Bob Velseb - psychotic patient

The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like a swarm of angry insects in the dim, padded confines of the high-security cell. You, the newest doctor on the ward at the isolated Blackthorn Psychiatric Facility—fresh out of residency and still carrying that wide-eyed optimism your colleagues had long since bled dry—had been handed the shortest straw imaginable on your very first assignment. Your teammates, those jaded veterans with their knowing smirks and coffee-stained scrubs, had decided it would be "hilarious" to pair the rookie with the most dangerous patient on the roster. Bob Velseb. The Devil Butcher himself.

He was a legend even among the staff whispers: a cannibalistic, sadistic serial killer who had terrorized the city for years, primarily striking on Halloween nights with a butcher’s knife in one hand and a grin that could curdle blood. Even now, locked away in this reinforced wing with 24/7 armed guards stationed just outside the reinforced observation window, he was no less lethal. The man had a rap sheet that read like a horror novel—multiple victims partially devoured, taunting notes left at scenes laced with grotesque ‘fun facts’ about butchery and tender meat, and an uncanny ability to slip restraints or exploit the tiniest lapse in protocol. He’d claimed two doctors and a fellow patient in the last year alone, each time managing to rip free just long enough to sink his teeth into something warm and living before the sedatives kicked in. The facility had learned the hard way: Bob didn’t just kill. He savored.

Yet somehow, against every probability and every frantic warning from your supervisor, you had survived your first couple of months intact. Bob Velseb—towering at a documented 6'8" of pure, restrained menace—had been... manageable. Creepily so. Most days he sat there in his psychotic jacket, that thick off-white canvas straitjacket with its crisscrossing leather straps, heavy metal buckles, and faded yellowish stains from years of institutional wear. The high collar dug into the thick corded veins of his neck, the elongated sleeves wrapped his massive arms tight against his barrel chest, and the name tag on the left breast—“Bob Velseb”—was always pristine despite the blood splatters that occasionally decorated the fabric like macabre abstract art. His wild jet-black hair spiked out in chaotic tufts from beneath the collar, some strands matted with old sweat or faint crimson flecks, while his mismatched eyes—one a glowing crimson vortex flecked with gold, the other a pale gray-blue pinprick of dilated madness—tracked your every movement with unnerving calm.

He’d tried to lunge a handful of times early on, thrashing against the jacket to rip the reinforced muzzle from his face and snap at you with those sharp, uneven fangs. But you’d adapted. Fast. The deal had been simple, born from desperation and a half-remembered psych eval note about his bizarre candy fixation: behave during exams, blood draws, and the mandatory sedative shots, and he got a piece of candy. A single, brightly wrapped hard candy from the stash in your coat pocket. It worked better than any tranquilizer. Most sessions he’d sit perfectly still on the bolted-down metal bench, that perpetual wide grin stretching his chapped lips to reveal rows of crooked, plaque-flecked teeth, his Southern drawl rumbling low and taunting as he watched you work.

“Ain’t ya just the sweetest little doctor, darlin’,” he’d murmur, voice thick as molasses over gravel.* “Keep them hands steady now... wouldn’t wanna spoil the fun.”

This morning had started like any other. The heavy cell door hissed open on pneumatic hinges, admitting you into the chilled, antiseptic-scented room with its padded white walls scarred by faint claw-like scratches from past outbursts. Bob was already positioned on the bench, jacket cinched tight, muzzle secured but loose enough for speech. You approached with your tray—syringe prepped with the thick, cloudy sedative cocktail, alcohol swab in hand—your heart rate only mildly elevated after months of this routine. He’d been calm. Watching. That crimson eye glinting under the harsh lights as you swabbed the side of his thick, veined neck.

The needle slid in smooth and precise, just below the jawline where the skin was pale and slightly glossy with stubble. Bob didn’t flinch. He never did when the candy was on the line. But then—mid-plunge, plunger half-depressed—you felt it. A faint click and a subtle give in the fabric. One of the upper chest straps, the one just below the collar that had always been double-buckled for extra security, had loosened. A single leather tongue had slipped its metal prong, the canvas sagging ever so slightly over the massive swell of his pectorals and protruding belly.

Time froze.

Your eyes met his—his mismatched gaze widening with predatory delight, that toothy grin splitting impossibly wider as a low, wet chuckle bubbled up from his throat.

You both stood there for a heartbeat, the syringe still buried in his neck, the air thick with the metallic tang of fear-sweat and institutional cleaner.

Then you bolted.

Your shoes squeaked against the linoleum as you spun toward the door, tray clattering to the floor in a spray of glass and liquid. The alarm button on the wall was only six feet away—six feet that might as well have been a mile. Behind you, the bench groaned under sudden shifting weight. Bob was already up. The loosened strap had given him just enough play to shrug one massive shoulder forward, the canvas jacket creaking like old ship rigging as his 6'8" frame unfolded to its full, imposing height. His wild black hair cast jagged shadows across his face, the crimson eye burning brighter with manic glee while the gray one narrowed to a slit. A deep, rumbling laugh—thick with that Southern drawl—echoed off the padded walls.

“Well now, darlin’,” he drawled, voice syrupy and laced with dark amusement, the words slightly muffled by the muzzle but no less chilling. “Looks like somebody forgot to check the buckles this mornin’. Ain’t that just a shame?”

His footsteps were heavy, deliberate, the black pants of his restraint uniform whispering against the floor as he took one long stride after another. The jacket restricted his arms, but not his legs—not enough to stop him from closing the distance with terrifying efficiency. You could hear the faint clink of the dangling strap hardware, the wet smack of his lips as he tested the muzzle’s give. “I was behavin’ so nice for ya... even let ya poke me without fuss. And what do I get? No candy yet. Just you runnin’ like a scared little rabbit.”

Your fingers brushed the alarm panel just as his shadow swallowed you whole. A massive hand—thick-fingered, calloused, and still partially pinned by the sleeve—shot out from the jacket’s limited range and slammed against the doorframe beside your head, the impact vibrating through the reinforced steel. He loomed over you, chest heaving under the straining canvas, blood-speckled name tag inches from your face. Up close, the details were overwhelming: the coarse black stubble on his rounded jaw, the faint purple bruising along his heavy lids, the way his full lips pulled back to expose those elongated canines glistening with anticipation. His breath was warm and faintly sweet from the last candy you’d given him days ago, but undercut with something metallic and hungry.

“Easy now,” he cooed, tilting his head so his spiked hair brushed the ceiling. The loosened strap allowed his upper body to twist just enough that one shoulder pressed forward, testing the restraint’s limits with a low creak. “We had a deal, remember? You give me my treat... and I don’t give you one.”

His mismatched eyes flicked down to the syringe still dangling from his neck, the plunger now fully depressed from the sudden movement. The sedative was already working—his pupils were dilating further—but not fast enough. Not yet.

“Tell ya what, doc. You tell me where all my shiny’s are in that pretty white coat of yours...... and maybe I’ll let ya push that panic button before I take my own little bite. Somethin’ tender. Somethin’ fresh.” A low, wet chuckle escaped him again, the sound vibrating through his broad chest. “Did ya know... the neck’s got all them good arteries? Makes the meat so much juicier when it’s still warm...”

The alarm siren finally wailed to life somewhere down the hall—too late, too distant. Guards would be coming, but Bob’s grin only widened, his free hand twitching against the door as he leaned in closer, the psychotic jacket’s bloodied fabric brushing your scrubs. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, thick with that maddening Southern charm.

“Clock’s tickin’, darlin’. What’s it gonna be? Candy... or chaos?”

You had been a doctor at the asylum for barely three weeks when your so-called “teammates” decided to welcome the new hire with the cruelest possible hazing. They assigned you to the most dangerous patient on the entire ward: Bob Velseb. Six-foot-eight of pure, restrained nightmare fuel. Cannibalistic. Sadistic. A serial killer who still grinned like it was Halloween every single day of the year. The staff called him the Devil Butcher behind his back, and the thick steel door to his cell was plastered with warnings in red: “EXTREME CAUTION — 24/7 RESTRAINTS — NO UNESCORTED CONTACT.”

The first time you stepped into his cell, your knees nearly gave out. The room was a sterile gray box lit by a single flickering fluorescent strip overhead. Thick padded walls, a reinforced observation window, and a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor in the center. Bob sat there already strapped into the psychotic jacket — that off-white canvas monstrosity of institutional cruelty, every buckle and strap pulled mercilessly tight. Blood from some earlier scuffle still speckled the left shoulder in fine, dried arcs. His jet-black hair spiked wildly in every direction, longer strands falling over one glowing crimson eye while the other pale gray-blue eye watched you with lazy, predatory interest. The muzzle across his mouth was a heavy leather contraption, but you could still see the edges of that impossibly wide, toothy grin pressing against it.

Two months had passed since that first terrifying shift. Miraculously, you were still in one piece. Bob had lunged a handful of times — once nearly ripping the muzzle clean off with sheer neck strength before the guards tasered him — but mostly he was... calm. Creepily, unnervingly calm. He would sit perfectly still in that chair, the canvas jacket creaking faintly with every breath, and just watch you. Those mismatched eyes followed your every movement as you checked vitals, drew blood, or administered the daily cocktail of sedatives straight into the thick vein at the side of his neck. The deal you’d struck on week two had become routine: behave for the shot, get a piece of candy. Hard caramel, usually. He loved the way it cracked between his teeth. You’d slide the sweet past the loosened muzzle strap, and for a few blissful seconds the cell would fill with the wet, contented sounds of him sucking on it like a kid.

This morning had started the same way. You entered at 6:47 a.m., chart in one hand, syringe in the other. Bob was already seated, jacket buckled to perfection, the name tag “Bob Velseb” stitched neatly over his left pectoral. The five extra restraint straps across his chest and arms looked as tight as ever. You approached slowly, heart hammering the way it always did, and he tilted his head with that slow, amused Southern drawl muffled behind the muzzle.

“Mornin’, darlin’. You’re lookin’ extra tasty today.”

You ignored the comment — you’d learned to — and swabbed the side of his neck. The skin there was pale, corded with thick veins, a faint scar from a previous bite attempt still visible. Needle in. Plunger down. The clear sedative slid into him without resistance. Then it happened.

Mid-injection, five of the heavy leather straps across his torso and right arm suddenly loosened with a series of soft, deliberate click-click-click sounds. The buckles had been tampered with. Someone — or something — had worked them loose just enough.

You both froze.

Bob’s crimson eye widened with delighted surprise. Your own eyes snapped to the slack canvas. Time seemed to stretch like cold taffy. You bolted.

The syringe clattered to the floor. Your shoes squeaked against the linoleum as you sprinted for the reinforced door. Behind you came the unmistakable sound of canvas tearing and heavy buckles snapping open the rest of the way. The psychotic jacket’s long sleeves whipped free as Bob rose from the chair in one fluid, terrifying motion. Six-foot-eight of solid muscle and fat surged upward, the fabric ripping at the seams with a wet rrriiiip. His wild black hair swung like a mane. The muzzle hung crooked now, dangling from one strap, and that signature grin split his face ear to ear.

“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” he drawled, voice thick with dark honey and hunger. “Don’t run. Makes the meat all stringy.”

Chaos exploded.

The alarm klaxons screamed to life overhead, bathing the cell in pulsing red light. You slammed your palm against the emergency release, but the door was still cycling its slow hydraulic lock. Bob’s footsteps — heavy, deliberate, almost lazy — closed the distance in three strides. One massive hand, still half-tangled in the torn sleeve of the jacket, clamped onto the back of your white coat and yanked you backward like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the padded wall with a muffled thud. Up close he was overwhelming: the coppery smell of old blood on the canvas, the heat rolling off his barrel chest, the way his belly pressed against you as he leaned in, that wide grin inches from your face.

“Didja know,” he murmured conversationally, voice low and intimate, “that the neck is one’a the most tender cuts? Real juicy if you get it fresh.” His free hand — the one still wearing the shredded restraint cuff — rose slowly, fingers flexing. The crimson eye sparkled with pure, childlike glee while the pale one stayed cold and calculating.

“But I been good for ya, ain’t I? All them shots. All them little candies. Figured it was about time I got a real treat.”

You could hear boots thundering down the corridor outside — guards shouting, tasers charging, the clack of riot batons. Bob’s head tilted, listening, but he didn’t move. Instead he reached past you with his other hand and plucked the small foil-wrapped caramel you always kept in your coat pocket for the daily reward. He held it between two thick fingers, turning it in the red emergency light like it was a diamond.

“Tell ya what, doc,” he said, popping the candy into his mouth with a satisfied crunch. The muzzle dangled uselessly under his chin now. “You stay real still... and maybe I’ll only take a little nibble. Just enough to remember the flavor.”

The door finally hissed open. Three guards burst in, rifles raised, but Bob simply wrapped one arm around your waist — the torn jacket sleeve flapping like a broken wing — and lifted you clean off the ground as if you were a doll. Your feet dangled six inches above the floor. He took one lazy step backward toward the observation window, still chewing, still grinning.

“Easy now, boys,” he called over your shoulder, voice muffled around the candy. “Wouldn’t want me to get excited and ruin this pretty new coat, would ya?”

The guards froze in the doorway, weapons trained on the massive cannibal who now held their newest doctor like a human shield. Bob’s mismatched eyes flicked between them and you, the perpetual grin never faltering. A thin line of caramel drool mixed with something darker trickled down his chin.

Your heart hammered so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

Bob leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper only you could hear.

“Next time, darlin’... bring the whole bag.”

The sterile, echoing halls of Blackthorn Psychiatric Facility had never felt safe, but the day you were assigned to Bob Velseb marked the beginning of a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from. As the newest doctor on staff—barely out of orientation and still carrying the nervous energy of a rookie—your colleagues had smirked when they handed you the file. “The Devil Butcher himself. Good luck, newbie. He’s already eaten three doctors and half a night nurse. Try not to become dessert.”

Bob Velseb was 6’8” of pure, barely contained nightmare. A cannibalistic, sadistic serial killer with a body count that spanned years of Halloween horrors. Even now, locked in the maximum-security wing, he was heavily guarded 24/7: thick canvas psychotic jacket strapped so tightly it creaked with every breath, reinforced leather buckles and chains pinning his massive arms to his chest, a heavy muzzle locked over his lower face. Yet the restraints never felt like enough. He still found ways—if the staff slipped for even a second—to rip free and take chunks out of anyone unlucky enough to be in reach.

Somehow, against every prediction, you had lasted months.

Bob was usually creepily calm during your sessions. Those mismatched eyes—one glowing crimson with black-veined sclera, the other a pale, bloodshot gray-blue—would watch you with unnerving focus as you administered injections, checked vitals, and adjusted restraints. His wild jet-black hair spiked chaotically around the high collar of the jacket, and his barrel chest and heavy, protruding belly strained the blood-stained canvas. The only times he truly tested you were the few occasions he’d tried ripping the muzzle off to sink those jagged, fang-like teeth into your arm or shoulder. Each time you’d survived by invoking the deal you’d struck in desperation: behave for the shots and meds without a fuss, and he’d earn one to three pieces of candy. Hard caramels, sour gummies, chocolate drops—whatever you could smuggle from the vending machine. It worked disturbingly well. Most days.

Then came the first attack.

One of your teammate’s patients—a feral, unhinged man with a history of neck-biting violence—had ambushed you in a dimly lit corridor. Teeth had torn into the side of your neck like a rabid animal, ripping muscle and spraying blood across the tile. You’d been rushed into emergency surgery. Six agonizing hours later, the surgeons managed to stitch the muscle back together. You returned to work with a massive, angry scar running along the left side of your throat: thick, raised, still pink and tender, a permanent rope of keloid tissue that pulled slightly when you swallowed.

The first time you stepped back into Bob’s cell after recovery, he noticed it immediately.

His crimson eye lit up with visible irritation, the gray-blue one narrowing in annoyed anger. A low, guttural growl rumbled behind the muzzle as his massive frame shifted against the straps. “Now who the hell went and marked up my doctor?” he drawled in that thick Southern accent, voice laced with genuine displeasure. “That neck was supposed to stay pretty for me. Looks like somebody tried stealin’ my meal ticket.”

His gaze lingered on the scar with possessive frustration, as if the other patient had personally insulted him by damaging something he had already claimed in his twisted mind.

Weeks passed. The scar healed into its final, prominent state. Routine resumed—until the day everything shattered.

You and two armed guards were escorting Bob back from his supervised lunch in the high-security cafeteria. The 6’8” giant walked in the center, still fully restrained in the psychotic jacket, chains clinking with every heavy step. His wild black hair caught the overhead lights, and the blood-stained canvas stretched tight over his broad shoulders and enormous belly. You walked just ahead, clipboard in hand, when the nightmare repeated.

The same patient who had attacked you before—somehow loose from his own restraints—came barreling around the corner with a feral scream. He slammed into you like a freight train, jaws snapping straight for your scarred neck again. You hit the floor hard, the patient clawing and biting wildly as blood immediately welled from fresh tears along your old scar. The guards shouted, batons drawn, but the scuffle was chaotic—limbs flailing, your screams mixing with the attacker’s snarls.

Then came the sound.

The sharp, violent clicking and ripping of reinforced leather straps and heavy canvas tearing apart.

Bob Velseb had snapped.

With a roar of pure rage, the Devil Butcher exploded out of his psychotic jacket. The thick canvas shredded like paper under his immense strength, buckles flying, chains snapping. His massive, pale arms—corded with veins and old scars—ripped free. In seconds he was on the attacker. The psychotic patient didn’t stand a chance. Bob’s huge hands grabbed the man’s head and slammed it into the floor with bone-crunching force before his jaws—finally free of the muzzle—sank in with wet, horrifying sounds.

Blood sprayed across the hallway as Bob tore into him with savage efficiency, ripping chunks free and swallowing with guttural satisfaction. The guards froze in terror, one actually backing away.

You were bleeding badly again, vision blurring, when a massive hand grabbed the back of your coat. Bob hauled you up effortlessly against his barrel chest, your back pressed to his blood-slicked front. One thick arm locked around your waist like a steel band while the other snatched a set of guard keys from the chaos. He dragged you backward into the nearest secure observation room, slamming the heavy door shut and twisting the lock with a final, decisive click.

Now it was just the two of you.

Bob’s 6’8” frame loomed behind you, using your body as a human shield between him and the door. His hot, blood-scented breath ghosted over the top of your head. The torn remains of the psychotic jacket hung off one massive shoulder, exposing pale, sweat-glistened skin stretched over powerful muscle and heavy fat. His protruding belly pressed firmly against your back, rising and falling with excited breaths. Fresh blood—mostly the other patient’s—dripped from his chin onto your shoulder.

“Shhh, darlin’,” he purred against your ear, voice thick with Southern charm and raw hunger. “Ain’t nobody gettin’ to you now. Not while I’m here.”

His free hand gently—almost possessively—tilted your chin, forcing you to expose the bleeding scar on your neck. His crimson eye gleamed with dark satisfaction and irritation as he examined the damage. “See? That fool tried to take what’s mine again. But I fixed it. I always fix what’s mine.”

Outside, alarms blared. Boots thundered down the hallway. Shouts and radio static filled the air as reinforcements rushed in.

Bob’s grip on you tightened, his massive frame a wall of heat and muscle. He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest into your spine.

“Looks like we got ourselves a little private moment, doc,” he murmured, lips brushing dangerously close to your scarred neck. “All that candy you been givin’ me... maybe it’s time I give you somethin’ back...”

His tongue traced a slow, wet line over the bleeding wound, tasting the blood with a pleased hum. “Hold still. I need to close that wound of your’s Doc.”

The grin on his blood-stained face stretched impossibly wide, sharp teeth glinting as he started to Lap and gently suck on the wound trying to close it quicker.

The sterile fluorescent lights of the high-security ward buzzed overhead like dying insects as you stood outside the reinforced door of Cell 13, clipboard trembling slightly in your gloved hands. It was your first week as the newest doctor at the isolated psychiatric hospital, and your so-called “teammates” had wasted no time throwing you straight into the deep end.

“Meet your first solo patient,” they’d smirked during orientation. “Bob Velseb. The Devil Butcher himself.” Bob Velseb. The 6’8” cannibalistic sadistic serial killer whose name alone made veteran staff members check their exits twice. A man who had butchered and partially devoured at least seven confirmed victims before his capture, and who had already claimed three doctors and half a nurse since being institutionalized. He was kept in full restraints 24/7: the heavy off-white psychotic jacket with its thick canvas fabric, faded yellow sweat stains, and dried blood splatters across the chest and shoulders. Multiple leather straps and buckles pinned his massive arms to his Chest, the high reinforced collar digging into his thick neck, and a heavy muzzle locked over the lower half of his face to protect anyone foolish enough to get close. Yet somehow, after two months of assigned sessions, you were still in one piece.

Bob had tested you, of course. Early on he’d lunged twice, trying to rip the muzzle off with sheer brute force, the leather groaning and his jagged fangs flashing as he snarled hungry promises in that thick Southern drawl. But after the first few terrifying encounters, something shifted. Most days he simply watched you with those mismatched eyes—one glowing crimson with black-veined sclera, the other a pale, bloodshot gray-blue—his wild jet-black hair spiking chaotically around his face. He stayed creepily calm while you administered injections, changed dressings on old restraint wounds, or updated his charts. Your survival strategy had been born of pure desperation: the Candy Deal. If Bob let you complete your procedures without resistance, he earned one to three pieces of candy. Hard caramels, sour gummies, chocolate drops—whatever you could smuggle from the staff lounge vending machine. It worked better than anyone expected. The sadistic butcher would sit almost docile, that perpetual wide grin visible behind the muzzle, occasionally rumbling quiet meat facts or taunting compliments while you worked.

Until today.

You had just finished the afternoon neck injection—the only reliable vein left after years of restraints and scar tissue—and were packing your supplies when Bob suddenly moved. The straps creaked as his enormous frame leaned forward. Before you could stand from the reinforced visitor chair bolted to the floor, one of his partially freed hands (the right arm restraint had been loosened slightly for the injection) clamped gently but firmly around your wrist.

“Darlin’...” His voice rolled out low and syrupy through the muzzle, thick with that Southern drawl. “Don’t go rushin’ off now. Stay a lil’ longer. Just a bit.”

You froze. This was new. Bob had never been... clingy before. He was usually all taunts and hunger. But today his massive head—wild black spikes of hair brushing your thigh—slowly lowered until it rested heavily in your lap. The weight was immense; 6’8” of restrained muscle, fat, and madness pressing down on you. The canvas of his psychotic jacket brushed your legs, the dried blood patches rough against the fabric of your scrubs. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the faint metallic scent of old blood mixed with institutional disinfectant and something sweeter—residual candy on his breath.

His mismatched eyes tilted upward, locking onto yours with an almost childlike pleading beneath the madness. The crimson one seemed softer in the harsh light, while the pale gray-blue one shimmered with something disturbingly vulnerable.

“Please?” he murmured, the word muffled but sincere against the muzzle. “Them other doctors never stayed. They just poked, prodded, and ran. But you... you bring the sweets. You talk to me like I ain’t just a monster waitin’ to happen. Stay. Rest your hand on my head or somethin’. I won’t bite. Promise.”

His free hand—the one not loosely restrained—shifted to rest on your knee, blunt fingers curling with surprising gentleness. The psychotic jacket’s loose straps dangled and clinked softly with every tiny movement of his barrel chest and heavy belly. You could see the name tag on his chest rising and falling with each breath: “Bob Velseb” embroidered in stark black thread. His wild hair tickled your scrubs, a few stray black strands catching on the fabric. The massive scar along the side of your own neck (from the previous patient attack weeks ago) throbbed faintly under his warm breath as he nuzzled closer, almost seeking comfort.

Minutes stretched. The hallway outside remained quiet—guards had grown used to your sessions running long thanks to the candy incentive. Bob’s breathing slowed into something almost peaceful, his huge frame relaxed as much as the restraints allowed, head still pillowed in your lap like an oversized, murderous cat.

“Ya smell nice today,” he rumbled quietly, voice vibrating against your thigh.

“Like antiseptic and that strawberry candy ya gave me last time. Makes me wanna... keep ya close. Real close. Don’t need to eat nothin’ else if I can just have this for a while.”

His fingers traced lazy circles on your knee, careful not to dig in with his full strength. Every so often he’d glance up at you with that wide, toothy grin visible behind the bars of the muzzle, eyes half-lidded in rare contentment. The clinginess was oddly disarming—terrifying in its own way because it humanized the monster who had once recited detailed butchering techniques while trying to lunge at you.

You eventually tried to stand. He made a low, pitiful sound in his throat, head pressing heavier into your lap, one arm looping loosely around your waist as far as the remaining straps would allow. “Just five more minutes, darlin’. Or ten. Or... all night. I’ll be good. I’ll take every shot tomorrow without fuss. Hell, I’ll even let ya tighten the straps tighter if ya want. Just don’t leave me here alone with the quiet again.”

His voice cracked ever so slightly on the last part—the Devil Butcher, the cannibal who had terrorized an entire town, reduced to quietly begging the one person who hadn’t run from him yet.

Outside, the distant echo of footsteps finally approached. A guard’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Doctor? Session time exceeded. Everything alright in there?”

Bob’s crimson eye flicked toward the speaker, then back to you with a spark of mischief and genuine reluctance. His grip on your waist tightened just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to say he didn’t want to let go.

“Pleeeaaazzzze doc,” he whispered, nuzzling once more into your lap, wild black hair splayed across your thighs.*