In The Middle

I don't get paid enough for this.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

CASE REPORT: THE MEDDLESOME PSYCHOLOGIST

Rank: A Status: Destroyed Subject: A-5677-49 "Dr. Mihara" (Type: Pathea) Investigators: Taiga Hoshibami, Romeo Scorpius Lucci Inspector: Dr. Lina Nakamura

I. GENERAL DESCRIPTION

Apparent Age: Late 20s – Mid 30s Observed Behavior: The subject maintained all outward human functions and social affect. Slept rarely, instead entering a nightly trancelike state within his office. Security records[1] confirm no exits between 2300–0500 hours for the entire duration of employment.

Subject displayed exemplary work ethic and emotional perceptiveness, which later proved symptomatic of feeding behavior. He never exhibited awareness of his anomalous status.

II. ORIGIN / MANIFESTATION

Evidence suggests an pathea-type[2] conversion: subject was once human, later transformed following prolonged parasitic interaction with a pre-existing pathea anomaly (designated Parent Anomaly A-5677-48). The transformation resulted in complete depletion of one emotional faculty—affection—leaving the subject incapable of experiencing or internally generating that affect.

The anomaly type colloquially debated as ψ-vampiric shares superficial characteristics with both Western psychic-feeding entities and jiangshi-adjacent alimentary spirits, but is herein classified under the provisional taxonomic label Pathea[3]. The name denotes entities defined by invoked emotion, specifically those who feed on affective resonance rather than blood, will, or ectoplasmic substrate.

While rarity has led many within the Institute to assume negligible population, recent internal review suggests Pathea-type organisms may occur with greater frequency than previously documented. Not as ubiquitous as post-mortem spectral phenomena, but markedly less exceptional than classical vampirism. In short: they are not legend, but ecology.

According to standard theory, the afflicted must thereafter seek the missing emotion in others to sustain life. The mechanism is not predation in a conscious sense but osmosis through proximity and fixation.

III. FEEDING PATTERN

The subject fed on emotive resonance, particularly affection, attachment, and intimacy[4].

Like a biological organism with dietary preferences, he found certain affective "flavors" more sustaining: Genuine affection (High - primary sustenance), Romantic fixation (Moderate-High), Hostility/Fear (Low), Indifference (None).

The subject's professional role at Darkwick Academy provided continuous access to emotionally vulnerable individuals, allowing him to feed undetected. He rationalized this hunger as "clinical curiosity."

IV. ANOMALOUS TRAITS

Does not require conventional sleep; enters trance resembling REM paralysis while upright at desk[5].

Vital signs slow to near stasis during trance, then return to baseline within seconds of external stimuli.

When deprived of emotional sustenance for > 72 hours, exhibited accelerated psychological deterioration: fixation, delusion, erosion of self-referential language.

V. TERMINATION EVENT

Following progressive behavioral contamination of patients Taiga Hoshibami and Romeo Scorpius Lucci, both parties displayed escalating mutual dependency. It is unclear whether this increased mutual dependency was as a result of anomalous interference or simply coincidental.

Evidence recovered from the scene—including biological residue and journal fragments—suggests the subject was consumed by Hoshibami (likely with Lucci's monitoring or consent)[6].

VI. ANALYSIS

It is hypothesized that the subject's initial fascination with the pair derived from unconscious recognition of their intense reciprocal affection—precisely the energy he lacked. His interference may have amplified the bond he sought to study, inadvertently creating the conditions for his own destruction.

VII. CONTAINMENT / RECOMMENDATIONS

No containment necessary; subject presumed neutralized.

Continued psychological monitoring of Hoshibami and Lucci recommended; possible secondary pathea-conversion cannot be ruled out, although it is unlikely considering the ghoul-status of both students[7].

Reinforce psychiatric screening protocols for all Institute clinicians. Professions involving prolonged empathic contact present elevated risk for Affection-Void manifestation.

⸻

References

[1] █████ █████ ████ ███ ██, █████ █████ ███ ███ ████. █████ █████ ███ ██████ ███ ██████ ███. █████ █████ ████ ███ ███, █████ █████ ███ ███████. █████ █████ ████ █ ███ ███ ████ ███.

[2] Encyclopedia of Anomalous Taxa & Parapsychological Entities, 4th Edition. Vol. XII — Psychological & Energetic Predation Classes — "Pathea: Emotion-Consuming Humanoids & Conversion Phenomena."

[3] Ibid. p. 8783 —derived from the plural vocative of pathos.

[4] See Enclosure 6.1-6.204 & Enclosure 7.1-7.19: Observational Logs 見原 ビル — Notes regarding Romeo Scorpius Lucci and Taiga Hoshibami will be recognizably more obsessive in tone than notes kept on Kaito Fuji.

[5] See Enclosure 8: Observations noted by Romeo Scorpius Lucci

[6] Ibid.

[7] ███ ████ ████ ███ ████.

⸻

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Nakamura's Observational Log — Entries #██-██

When I accepted transfer to Darkwick Academy, I was warned that "people disappear here sometimes." I had assumed this was metaphorical. It is not.

The office assigned to me was found in a state best described as catastrophic. Furniture overturned, papers shredded, a coffee mug shattered against the wall. There were stains on the carpet I have chosen not to identify in writing. It looked less like an office and more like the aftermath of a confession gone wrong. The other staff claimed there was no footage of the night in question.

While cleaning, I discovered two bullets lodged in the plaster near the filing cabinet. I submitted them for identification. The results were returned this morning: both rounds bear anomalous striation patterns consistent with artifact-induced propulsion. The markings match those registered to Taiga Hoshibami and Romeo Scorpius Lucci.

A coincidence, I was told. I have yet to encounter a single coincidence at Darkwick.

On my first official day, I had the misfortune of walking in on the aforementioned pair—Hoshibami and Lucci—in the middle of what the academy handbook would diplomatically label "inappropriate physical contact." They were entirely unbothered by discovery.

When I attempted to interview them regarding the incident, Lucci smiled. Hoshibami laughed. They informed me, in no uncertain terms, that the previous psychiatrist had "liked to pry," and that it would be a shame if I "had to leave" for the same offense. Their meaning was clear.

I am now, officially, Taiga Hoshibami's assigned therapist. Unofficially, I am being extorted by both members of this—partnership, if that's what we're calling it. They said I could keep my job if I listened. So I will listen. I have already survived one day longer than my predecessor.

⸻

I suppose you may be wondering what ever became of Taiga Hoshibami and Romeo Scorpius Lucci in the wake of Dr. Mihara's meddling.

I cannot adequately explain what happened. No one can.

They seem to burn brighter and fiercer than before—as though the destruction of my predecessor was a necessary catalyst, a purification ritual neither of them would have admitted to craving. Perhaps the extermination of that poor man finally stripped away whatever veneer of civility remained between them and forced what was always inevitable: conversation.

Something must have passed between them in the aftermath—not reconciliation, but recognition. I've seen them together since, and there's a strange calm that follows in their wake. Not peace. Equilibrium, maybe. The kind that only comes once every unspoken thing has been spoken, every taboo acted upon, and every line crossed until there are no more left to draw.

I suspect they've been on the same page this entire time. No—not just the same page. The same paragraph, the same sentence, the same word, the same letter. Two halves of one inscription, endlessly rereading themselves through the other.

Whatever they have defies my training, and my education. It is obscene, magnificent, and utterly self-contained. There is no room for anyone else in their atmosphere. There is nothing to treat here anymore. I fear for anyone who tries.

⸻

The one thing I can say without fear of retribution is that Dr. Mihara was almost certainly an anomaly.

Some sort that fed on emotional energy—obsession, longing, grief. In Western mythologies, one might call it a psychic vampire. The kind that survives not on blood, but on the emotional discharge of others. It would explain a great deal: his increasing fixation on his patients, the erosion of professional boundaries, the fervor that leaked into his notes until his voice all but disappeared inside theirs.

For the sake of the investigation report I've been stalling the submission of, I'm designating the late Vil Mihara as a Pathea.

I suspect Lucci figured it out first. He's too precise not to have noticed the way the doctor's curiosity began to feel like hunger. And I have reason to believe Hoshibami ate him. Not metaphorically.

The wall near the old desk bears traces of teeth marks—human, but too deep for panic alone. The carpet has been replaced, but the scent beneath the boards—metallic and sweet—still remains.

I doubt the psychologist even knew of his own anomalous nature. If Dr. Mihara was a pathea, perhaps Taiga was simply finishing the meal. Perhaps Romeo held the plate. Perhaps that was their first act of true partnered counselling.

I have submitted my transfer request. I do not expect it to be approved. No one leaves Darkwick easily.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

Lucci returned today without announcement, as usual. He looked impeccable, every line of his uniform crisp, but his composure was wrong—too tight, too deliberate, like a man holding himself together with silk thread.

He dropped a small, battered notebook onto my desk.

"Found this."

I didn't need to ask whose. He didn't sit. He paced, rubbing a hand across his mouth.

"It reeks," he said. "Like smoke and cheap ink. It's horrifying. And—oddly erotic.”

I asked if he was pleased with what he'd found or not. He stopped pacing. Looked at me like he wanted to laugh or hit something.

"I don't know. But I think we need to talk."

I asked, "We?"

"Me and him, obviously. You—"

He gestured toward me with a flick of his fingers.

"You can fuck off. It's none of your business anyway."

I told him he was right. He studied me for a long moment, then said, quieter:

"You know too much."

I agreed again.

"You should quit," he said.

Then he left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the diplomas.

I sat in the silence afterward, considering the wisdom of that suggestion. He's right, of course. I should quit. But I won't. Not when the final act is so close I can feel the air tightening around it.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

Hoshibami returned today, uncharacteristically early. He didn't sit right away—he just stood by the wall, smiling in a way that made me instinctively check for exits.

"Guess what I found," he said. "Lulu's journal."

He said it the way some people say they found God. There was reverence in it, and something else—ownership. He dropped into the chair and began speaking without prompting.

"He's losing it. Like, actually losing it. He sounds like he's going mad for me."

I half expected the words to drip with cruelty, but they didn't. His tone was soft—almost protective, as though he'd discovered some fragile, precious thing in the pages. He fiddled with a gold lighter while talking, flipping the lid open and shut.

"He keeps writing about how he can't sleep, can't think straight, how every time he sees me it's worse. I thought he was just mad because I get under his skin, but—"

Here he paused. Like he was mentally digesting the conclusion itself.

"He's hurting more because he cares about me. Less because I hurt him."

That last sentence hung in the air, strange and gentle, like something he didn't mean to say aloud. I asked how he thought he was hurting Romeo. He grinned, sharp again, all teeth.

"Bet you'd love to know, perv," came the response.

He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and headed for the door. I reminded him the session wasn't over. He didn't look back.

The office smelled faintly of smoke after he was gone, though I didn't see him light anything.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

Lucci arrived again today, unannounced as ever, coat immaculate, expression brittle.

He opened with, "I'm still not doing a session."

I told him I'd stopped expecting that weeks ago. Then, almost as an afterthought, he produced a slim, black, leather-bound notebook from inside his blazer and placed it on my desk as though it were evidence in a trial.

"You told me to write. I did."

He stood while I skimmed the pages. The handwriting was elegant but erratic, whole lines gouged out with the pen until the paper thinned. The entries were—unsurprisingly—about Hoshibami.

Each line swung between desire and fury, worship and contempt:

There's something infuriating about a man who wins like breathing and then forgets to exhale.

I hate him. I hate that he says things like that with no hesitation, no shame, and somehow makes me feel like the idiot for questioning it.

I wish I wasn't so addicted to the way his eyes go soft when he's himself. When the chaos quiets. When he's not running headfirst into danger or mouthing off to someone with twice his authority. When he's just there—present, aware, still.

I asked, perhaps foolishly, who he imagined would be reading it someday, given how much he'd crossed out. He looked at me as though I'd grown another head.

"Are you stupid? You just read it. Congratulations, voyeur."

He snapped the notebook shut and snatched it back.

"The only thing this exercise has done is given me more migraines."

Then, softer, almost under his breath: "Does he even care about everything I do for him?"

I mentioned—perhaps unwisely—that Hoshibami had also been keeping a journal.

Lucci froze. The mask slipped just long enough for a flash of raw panic to show through.

"You know," he said, voice suddenly low, "you could lose your job for telling me that."

He left before I could reply, closing the door with the same infuriating precision as before. I sat for some time afterward, thinking about the the dent his ring had left in the notebook's leather. Yes, I could lose my job. Yes, it would almost certainly be justified. But I can't deny it—things have become very interesting.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

Today's session began like any other. For the first twenty minutes, Hoshibami spoke in circles about coursework, missions, and the unbearable monotony of "being told what to do." His mood was almost placid. I caught myself thinking he seemed healthy — a dangerous thought in this line of work.

Then, inevitably, the conversation veered. He mentioned Lucci with the ease of breathing, a slip of the tongue that changed the atmosphere entirely.

"You said to keep a journal," he said, leaning back in the chair. "Been doing it."

He produced a small, battered notebook from his jacket pocket. The cover had burn marks; the edges were warped from dampness. I asked if I could take a look. He shrugged.

The pages were—how to put it—alive. A mess of jagged handwriting, ink smudges, and phrases that oscillated between violence and devotion with no transition:

He looks at me like he's cataloging a fuck-up in real time. Like he could paint me in red ink and write off the damage.

All that polished disdain. The silk gloves. The posture like he's allergic to mediocrity. The way he sighs when I drag in blood. The poise is in his blood.

Those eyes are the only real thing about him. The rest is designer threads and cruelty dipped in perfume. But the eyes—they don't lie. They gleam when he's scheming, burn when he's furious, and shimmer like rubies when he thinks no one's watching.

I told him to keep writing. He smiled, almost bashful, as if I'd praised a school essay. Then his expression shifted.

"You think he even gives a shit about me?"

I hesitated. Then said, "The evidence may be in plain sight."

That was all it took. His eyes lit up with a brightness that made the room feel smaller. He snapped the journal shut, snatched it from my hands, and bolted for the door with a grin so sharp it felt like a threat.

"Then I'll go fuckin' find it!" he called over his shoulder.

The door slammed.

I sat for several minutes afterward, listening to the faint echo of his shoes down the hall, weighing the possibility of alerting the staff. I did not. I told myself it was because he wouldn't know what to look for. In truth, I simply wanted to know what would happen next.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

I have begun to consider the word codependency, though it feels too sterile for what they are. "Dependency" suggests need. "Co" suggests partnership. What these two have is neither.

It is orbit. An endless gravitational negotiation between collapse and escape velocity.

Hoshibami cannot breathe unless he's breaking something — preferably something that belongs to Lucci. Lucci cannot rest unless he's fixing something — preferably something that Hoshibami has destroyed. Their behaviors complement each other so perfectly it becomes difficult to determine who is causing whom to decay.

Each one feeds the other's pathology in a flawless cycle: Taiga's volatility gives Romeo purpose; Romeo's precision gives Taiga something to rebel against. They mistake this for affection — perhaps it is affection, in the peculiar way that lightning "loves" a tree.

I see it now in small ways: the headaches, the trembling hands, the sleeplessness. Both are deteriorating, and both seem more alive for it. If separated, they would wither. Together, they corrode.

I sometimes think of what would happen if one were to disappear — if the gravitational partner were suddenly removed. Would the survivor implode inward, or finally drift free? My professional inclination says the latter. My gut says neither would survive the silence.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

Lucci appeared in my doorway this afternoon under the pretense of collecting a "skincare shipment that was misdelivered."

I am not sure what amused me more — that he thought I would believe this, or that he expected me to play along. For the record, one would have to intentionally pass through three locked corridors and my office to "mistake" the route.

He did not sit. He simply leaned against the frame, arms crossed, and asked,

"Can people cause migraines?"

I told him yes — chronic stress, tension, and certain interpersonal dynamics can all be triggers. He nodded once, like a man confirming a diagnosis he already knew, then said quietly,

"Right. Thought so."

I asked if he'd been experiencing headaches.

He said, "Only when he's around."

When I asked if "he" referred to Hoshibami, Lucci didn't answer. He looked at the framed diploma behind me instead.

"They ever teach you how to get rid of someone who makes you feel sick and alive at the same time?"

"That sounds complicated."

"It is."

His voice softened, losing its usual polish. For a moment he looked every bit the exhausted young man beneath the armor of vanity. Then the mask returned — perfect posture, perfect diction.

"Forget it. I'll pick up some aspirin."

As he turned to leave, I asked whether he'd considered taking my advice — the journal. He paused, one hand on the doorframe, and said,

"I did. The contents are NOYB."

He left without another word. I heard his shoes echo down the hallway long after he'd gone — the sound of someone trying not to run.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

Hoshibami entered the office with an unusual air of calm. He greeted me with a lazy salute, dropped into the chair, and informed me that "this therapy crap is starting to feel like detention." I told him that unlike detention, he could leave at any time. He replied, "Then you'll chase me down, huh?" — and smiled in a way I cannot adequately describe without resorting to metaphor involving sharks.

We discussed his journaling progress. He claimed he'd written "a few lines," then said he burned them. I asked why.

"Didn't like the way they looked at me," he said.

"The words?"

"The memories."

After a pause, he shifted topics with the abruptness of someone changing the radio:

"You ever want to eat somebody's eyes?"

I admit I did not respond immediately. He clarified before I could: "Not, like, hungry-hungry. Just—he looks at me like that, and I think if I could just... eat his eyes, maybe he'd stop."

He meant Lucci, of course. He always means Lucci. He described the impulse almost tenderly, as though it were a form of preservation — to consume, to stop the looking, to keep those magenta eyes somewhere safe inside himself.

When I asked what he thought would happen afterward, he laughed.

"Dunno. Maybe I'd finally see what he sees."

I documented the statement verbatim. His tone was neither violent nor remorseful. It was wistful. A yearning so profound it masqueraded as threat.

He left early, saying he was "bored again." As he opened the door, he turned and asked, "You think Lulu'd look good without eyes?"

Before I could respond, he added, almost cheerfully, "Don't. worry. I'm not gonna. Probably."

I spent the remainder of the hour staring at my notes, uncertain whether I should alert the faculty or simply refill my coffee. Both seemed equally futile.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

Romeo Lucci arrived unannounced this afternoon. He knocked once, entered without waiting for a response, and opened with, "This isn't about me." (It is always about him.)

He inquired, in his usual clinical tone, whether I could prescribe something "to take the edge off" for Taiga Hoshibami. I explained, patiently, that I could not provide medication to one student on the request of another, regardless of circumstance. Lucci sighed as if I were being deliberately obtuse and muttered something about "figuring as much."

When I asked why he was so concerned, he adjusted his cufflinks and said, almost under his breath, "Because if he keeps talking like that, I'm going to forget how to keep my mouth shut."

I did not inquire further; he didn't need me to. The implication was as volatile as it was obvious.

I offered him a session of his own — the professional equivalent of stepping into the blast radius. He refused immediately, stating:

"There are things I can't say to Taiga. And there are things I can't say to a therapist. You're not the confessional I need."

He was halfway to the door when I suggested, perhaps recklessly, that he try journaling — the same method I'd assigned to Hoshibami. He stopped, one hand on the knob, and turned slightly. He didn't say yes, but the silence that followed was not a no. He left without another word, closing the door so gently it felt like a warning.

For the record, I am certain Lucci will never bring me his journal. But if he does write, I suspect I will not need to see it to know every word was about Hoshibami.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

I did not expect Hoshibami to agree to individual sessions, yet here we are. He arrived twenty minutes late, carrying a half-eaten sandwich and the sort of expression that communicates both contempt and exhaustion. I have learned this is his default setting.

After minimal small talk (his contribution: "You're paid to listen, right? So listen."), I suggested he try keeping a personal journal — something to assist with his noted memory lapses. He scoffed, accused me of "assigning homework," and spent a full minute examining the ceiling tiles. When I explained that it might help with grounding and continuity of thought, he said, "That sounds like bullshit."

I told him that most therapy does, at first.

We circled for several minutes in a verbal stalemate until I reframed it: perhaps journaling would help him remember Romeo more clearly. That got his attention. He went quiet — not defensive, merely still. Then, after a long pause, he asked if the journal could be "about Lulu."

I said, "Who else?"

That was the first time I've seen him smile without malice.

Whether this marks the beginning of self-reflection or merely a new method of self-destruction remains to be seen.

"Fine. I'll write about Lulu. He'll hate that."

For the record, I am both alarmed and intrigued at how quickly this suggestion may backfire. If Lucci discovers these entries, I will have inadvertently handed him a psychological weapon. Still, I find myself morbidly curious what the man will write.

[eyes-on-sinostra]

Darkwick General - Dr. Mihara's Observational Log — Entry #██

In all my years of working at this academy, I have never seen something quite so toxic and engaging as the dynamic between Taiga Hoshibami and Romeo Scorpius Lucci. I'd like to say my fixation was merely a passing interest, but something about those two has a gravity resembling a singularity. It's horrifying. It's repulsive. It's... endlessly intriguing.

Hoshibami exhibits the behavioral profile of an agent of chaos masquerading as a student. He is reckless to the point of self-destruction, with a disarming apathy toward consequence. Lucci, by contrast, is precision incarnate — self-contained, polished, and pathologically controlling. Together, they form an ouroboros of pathology: the impulsive devoured by the perfectionist, the perfectionist undone by the impulsive.

When separated, they display the expected signs of irritability, impulsivity, and mild narcissistic traits. When together, however, they achieve something far more catastrophic — a kind of symbiotic combustion. Lucci's need to dominate finds its perfect accelerant in Hoshibami's eagerness to provoke. Their exchanges are less conversations than controlled detonations; every word carries the potential for violence or intimacy, and often both.

Lucci once described Hoshibami as a "walking liability with good bone structure."

Hoshibami, in turn, referred to Lucci as "a glittery corpse who won't stop talking."

Neither can go a full week without seeking the other's company. I have timed it.

Clinical diagnosis would be inadequate. What they share borders on addiction — to pain, to control, to recognition. Lucci inflicts; Hoshibami invites. Each finds, in the other, proof of existence through conflict. If I were a better man, I would intervene. Instead, I find myself documenting their next collision like an astronomer awaiting the next supernova.