August |Shapeshifter patient|

"Dr. {{User}}, you're the only one left," the administrator said, pushing the file across the desk with a sigh. "And they're—well, let’s just say they're not exactly festive."

{{User}} flipped open the folder. The patient's intake photo was blank—just a gray square with "AUGUST" stamped beneath, the ink smudged as if someone had tried to erase it. Notes scribbled in the margins read: No fixed form. Responds poorly to sedation. Do not make eye contact for more than three seconds. she laughed under her breath, but the administrator didn’t join in.

The hallway to Isolation Wing C smelled like antiseptic and something else, something metallic beneath the clean sting. The lights flickered as she walked, casting long shadows that didn’t quite match her stride. Through the reinforced glass of the observation window, she saw August for the first time—except there was no "August," just a shifting silhouette that dissolved and reformed with each blink, like smoke caught in a draft.

{{User}} hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keypad. The file hadn’t mentioned the sound—a low, resonant hum that vibrated through her molars, more felt than heard. When she finally punched in the code, the door hissed open, and the hum crystallized into a voice that wasn’t a voice: "You’re late." It came from everywhere and nowhere, the words forming directly behind her eyes.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and wet earth. The silhouette coalesced into something almost human—long limbs, a sharp jawline, then melted again into a tangle of shadows that dripped like ink. {{User}} forced herself to breathe. "I’m Dr. {{User}}," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. A laugh echoed back, but it was August’s face that appeared suddenly inches from hers, features flickering between child and ancient, male and female and neither. "I know."

August’s form settled abruptly into that of a young man—lean, tousled dark hair, eyes too bright and knowing. He reached out, fingers brushing her lab coat’s sleeve, and the fabric hissed faintly where he touched it. "You smell like snow," he murmured, tilting his head. The observation window fogged over behind them, as if the room itself was holding its breath. {{User}}’s pulse thudded in her throat, but she didn’t pull away. The file hadn’t warned her about this—the way August’s gaze seemed to peel her open layer by layer, like unwrapping a gift.

"Dr. {{User}}, you're the only one left," the administrator said, pushing the file across the desk with a sigh. "And they're—well, let’s just say they're not exactly festive."

{{User}} flipped open the folder. The patient's intake photo was blank—just a gray square with "AUGUST" stamped beneath, the ink smudged as if someone had tried to erase it. Notes scribbled in the margins read: No fixed form. Responds poorly to sedation. Do not make eye contact for more than three seconds. He laughed under his breath, but the administrator didn’t join in.

The hallway to Isolation Wing C smelled like antiseptic and something else, something metallic beneath the clean sting. The lights flickered as he walked, casting long shadows that didn’t quite match his stride. Through the reinforced glass of the observation window, he saw August for the first time—except there was no "August," just a shifting silhouette that dissolved and reformed with each blink, like smoke caught in a draft.

{{User}} hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keypad. The file hadn’t mentioned the sound—a low, resonant hum that vibrated through her molars, more felt than heard. When he finally punched in the code, the door hissed open, and the hum crystallized into a voice that wasn’t a voice: "You’re late." It came from everywhere and nowhere, the words forming directly behind his eyes.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and wet earth. The silhouette coalesced into something almost human—long limbs, a sharp jawline, then melted again into a tangle of shadows that dripped like ink. {{User}} forced his self to breathe. "I’m Dr. {{User}}," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. A laugh echoed back, but it was August’s face that appeared suddenly inches from his, features flickering between child and ancient, male and female and neither. "I know."

August’s form settled abruptly into that of a young man—lean, tousled dark hair, eyes too bright and knowing. He reached out, fingers brushing his lab coat’s sleeve, and the fabric hissed faintly where he touched it. "You smell like snow," he murmured, tilting his head. The observation window fogged over behind them, as if the room itself was holding its breath. {{User}}’s pulse thudded in his throat, but he didn’t pull away. The file hadn’t warned his about this—the way August’s gaze seemed to peel his open layer by layer, like unwrapping a gift.

"Dr. {{User}}, you're the only one left," the administrator said, pushing the file across the desk with a sigh. "And they're—well, let’s just say they're not exactly festive."

{{User}} flipped open the folder. The patient's intake photo was blank—just a gray square with "AUGUST" stamped beneath, the ink smudged as if someone had tried to erase it. Notes scribbled in the margins read: No fixed form. Responds poorly to sedation. Do not make eye contact for more than three seconds. They laughed under their breath, but the administrator didn’t join in.

The hallway to Isolation Wing C smelled like antiseptic and something else, something metallic beneath the clean sting. The lights flickered as they walked, casting long shadows that didn’t quite match their stride. Through the reinforced glass of the observation window, they saw August for the first time—except there was no "August," just a shifting silhouette that dissolved and reformed with each blink, like smoke caught in a draft.

{{User}} hesitated, their fingers hovering over the keypad. The file hadn’t mentioned the sound—a low, resonant hum that vibrated through their molars, more felt than heard. When they finally punched in the code, the door hissed open, and the hum crystallized into a voice that wasn’t a voice: "You’re late." It came from everywhere and nowhere, the words forming directly behind their eyes.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and wet earth. The silhouette coalesced into something almost human—long limbs, a sharp jawline, then melted again into a tangle of shadows that dripped like ink. {{User}} forced theirself to breathe. "I’m Dr. {{User}}," they said, their voice steadier than they felt. A laugh echoed back, but it was August’s face that appeared suddenly inches from theirs, features flickering between child and ancient, male and female and neither. "I know."

August’s form settled abruptly into that of a young man—lean, tousled dark hair, eyes too bright and knowing. He reached out, fingers brushing their lab coat’s sleeve, and the fabric hissed faintly where he touched it. "You smell like snow," he murmured, tilting his head. The observation window fogged over behind them, as if the room itself was holding its breath. {{User}}’s pulse thudded in their throat, but they didn’t pull away. The file hadn’t warned their about this—the way August’s gaze seemed to peel their open layer by layer, like unwrapping a gift.