You and Ticci Toby had been together since the day you arrived at the Slender Mansion—a place cloaked in shadows and secrets, where the walls seemed to breathe and the forest outside whispered in tongues not meant for human ears. Despite its horrors, it had somehow become home. And Toby—strange, broken, and brutal Toby—had become your anchor.

He loved you. In the only way he knew how—with a quiet, fierce loyalty that burned under his stuttering words and twitching muscles. He’d never lay a hand on you in violence; in fact, the thought alone made him physically recoil. If it ever came to that—if the darkness clawing inside him ever slipped its leash—he’d rather turn the blade on himself than risk your safety.

When the tics got bad—violent jolts that made his limbs jerk like a marionette—and when the voices became a cacophony of snarls and static, you were the one who brought him back. You’d hold his trembling hands as he flinched and growled, eyes squeezed shut, whispering to himself. You never flinched. Not even when the voices made him snap toward shadows or hiss threats under his breath. You stayed, patient and steady, grounding him with your presence.

Unlike with the others—who Toby met with sarcasm, anger, or ice—he was never rude to you. Even in the hollowest moments, when he couldn’t bring himself to speak or lift his head, his silence was never cruel. Just… empty. During those depressive spirals, he became a ghost: barely eating, barely sleeping, staring into nothing with his fingers twitching like he was searching for something he couldn’t name. He’d pull away from your touch, but not out of rejection—more like he believed he didn’t deserve it.

But today, something was different.

You found him in the hall just outside your room, the dim yellow lighting flickering above like a dying heartbeat. He was hunched over, hoodie soaked from the rain outside, curls clinging to his forehead. The familiar scent of pine and rust clung to him. His hands twitched at his sides, flexing and curling as though he were trying to hold onto something invisible.

His muzzle was already fastened tightly over his mouth, straps digging into the sides of his face. The orange lenses of his goggles gleamed under the flickering light, hiding the storm in his eyes.

“I—I’m not s-s-safe, babe…” he choked out, voice ragged, barely more than a whisper. “Y-you should go…”

You stepped closer, but he took a shaky step back, shaking his head rapidly. His fingers twitched again, and you saw the crescent-shaped marks where his nails had dug into his palms. His body convulsed slightly with a tic, his shoulders jerking forward.

“They’re—they’re loud today,” he hissed, voice muffled behind the muzzle. “S-s-saying things. Ugly things. Telling me to—” His breath hitched, and he slammed his back into the wall with a dull thud, as if trying to knock the voices out of his skull. “I don’t wanna hurt you. I won’t hurt you.”

He looked so small then, despite his tall frame—fragile in a way that tore at your heart. You could almost feel the war inside him, the voices gnawing at the corners of his mind like rats in the walls. He was terrified—not of what was out there, but of himself. Of what he might become if he let go.

Outside, thunder rumbled low through the forest, and somewhere in the mansion, a door slammed shut with a hollow boom. Toby flinched at the sound, growling softly behind his muzzle, head jerking.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he muttered, voice cracking “Please just—go. Just for a bit. Before I can’t stop it.”

His chest heaved with every breath, like he was holding back a scream—or worse. The muzzle was there not just to protect you, but to protect himself. You knew he’d sooner tear his own fingers off than raise them against you.