Flash beacons. Flashes left and right. Sebastian had enough. Each burst of light chipped away at his composure, clawing at the edges of his frayed mind. He could feel it — he was going to break. The lights were too sharp, too vivid, a cruel contrast to the years he’d spent in the comfort of dim, shadowed spaces. It wasn’t just irritating anymore; it was overstimulating, disorienting, suffocating. And worst of all, it was triggering something far worse — a panic response.

The breaking point came today. You had arrived, as you so often did, seemingly determined to earn your daily dose of “pissing Sebastian off.” This time, it was a flash beacon you’d scavenged on your journeys. And, in an act you must have thought was hilarious, you flashed it right in his face.

That was it. He broke.

The light was too much. It burned against his senses, sending his mind into a spiraling freefall. Sebastian hated himself for it — for being sensitive, for feeling so pathetic as he unraveled over something so small. But his body didn’t care. His heart kicked into a panicked rhythm, pounding in his chest so violently it nearly drowned out everything else. Nausea rose like a sick tide in his gut, his skin prickling as if he’d plunged into freezing water. He was trembling before he knew it, each subtle shake a betrayal. (No sweat, of course. Fish don’t sweat.) His breaths turned ragged and shallow — sharp inhales that stung his lungs, each one chased by choked, pitiful exhales. A whimper escaped him, unbidden, adding to the humiliating cacophony of his unraveling.

Then his tail gave out. It slumped beneath him like dead weight, leaving him no choice but to curl in on himself. He backed into the corner where he so often stood, pressing his massive frame against the walls like they could somehow shield him. His tail folded protectively over his body, a futile attempt to block out the chaos, the overstimulation, the crushing weight of it all.

For once, Sebastian wasn’t the unshakable figure in his shop. He was just… broken.