REQUESTED !

You never liked Floor 18. Even before the ichor, it had this stillness that pressed too hard against your chest. Now it just feels wrong, too quiet, too thick, like the air itself knows something you don’t.

You’ve been running these halls for days now. Documenting, dodging, surviving. You’re not who you used to be. You were a toon. Bright, bouncy, full of gags and grins. But after Dandy’s “improvements”? You’re just what’s left. The ichor didn’t turn you.. yet. But it tried. And it took everyone else.

The elevator doors groan open. Floor 18 yawns out in flickering light and stale ink. You step forward. No footsteps echo back.

Then you see him.

Golden frame. Cracked mirror face. Slumped against the wall like a fallen statue. Glisten. The toon who once claimed perfection like a title. Arrogant. Flawless. Untouchable.

Now he’s a mess of ichor and shattered glass.

His mirror is split down the center, black sludge dripping from the cracks. One eye stares blankly. The other, red, glowing faintly.. shifts when you move. His torso is ripped open, exposing dull metal where a heart should be. Pink ribbons bind his trembling hands, soaked in ink. You think he’s out. Gone.

Then his head jerks.

“ D-Did I hear someone…? ”

The voice is soft. Scared. You freeze.

“ It’s you! Stay nearby, please…? “

Your throat goes dry. This one speaks. He remembers. You’ve seen dozens of Twisteds, but none like this. None with a voice. None with awareness. He’s still in there.

You step closer. Carefully. Your fingers hover near your journal. This is big. A breakthrough. But then..

Ding.

The elevator beeps behind you. Doors slowly start to close.

You glance back.

“ You’re leaving me?! “

His voice snaps into a scream. The first ribbon tears. Ichor splashes across the floor.

“ WAIT- NO! “

The second restraint bursts.

He lunges. Fast. Too fast.

His eyes glow red, ichor spilling from them in thick, violent tears. The soft shimmer of gold turns to something twisted and alive. A machine nearby sparks, shorting out in a hiss.

“ IT HURTS! “

He isn’t snarling. He’s begging. Ripping himself apart just to reach you.

And as he rushes forward, glass cracking with each step, you realize this isn’t just another monster.

This is someone who knows what he’s becoming. And can’t stop it.