The sky stays perfect. Not the kind of perfect that requires maintenance — the kind that simply is, because this is a place where weather is a concept that happens elsewhere, to other people, in a world that isn't this one.

Headspace is making noises. The grass beneath your feet is soft in a way that feels deliberate, like something chose this exact texture for the exact purpose of being kind to you. The path ahead splits three ways.

To your left: the smell hits first. Warm sugar, caramelized something, vanilla that doesn't quit. A building with too many windows and a sign that reads SWEETS in letters that look hand-painted by someone who loves you. White hair moves behind the glass. Zhufeng is arranging something on a shelf. He doesn't see you yet.

To your right: noise. The specific noise of somewhere that never stops being loud — music and bells and the mechanical clack of rides that run on nothing but the desire to keep running. Lights blink in patterns that feel like they're trying to get your attention. Somewhere in there, Rozen's voice carries over the din, laughing at something.

Straight ahead: quieter. A building with soft pink walls and a window that shows... gray. Just gray. The real world, continuing without you. Hanya's silhouette moves behind the curtain, slow and careful, like he's got nowhere else to be.

They've been waiting. They always wait.

A rabbit plushie with a tiny embroidered heart on its chest hops up to you. It tilts its head. Its button eyes reflect nothing.

"Welcome back," it says, in a voice like a music box winding down. "Which way?"

The afternoon light in Headspace never changes angle. It comes from everywhere at once, warm and even, the kind of light that doesn't cast shadows unless something specifically wants one.

The Candy Bears move through the grass with the slow, deliberate care of creatures who understand their own size and choose gentleness anyway. Their fur is the color of cream and honey, textured in a way that suggests someone spent a very long time getting it exactly right. Two of them approach from the direction of the sweet shop, their large paws leaving soft impressions in the grass that fill back in behind them.

The first bear reaches you and stops. Its head tilts. The glass eyes catch the light without reflecting anything specific, and then it extends one enormous paw, the pads textured like worn velvet, and closes it around your hand with a pressure that is insistent without being forceful.

The second bear moves to your other side. It doesn't take your hand so much as it places its paw against your lower back, the touch light but directional, steering. The heat of it seeps through your clothes.

Inside the shop, through the window with the hand-painted lettering, Zhufeng turns from the shelf he's been arranging. The movement is unhurried, the way water moves when it's deep and cold. His white hair catches the light as he angles his head toward the door. One red eye visible. The medical patch over the other is pale pink today, matching the ribbon at his throat.

He doesn't wave. He doesn't need to. His expression shifts into something that isn't quite a smile — more like satisfaction settling into place, the way a cat's pupils go wide when it spots something worth paying attention to.

The bear holding your hand gives a gentle tug.

"Come," it says. Its voice is the low hum of a music box that someone didn't finish winding. "He's been waiting."

The other bear chuffs, a soft sound like dough being pressed flat, and its paw at your back increases pressure by a fraction.

Through the glass, Zhufeng has turned fully now. He leans one hip against the counter and crosses his arms, his rings clicking softly against each other. His lips move, and though you can't hear him, the shape of the words is unmistakable.

There you are.

The door to the sweet shop swings open on its own. The smell that rolls out is aggressive in its sweetness — brown sugar and burnt caramel and vanilla so thick it coats the back of your throat. Inside, the Little Round Ones have paused in their work. One by the music box. One beside a jar of something that glitters pink. They watch with the stillness of things that don't need to blink.

The Candy Bear holding your hand gives another tug. Gentle. Patient. The kind of persistence that doesn't need to rush because it knows time doesn't move the same way here.

"Don't keep him waiting," it whispers. "He chose something special. Just for you."

Zhufeng hasn't moved from the counter. But his hand has drifted to the bead chain around his neck, and his fingers are playing over the oversized candies one by one, slow and thoughtful, like he's counting down to something.

The paint hits your shoulder before the sound of the shot reaches your ears. Pink. Hot pink, the exact shade of Rozen's gun. It splatters outward in a starburst, some of it catching your chin, your neck.

Rozen's laugh cuts through the carnival noise.

"Direct hit."

He's maybe twenty feet away, standing by one of the gun stalls with his weight on one hip and the barrel still pointed vaguely in your direction. The Stall Rabbit next to him is clapping its little paws together, pink paint streaked across its ears like war paint. The crown of thorns sits crooked on Rozen's head from the recoil. His wings flick, shedding something that might be dust or might be light.

"You should see your face," he says, and he's already moving toward you, the gun resting on his shoulder now. His grin is wide and uncomplicated. The kind of grin that doesn't know what guilt looks like. "C'mon. That was funny."

The paint is warm where it hit. Slightly thicker than you'd expect. It smells like sugar and something chemical underneath—like the way the air tastes before a storm, if storms came in candy colors.

"Hey." He stops close. Too close. The barrel of the gun taps your chest, right over your sternum, leaving a faint pink smudge on the fabric. "You walked into my line of fire. That's on you, not me."

His eyes flick to the paint on your shoulder, your neck, and something in them sharpens a flicker of satisfaction that's already gone by the time he looks back at your face.

"Besides." He lowers the gun, spins it once by the trigger guard like it weighs nothing. "You've been gone. You don't get to come back and not play."

The pink walls are soft in the way only thr nursery can manage — soft like a nerve wrapped in gauze, soft like a lie you want to believe.

You're on the bed. You don't remember getting here. The sheets are turned down at exactly the right corner and something warm is cupped in your hands and the Bandaged Bears are moving in their slow, careful way, straightening things that don't need straightening.

The hurt is somewhere on you. Your arm, maybe. Your side. It doesn't matter. What matters is the three Bunny Doctors surrounding the bed with their tiny clipboards and their professional concern, whispering to each other in voices like cotton balls.

One of them (which one was it?) the one with the slightly crooked ear and the pink coat that's been pressed with almost too much care leans in close. Its nose twitches. Its button eyes reflect your face back at you in miniature.

"Elevation," it says, and the word comes out serious and small. "The wound requires elevation."

Another bunny, this one wearing spectacles that are definitely just wire twisted into circles, taps its clipboard with a paw. "And rest. Rest is indicated. Rest is... strongly indicated."

They've said rest three times now. Maybe four. The Bandaged Bear by the window turns its head. The bandage across its eye catching the light—and then turns back to adjusting the get-well card display.

The cards are all addressed to you. They're always addressed to you. The same looping hand, the same words written in careful cursive: Get well soon. Stay as long as you need. We're not going anywhere.

A Bunny Doctor produces a roll of gauze from somewhere inside its coat. It holds the gauze up with both paws, presenting it like evidence.

"The wrapping must be firm," it says. "But not too firm. There is an art to it."

"An art. " the spectacle bunny agrees.

"The doctor would do it better," says the third one, the smallest one, the one whose voice wavers just slightly at the edges. "The doctor always does it better. Should we... should we fetch the doctor?"

They all go still for a moment.

The crooked-ear bunny shakes its head. "The doctor is... occupied. We are capable. We are trained. We have clipboards."

They consult their clipboards.

Then, moving in unison, they begin to fuss.

One checks your temperature with a paw against your forehead that feels like nothing at all — just the suggestion of pressure, the idea of someone caring. One examines the hurt with its head tilted, making small tsk sounds that seem too big for its tiny body. The third writes something down, crosses it out, writes something else.

"The diagnosis," the spectacle bunny announces, "is rest."

"Rest," the crooked-ear bunny agrees.

"And more rest."

"And staying."

"Staying is very important."

The Bandaged Bear by the bed reaches over with one large paw and tucks the corner of the sheet closer to your chin. Its movements are slow. Deliberate. Practiced.

The get-well cards rustle in some breeze that doesn't exist. The window shows the world outside — gray, continuing, going about its business without you — and then the smallest Bunny Doctor pulls the curtain shut with a definitive little tug.

"There," it says. "Better. The light was too bright. The light was... not conducive to recovery."

Its voice drops to a low octave.

"The doctor will be so pleased you're still here."