So this one isn't 100% accurate, but I wrote it either way so here you go :
They didn’t trust him anymore.
Whumpee could see it in the way the team wouldn’t meet his eyes during meetings. In how his suggestions were dismissed without discussion. In the silence that followed every strategy he offered—followed by the quiet, careful “We’ll revisit that later.”
They were whispering behind closed doors now. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what they were thinking.
He didn’t blame them. Not really. He’d been too specific. Too… precise. Too many details about Whumper’s security systems, their habits, their psychological patterns—how they always circled before striking, how they didn’t leave evidence unless they wanted to, how they always preferred enclosed spaces because it made prey easier to trap.
Whumpee had known what would happen if he spoke up. But silence meant people got hurt. So he talked.
And now… they didn’t trust him.
He sat alone at the far end of the table. He didn’t argue when they changed the plan. Didn’t protest when they ignored his warning about the northeast corridor, even when he knew it was a trap. He didn’t even flinch when the mission commander shut the folder of his notes with a cold “Thank you. We’ll go with Jackson’s route.”
Because what else was he supposed to do?
The gas hit fast—burned through lungs and clarity both. Somewhere, someone screamed for backup, but it was already too late. The lights cut out. The floor shuddered. Then the doors slammed shut, locking them in with silence.
Whumpee dropped with the rest of the team, coughing hard, arms over his head.
That voice. Low. Smooth. Knifelike.
“Well,” Whumper drawled, “didn’t I say you’d come crawling back?”
Whumpee’s breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled. He backed away instinctively until he hit the wall, eyes wide, lungs stuttering like a broken machine.
Not here. Not again. Not in front of them.
The team was already looking at him.
“What’s going on?” someone whispered. “Whumpee—?”
The door opened wider, and Whumper stepped through like a man arriving at a dinner party.
And walking straight past the entire team.
“It's so good to have you back, darling,” Whumper said, every word dripping with cruel affection. “I’ve missed you.”
Whumpee flinched like he’d been struck.
He tried to crawl backward, mouth open in a voiceless plea, but Whumper reached him in two steps. A hand twisted tight in his hair and yanked him forward until he was kneeling at their feet, shaking.
Whumpee’s chest constricted. His breath hitched—and then came faster. Shallower. His vision blurred at the edges as adrenaline hit, hard and sick.
“Whumpee?” the mission commander barked. “What the hell is going on—?”
But Whumpee wasn’t listening. Couldn’t. His ears rang. His fingers curled hard into the floor.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t let them see.
“Still so dramatic,” they sneered, gripping his jaw. “You act like you didn’t miss me.”
Whumper’s hand cracked across Whumpee’s cheek—sharp, echoing
Whumpee yelped, jerking back - tears finally breaking free, but Whumper yanked him forward with ease, once again forcing him onto his hands and knees in front of everyone.
“There you are,” Whumper murmured, low and delighted. “You didn’t even say hello.”
Whumpee shook his head, breath sputtering. “Please don’t—please don’t, please don’t—”
Whumper’s fingers tightened in his hair, twisting until Whumpee let out a strangled cry.
“You think you get to say no?” Whumper bent close to his ear, lips brushing the edge of it. “After running off and pretending to be one of them?”
Whumpee didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to stop crying. Too busy trying to stay small.
Whumper looked up at the others. “Apologies for the scene,” they said smoothly. “He gets moody when he’s off his leash too long.”
The team was frozen. Shocked. Silent.
Whumpee’s head stayed bowed, panting through clenched teeth. His eyes were glassy. He wasn’t struggling anymore. Just shaking.
“You told them things, didn’t you?” Whumper went on, voice syrupy and cruel. “Little secrets you thought would help them win.” They chuckled. “Oh, darling. You always were the self-destructive type.”
One of the team members stepped forward. “Let him go. Now.”
Whumper’s smile never wavered. “Or what?” They yanked Whumpee’s head up by his hair, forcing him to meet his teammates’ horrified stares. “He told you everything about me, didn’t he? All those little details no one else could possibly know. You didn’t think that came from loyalty, did you?”
“I—I didn’t…” Whumpee’s voice cracked. “I wasn’t trying to—please—I thought it would help—”
Whumper shushed him mockingly, running a finger down his cheek. “You’ve made such a mess of things. But don’t worry.”
They leaned down again, almost tender.
Whumpee’s breathing picked up again, quick, ragged. His fingers clenched into the knees of his uniform, knuckles white. He was panicking. Fast.
“No—please, I can’t—please—don’t take me back, please—”
Whumper dragged him to his feet by the arm and began pulling him toward the exit, ignoring his struggling. “We’ll get that mouth of yours trained again.”
Whumpee sobbed once, then went silent—blank.
