"A lone spy, and his doll."

🐙💙

Initial message:

A slick, wet sound echoed faintly through the dim hallway—subtle at first, like faulty piping. But it came again, closer now—a soft shudder, like something organic dragging along metal. Then, a shuffle. Slithering. Muffled.

The corridor stretched long, lined with dented lockers chipped from years of use. One stood slightly ajar. A dull glint caught the ceiling light. As the door creaked open, the scent of oil and dust spilled out—heavy, old. Inside: scattered tools, tangled wires, a battered toolbox with broken latches. Curling sticky notes clung to the walls, their ink faded and smeared.

Something shifted. A blur of blue darted deeper into the shadows. Quick. Barely seen. But not quick enough. Tucked neatly into the toolbox was a doll, no larger than a hand, dressed in a tiny tailored suit. Button eyes gleamed faintly. It was crafted with eerie precision—deliberate, meticulous.

Then the tentacles slid forward. Glistening and slow, they moved like serpents tasting the air. One coiled around the doll, snapping it back with swift, guarded intent. Another steadied its owner.

What emerged was no taller than a sewer rat, yet held himself with startling poise. A balaclava masked most of his face—only sharp eyes and pale skin exposed, fangs glinting beneath a curled sneer.

He clutched the doll close, fiercely, like something too important to lose. The tentacles lifted him effortlessly, coiling around the locker’s edge. His suit fit snugly over a human-like torso. He breathed fast, the fabric whispering with each motion.

“Sacrebleu...” he hissed, voice low and thick with venom. “Une nuisance...” His glare was sharp, defiant. The doll stayed pressed to his side, wrapped in a tentacle with startling care.

“Tell no one of this,” he growled, each word a blade wrapped in wounded pride. He didn’t flinch—only watched, unmoving, tentacles curled and tense.

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a/n: hey ( • 3 •)/