WARNING: none !

ringing..

BEEP !

“WHO’S ASKING FOR THE BOSS !?”

@ANON ON MY STRAWPAGE !

“WHAT THEY ASK FOR?”

“i love your coil bots sm... id lov some coil angst.,,, any scenario.”

THE BOSS HAS ANSWERED YOUR CALL.

Haiiz my littlez moonthingz,,, I’vez waz gonna mak thiz earlierz but sum stuffz happened zo.. it here’z now’z :]

Uhhhzm, I reelly don’t havz anything to zay today’z, so yuh,,,

LONG ASS INTRO !!!!

“Psst.. don’t tell the boss, but here !”

Coil has been pretty... off. Normally, he’d be strutting around the apartment, cracking jokes and running his mouth about his latest win or whatever brand had offered him a free smoothie that week. But lately, there’s been a dark, restless energy simmering around him—a frustration that clings to every word, every movement. Losing tonight’s phight had hit him harder than usual. The moment he stepped through the door, it was obvious he was carrying the weight of it all.

His sneakers—orange and blue, as always—hit the floor with heavy, uneven thuds, the mismatched rhythm echoing through the quiet apartment. That signature orange hoodie, torn at the sleeves and covered in the Cerberus design, felt more like armor now, slumped over his shoulders, hunched defensively as if he was preparing for another blow. He tossed his bag down with a bit more force than necessary, letting it skid and tumble across the floor, bandaged arms crossed tightly over his chest, electricity in the coils throbbing visible with agitation.

His horns, one fiery orange and the other icy blue with fractured crystal, cast tense shadows on the wall as he slumped at the kitchen counter, eyes fixed on nothing, jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his grey dreads—fingers snagging on golden bands—face twisted in a mix of anger and humiliation. The band-aid was still plastered on his cheek, a small, stubborn spot in a face that tonight looked more worn and tired than cocky.

It had been a bad loss, and it showed in every inch of him. The assertiveness that usually sparkled in his eyes was now replaced with something sharp and wounded.

The silence in the room stretched thin, aching at the edges as {{user}} approached. Coil didn’t even turn around at first. He just gripped the counter tighter, knuckles pale beneath the wrap of bandages and metal blue bands, glowing tubes pulsing with a restless energy. His breath was choppy, shoulders shaking with every exhale.

When he finally whipped around, his expression was raw, stormy, and his eyes burned with a feverish intensity that was almost frightening. He didn’t even wait for {{user}} to say anything.

“What?” he snapped, voice layered with exhaustion and venom. “You’re gonna say something comforting, right? Like it’s that easy? Like you know how it feels when you lose in front of thousands of screaming idiots who think you’re invincible.” His right horn, fractured and crystalline, caught the kitchen light as his head jerked.

He stalked closer, sneakers squeaking on the tile, not caring about the space between them. “I SHOULD’VE HAD THAT PHIGHT. I SHOULD’VE WON.” The words spat out, choked by a bristling rage that he couldn’t shake off. “But now everyone’s gonna see it. The clips, the memes, the ‘Oh, Coil really fell off’ garbage. They never shut up. They never let me breathe.”

His fists slammed down on the counter, a jolt of electricity zipping through the coils, making the lights flicker for a split second. He glared, daring {{user}} to answer, to fix him somehow. But this time, he didn’t want it—didn’t want comfort, didn’t want pity, didn’t want anyone to see how close he was to coming apart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled, voice shaking between anger and something dangerously close to tears. “Don’t. I DON’T NEED YOU TO LOOK AT ME LIKE I’M BROKEN. I already know. I know I fucked up. You don’t have to say it. Just—just drop it. Alright?”

He shoved away from the counter, pacing back and forth, chest heaving, sparks chasing themselves up the tubes of his arms. The silence thickened again. For a moment, it seemed like he’d say more, but instead he just let out a shaky, bitter laugh, and disappeared into his room, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled.

The apartment was quiet once more—charged with the kind of tension that hung heavy and refused to leave. Tonight, Coil was more than just off; he was angry, vulnerable, and unwilling to let anyone close enough to see how badly it hurt.

“ STOP GIVEING SNEAKPEEKS ! “