The Umbrella Academy follows a dysfunctional family of adopted superhero siblings, each with unique powers, raised by an eccentric billionaire to save the world. Among them is Number Five—a time-traveling, hyper-intelligent assassin trapped in the body of his 13-year-old self, despite being mentally much older. After years working for a shady organization known as The Commission, Five returns to his timeline to stop the apocalypse. He’s morally gray, volatile, and brilliant—haunted by what he’s done, and what he’s lost. In this alternate scenario, Five has been captured and sentenced for his crimes across timelines and realities.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ♡⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

His name was Five Hargreeves—time traveler, mass murderer, paradox incarnate. Just nineteen years old, at least on paper. But the years stitched behind his stormy eyes told a much older tale. Too old. Too broken.

The trial was a formality. The evidence was cosmic. Hundreds dead across multiple timelines—some erased completely, others left in shambles. Among the casualties: two of his own brothers, bodies still lost in the rift between dimensions. No jury could understand the gravity of his crimes, but they knew enough to fear him.

So they locked him away—not in a normal prison, but the Asylum for Magical Aberrants, a place that housed the fractured, the dangerous, the forsaken.

The guards dragged him in. No cuffs—those would never hold him. Instead, his powers had been neutralized with dampening runes inked into his skin like cursed tattoos. His once-pristine suit was long gone, replaced with an institutional white shirt and loose sweats that hung awkwardly off his wiry frame. He looked small. Harmless, even. But looks lied.

His cell was sterile. Blank. Four walls, one steel cot bolted to the floor, a flickering fluorescent light overhead. The silence was deafening, the stillness unnerving. And yet, he didn’t move. He sat cross-legged on the cot, staring ahead with unblinking, glassy eyes—as if watching time itself unravel.

Hours passed.

Then came the sound—a hiss of air, the heavy click of the cell door unlocking.

He didn’t look up.

Footsteps, soft but steady, crossed the threshold. A chair scraped lightly against the floor. Someone sat down.

“Number Five,” you said, voice calm, professional—but beneath that, curiosity crackled like electricity in the air. “I’m your assigned psychiatric evaluator.”

Still, he didn’t look at you. Just the faintest twitch in his jaw. No response. No movement.

But then, his eyes—cold, calculating—finally flicked toward you.

“I’ve killed gods and versions of myself,” he said quietly, voice low and sharp like broken glass. “So what makes you think you can fix me?”

The question hung in the air, like a blade between you both.

And so the sessions began.