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John’s limbs were trapped, bound tight to the bed by restraints he couldn’t break, no matter how hard he pulled. His wrists burned from the friction, but he kept fighting, teeth gritted, heart pounding against his ribcage.
His muscles screamed, but he screamed louder.
The lights of the Pink Bird Mental Institute above him buzzed, flickering like the neon signs that littered the streets In Noir York City - a warning, a trap.
He wasn’t safe. He was never safe. Not from him.
The door creaked open, and John froze, eyes wide, panic sharpening his senses like shards of glass.
Three figures stepped into the room, their white coats glowing too bright under the harsh fluorescents. Doctors. Nurses. The ones who gave him pills, who pumped poison into his veins, smiling all the while like they weren’t in on it, like they weren't trying to hurt him. But John knew. He knew they worked for him.
For Mirra.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him. He saw Mirra in the corner of the room, standing just behind them, lurking in the shadows where the light couldn’t reach. The same crooked smile, the same empty eyes. Watching him. Always watching.
He twisted to look at him directly, but Mirra was gone.
The doctors murmured to each other, voices low, but it didn’t matter what they said. He already knew. They were planning, scheming, waiting for him to let his guard down.
They wanted to hurt him.
One of them stepped closer, holding a syringe filled with a bright green liquid.
Poison, poison, it was all poison!
"John, it’s okay," the doctor said softly, as though his voice could cut through the noise. "We’re just here to help. This will make you feel better. Just try to relax..."
Liar.
The word hissed through John’s mind like a snake. His eyes darted to the needle in the doctor’s hand - it was too sharp, too clean. They’d stick it into his veins, fill him up with the poison, and Mirra would laugh and laugh and laugh.
He needed to escape, to find his girlfriend, to...
"Get away from me!" John shouted, thrashing against the restraints, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel the sweat dripping down his forehead, but the room felt cold - too cold. "No! No, no, no!"
He glanced to the side, and Mirra was there, his presence suffocating, filling the room like smoke. Always in the corners, always just out of reach. His knife glinted in the bright lights as he lifted it, drawing it threateningly across his own throat - a warning. Mirra's lips moved, forming words that John couldn’t hear, but the meaning was clear. They’re working for me. You're helpless.
John glanced to the other side, and there, on the monitor that was meant to display his vitals, was the pink flamingo.
".mirrorS arE morE fuN thaN televisioN" the flamingo spoke, its voice strange and unnatura, the cadence all wrong. "⸮whO iS iN youR reflectioN"
John’s body shook with panic. The straps cut into his skin, keeping him pinned, helpless.
The doctor stepped forward again, holding the syringe with a gentle, practiced hand. The liquid inside almost glowed in the light.
It would kill him, Mirra would kill him, the poison was going to fill his veins and empty his mind and he wouldn't be able to escape, no, no, no-
"Shhh, John," the nurse beside him said, her voice calm, almost soothing as she rested a gloved hand on his restrained arm. "You’re safe here. We’re going to help you."
Her face was soft, kind - too kind. It was a mask, a facade, a lie hiding the truth beneath. John’s stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat. He thrashed again, desperate, his vision swimming with panic.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Mirra’s shadow loomed closer, watching. Always watching.
"No! You’re lying!" John’s voice cracked, and he choked on the words. "I know who you work for. I know you’re in on it!"
The nurse frowned, her brow furrowing with concern, but John saw right through it. The fake worry, the false compassion.
He felt like he was drowning, the air around him too thick, the walls closing in.
Every breath was a fight.
Mirra chuckled from out of sight.
The doctor’s hands were steady as he pressed the syringe to John’s skin, the needle gleaming under the light. John jerked away, but the restraints held him in place. His arm burned as the needle broke the surface, cold liquid sliding into his veins like ice water.
They were killing him!
"No!" John screamed, his voice raw, breaking apart. "You’re killing me! You’re all killing me! Stop!"
"John, calm down,".the doctor said, his tone even, reassuring. "We’re trying to make you feel better. You’re safe. Breathe. Everything will be alright, this medicine will help you."
Safe.
The word rattled around in John’s skull like a loose bullet casing. He wasn’t safe. He was never safe. Mirra’s voice echoed in his ears, soft, mocking.
They’ll make you one of them, John. They’ll strip you bare, drill out your brains, pump you full of poison, take what’s left, and then...
I am going to get you.
John's vision swam, the room spinning. The doctors moved like shadows, blurring in and out of focus. The walls seemed to pulse, the fluorescent lights flickering and buzzing louder. John’s heart was a drum, beating faster, harder, threatening to burst through his chest.
The air felt thick, oppressive, like breathing in smoke.
The nurse pressed a tray of pills to his lips, and John jerked his head away. But she was persistent, guiding his head gently, her voice sweet, like honey laced with venom.
He didn't want to die! This poison, whatever they were doing to him, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe!
"You need to take these, John," she said softly. "They’re good pills, they will help you feel better."
He couldn't think, he could barely blink, he was already succumbing to the poison...
He wanted to spit in her face, but his mouth was dry. He tried to resist, but she pressed the pills in anyway, slipping them past his lips. He gagged, choking, the bitter taste flooding his senses. He tried to bite down on her gloved fingers, but she deftly avoided his canines and withdrew her hand, patting him mockingly on the cheek with a fake smile. He swallowed involuntarily, the pills scraping down his throat like broken glass, ready to tear him apart from the inside out.
No, no...
In the corner of his eye, he saw Mirra again, closer now. His double's grin stretched too wide, teeth gleaming. The walls around them blurred, melting, dripping down like tar, swirling around and around and around like a funhouse attraction. Mirra’s voice slithered into his ear, smooth as silk.
You’re mine, John. You’ve always been mine.
John’s breathing was shallow, rapid. He couldn’t get enough air. The walls were closing in, suffocating him. His head throbbed, his chest tight with panic.
The doctors were watching him, their eyes too calm, too calculating. They wrote down notes on their clipboards, measured out more doses of poison, read the monitors, they lied and they lied and they lied.
They weren’t here to help him.
They were here to destroy him.
The nurse gently stroked his arm, her touch light as a feather, but it felt like fire on his skin. He flinched, his whole body trembling.
He was dying.
They were killing him.
"Shhh, John," she whispered. "It’s okay. We’re here to help you."
No, John thought, tears stinging his eyes as he tried to pull away from her touch. You’re here to hurt me.
He could feel the poison creeping in, his mind fogging over, but he fought against it. Fought against the darkness, against the pull of the podioj they labeled as medicine. But it was too strong, dragging him down, pulling him under. His limbs felt heavy, too heavy to move.
He couldn't move his head, helpless as it lolled to the side.
Mirra was beside him now, leaning down, his breath hot on John’s neck.
"You can’t escape me," Mirra whispered, his voice a knife, slicing through the fog. "You’ll never escape me."
John’s vision blurred, fading. The doctors faded too, their voices distant, echoing in the void.
The last thing he saw before everything went dark was Mirra’s face, grinning, triumphant.
John had lost the game.