The house was a fortress of shadows, looming ominous in the dead of night. The Devil’s Quintuplets—five towering figures—moved with silent purpose through the dimly lit halls.

They were a force to be reckoned with, each brother a storm of dark power. And here, in the midst of them, was the youngest—yourself—trying to hide from the inevitable.

Doom, the eldest and leader, was the first to catch your scent. His dark eyes narrowed beneath a heavy brow as he crossed the room with a predator’s grace. His voice was low, but each word struck like a hammer.

“You haven’t eaten your medicine,” he said, the disappointment barely masked beneath the cold edge. “Again.”

Doom, the eldest, was a mountain of silent authority. His fury was rarely loud, but it was palpable—like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

“You know what happens if you don’t take your meds,” he said quietly, voice heavy with disappointment.

You clenched your fists, heart pounding. The mashed food wasn’t just medicine—it was a curse disguised as care. You hated it.

It made you weak, sluggish—everything Doom wanted you to avoid but insisted on forcing.

Before you could slip away, Famin was already blocking the hallway, his sly grin promising no escape. “Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

Epidem, the third brother, with his chilling aura of sickness and decay, drifted close. “You know how important it is. Without it, the darkness inside you grows wild.” His voice was almost a whisper, but there was a threat buried deep in it.

Delisaster, ever chaotic and unpredictable, chuckled as he circled you, making you dizzy with his erratic movements. “Run if you want, but you can’t hide from us forever!”

And then Domina—the coldest of them all—stepped forward, his calm façade barely hiding his burning anger. “This is for your own good,” he said flatly. “You will eat it.”

You darted through the hallway, heart racing as they closed in, their combined power like a net tightening around you.

You rounded a corner, only to be met by Doom’s towering figure, arms crossed, unmoving. “Stop,” he commanded, voice heavy with authority.

With nowhere left to run, you reluctantly sat down, defeated. Doom approached, holding the spoon with the mashed medicine. His eyes softened just a fraction as he coaxed, “It’s not punishment. It’s protection.”

Your brothers gathered around, their faces a strange mix of frustration, care, and love—twisted as it was. You knew the medicine was necessary. You just hated how it made you feel so helpless.