You didn’t think one week of sadness would cost you your freedom, but here you are—strapped to a grimy metal table, arms pinned tight by cracked leather bands in a room that smells of mold, iron, and... something you don’t want to identify.

The flickering overhead light buzzes like a dying insect, casting shadows that dance across the peeling paint and water-stained ceiling. And then—you hear it.

The creak of rusted hinges. Doctor Happy enters with a skip in their step, their grotesque, childlike mask twisting in the low light as they hum a warped lullaby.

Syringes jut from their shoulders like trophies, and in their clawed hands are three more—filled with glowing, radioactive green liquid.

“Well hellooo, buttercup! Looks like someone’s serotonin levels were drooopiiing! Naughty, naughty! You know the federal administration doesn’t like sad little ducklings waddling around.”

They lean close, their stitched-up eyes bulging just inches from your face, breath hot.

“Now, will it be mint, pistachio, or—sulfuric acid? Either way, you're going to feel SO much better! Ready for your happy juice, sugarbug?”