losing interest. “Crocodile’s a Warlord, right? So that means he’s strong. Maybe we’ll fight him someday!”
“You don’t want to fight him, Luffy,” Nami said quickly, narrowing her eyes. “Not yet, anyway. Crocodile controls a huge part of Alabasta—he’s basically its ruler. They say he’s ruthless and dangerous, a man who plays with power like it’s a toy.”
Usopp shivered. “A Warlord getting married to a princess? What kind of princess would agree to something like that? She must be terrified!”
Nami frowned, her mind turning over the implications. “Maybe she didn’t have a choice.”
Zoro grunted. “Or maybe she’s not as helpless as you think.”
The crew glanced at him in surprise, but Zoro didn’t elaborate. He leaned back against the mast, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes drifted closed once again. “Doesn’t matter. If it’s about the Grand Line, we’ll hear more about it soon enough.”
Luffy laughed loudly, already distracted by something else entirely. “I don’t care about marriages or politics! I just want to find the One Piece!”
“Of course you do,” Nami muttered, though there was a small smile on her lips as she watched him.
Sanji pushed off the railing, carrying the tray of drinks toward the galley. “I’ll make sure lunch is ready before you idiots start fighting over the paper. Try not to tear it in half.”
Usopp hovered beside Nami, peering at the newspaper as she scanned the smaller paragraphs for additional details. “It says Crocodile left some northern estate after a meeting, but now he’s summoned the girl to Rainbase,” Nami read aloud. “The Targaryen princess. Doesn’t say much about her other than rumors about her family name.”
“What’s she like?” Usopp wondered aloud, biting his lip nervously. “Do you think she’s pretty? Or maybe she’s dangerous too? What if she has powers?”
“Enough guessing,” Zoro muttered from his spot by the mast. “If she’s tied to Crocodile, it doesn’t matter who she is. She’s either a pawn or a player in his game.”
Nami nodded, her expression growing serious as she folded the paper. “If Crocodile’s making moves like this, then we need to be careful. The Grand Line is going to be a lot more dangerous than anything we’ve faced so far.”
Luffy grinned wide, his confidence unshaken. “Then we’ll just get stronger! Crocodile, dragons, Warlords—I don’t care. We’ll take them all on!”
The crew groaned, but the spark of excitement in Luffy’s voice was infectious. For all the unknowns ahead—Crocodile, Alabasta, this mysterious Targaryen princess—one thing was certain: their adventure was only just beginning.
And the Grand Line, with all its chaos, danger, and legends, was waiting for them.
The sun hung like a merciless god over the dunes of the desert, glaring down with unrelenting heat. The lands stretched endlessly in every direction, a sea of gold with no sign of mercy. The small caravan of riders moved steadily through the shifting sands, their silhouettes black against the glare. It had been hours since the last stop, and the distant spires of Rainbase, Crocodile's fortress city, were finally beginning to emerge through the haze of heat waves.
Y/N rode in silence, her face partially hidden beneath the sheer scarf she had pulled up to shield herself from the biting wind and dust. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck beneath the light fabric of her robe, but she ignored it, her thoughts a thousand miles away. Ahead of her, Robin rode with the same unshaken calm she had maintained since the beginning of their journey, her cloak rippling softly with the horse’s steady gait.
The closer they drew to Rainbase, the heavier the air seemed to grow. The fortress city sat like a blight on the desert’s horizon, its spires sharp and predatory, carved to intimidate. Y/N could see faint shadows of buildings beyond the walls, structures built high and crowded, casting long scars of darkness over the city’s heart. Even at this distance, Rainbase looked unwelcoming—no golden palace of legend, but a den carved for someone who preferred shadows over light.
Robin slowed her horse slightly, drawing alongside Y/N. Her dark glasses glinted faintly in the afternoon sun as she turned her head to study her traveling companion. “You’re quiet,” she remarked softly, though her tone was not mocking or unkind.
Y/N kept her gaze forward, her gloved fingers curling around the reins. “What do you expect me to say?”
Robin tilted her head faintly. “Most people would ask questions. Worry about what lies ahead. You haven’t.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened beneath the scarf. “Would it change anything if I did?”
Robin smiled faintly, as though pleased by the answer. “No. It wouldn’t.”
“Then why waste my breath?” Y/N muttered, though there was no true heat in her words.
Robin’s expression softened slightly. “You’re not a fool. I think that’s why Crocodile finds you interesting.”
Y/N glanced at her sharply. “Interesting?”
Robin nodded, her hands resting loosely on the reins as she spoke. “He doesn’t waste his time on people he finds useless. He sees potential in you—something that can serve his ambitions.”
“Ambitions,” Y/N repeated quietly. The word made her stomach twist, though she kept her expression neutral. She turned her gaze back to the looming city ahead, its jagged silhouette seeming to grow larger with every step forward. “And what if I don’t want to serve his ambitions?”
Robin regarded her for a long moment, silent but thoughtful. “Then you’ll have to be clever,” she said at last. “And very careful. Crocodile respects strength, but strength comes in many forms.”
Y/N’s gaze flickered toward her, searching Robin’s face for some deeper meaning. The woman’s words were always measured, deliberate, leaving just enough unsaid to make Y/N wonder whether there was sympathy buried beneath the surface.
“Why are you telling me this?” Y/N asked finally.
Robin’s faint smile returned, though her expression was unreadable. “Let’s just say I don’t care much for seeing people lose their freedom.”
The words struck a nerve, though Robin offered nothing more. Before Y/N could question her further, the sound of the lead guards shouting orders broke through the air.
“We’re here,” Robin announced calmly, her attention shifting forward.
Y/N followed her gaze, and her breath caught slightly at the sight that awaited them.
Rainbase.
From up close, the city was both more awe-inspiring and more foreboding. The walls were massive, carved from dark stone, rising high enough to blot out the lower edge of the sky. Sharp towers pierced upward like jagged swords, casting long shadows across the sun-bleached desert floor. At the gates, soldiers dressed in dark desert armor stood rigid and silent, their faces hidden beneath black veils that only revealed their eyes—watchful and impassive.
The gates creaked open as the caravan approached, revealing a city that was alive with movement yet eerily muted. Merchants and traders crowded the dusty streets, their voices carrying faintly on the wind, but the energy felt subdued, as though the people moved under the weight of something unseen. Buildings of sandstone and dark wood rose on either side of the narrow roads, their windows shuttered tightly against the heat and the dust.
Y/N felt the stares as they rode through the gates—men and women pausing to glance up from their stalls and doorways, their eyes curious and wary as they took in the new arrival. She straightened her back instinctively, refusing to let their attention rattle her.
“This city belongs to him,” Robin said quietly, as though reading Y/N’s thoughts. “The people here live under his shadow. If you’re smart, you’ll learn to do the same.”
Y/N didn’t respond, though her fingers tightened slightly on the reins.
The group rode deeper into the city, passing through winding streets that seemed to close in around them. The further they traveled, the grander the structures became—golden domes and wide archways adorned the buildings here, though their beauty was cold and uninviting, like treasure hoarded in a tomb.
And then, the palace came into view.
At the heart of Rainbase, Crocodile’s fortress rose like a monolith of power. It was immense, its outer walls smooth and dark, dotted with narrow windows that seemed more like slits for archers than openings for light. The main entrance was marked by a pair of massive doors, adorned with carvings of twisting sandstorms and the faint outline of a crocodile’s open maw.
The sight of it sent a chill down Y/N’s spine. This was no palace built for comfort. It was a stronghold, a place where power ruled above all else.
The caravan slowed as they reached the fortress gates, the lead guards barking orders as servants rushed to take the horses. Robin dismounted first, her movements fluid as she stepped onto the dusty ground and turned to look at Y/N expectantly.
“Welcome to Rainbase,” she said softly.
Y/N swallowed hard, her mouth dry as she slid from the saddle, landing on unsteady legs. She tilted her head back slightly to take in the full scope of the fortress before her, its shadow stretching long across the courtyard.
This is where he waits.
The thought sent her heart pounding, though she forced herself to appear calm as she followed Robin toward the main entrance. Her boots scuffed softly against the stone as they climbed the wide steps, the sound of the heavy gates creaking shut behind them.
As the doors opened into the dim interior of the fortress, Y/N forced herself to take a steadying breath. Whatever waited for her inside—Crocodile’s plans, his demands, his ambitions—she would face it.
And she would not break.
The dark hall swallowed them whole as they stepped inside, the air growing cooler and heavier with every step. Robin led the way, her silhouette calm and unwavering, while Y/N kept close behind, her gaze darting across the shadowed walls and towering pillars.
Somewhere in the heart of this place, Crocodile was waiting.
Author: Hello! Quick update, I worked all night to get chapters out and posted. Everything is spelled checked or re-written on Chat Gtp so the story can actually be good!!!!! Don't worry I will make a master list of everything soon, as I'd like to first get as many chapters out as I can before christmas next week, as I'd love to spend time with my family. Anyways, see you all at the next chapter!! Also don't hesitate to share this with your friends or followers who read fanfiction and is One Piece fans!!!! I want this story to grow and be popular, so please help me out everyone!!
