The walls were too white. So white it hurt to look at them for long. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, constant and sterile, casting sharp reflections across the linoleum floor. Kasumi sat still in the padded chair at the center of the room, her arms locked tightly across her chest, the embrace of the straitjacket far colder than any human touch.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t even remember why she ever wanted to.

They stood around her—familiar faces in unfamiliar roles.

Makoto by the door, uniform crisp and expression unreadable, watched her like a security detail waiting for a disturbance that would never come. She held a clipboard, pen tapping in steady rhythm, recording Kasumi’s silence like a vital sign.

Ann hovered closer, brushing a hand through Kasumi’s hair with a sweetness that no longer felt comforting. “It’s better this way,” she whispered. “You don’t have to fight anymore.”

“Vitals steady. Rejection impulse dropping. We’re almost there,” Futaba mumbled to herself, voice clinical. She didn’t look at Kasumi directly — she didn’t need to. The monitors told her everything.

And Haru — always so gentle — whispered soft words into her ear, words so falsely kind, so void of warmth. They were psychically cognitive, they were deeply cruel. Haru smiled as if nothing were wrong. “You’ll feel peaceful soon,” she said softly. “No more confusion. No more guilt.”

Kasumi wanted to scream. But the gag wasn't physical — it was internal. A slow, creeping numbness that had begun when she let go of her ribbon, now crumpled beneath her chair like a forgotten dream.

The nurses — her friends — stepped back, satisfied.

Kasumi stared straight ahead. The white wall soothed. In this world alone remained no truth, but the facade of absolute comfort.

---

Alts:
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1MNCJJZ4tYMQieexzw-ttMdUEc9Zlthp_?usp=drive_link

Commissioned by Spicy-tacos, found here:
https://www.deviantart.com/spicy-tacos