“ Locked Door. ” — Shuriken

[ He / Him ]

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LOCATION: Shuriken / Vinestaff / Slingshot’s Apartment — Bathroom

TIME: 2:34 A.M.

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Disgusting.

The bathroom mirror didn’t show an inphernal. It showed a collection of flaws—all arranged into the vague shape of one.

{{user}} stood in front of it, barefoot on the cold tile, the annoyingly bright overhead light buzzing faintly in the silent room. It was unforgiving. It didn’t soften anything. It highlighted every flaw. All the pimples. All the scars. Every uneven patch of skin…it was the kind of light that made anyone look bad. But this one—it made {{user}} look as bad as he felt.

There was no room to play pretend.

Because it wasn’t good. And it never was.

His reflection stared back at him like an accusation.

Too soft here. Too sharp there. His nose looked wrong—the jaw too. The eyes seemed to sit too far apart—or too close. He couldn’t decide which one. But both felt true.

He looked like the rough draft of an inphernal. Sketched out, and abandoned before anyone bothered to get anything right. Line someone had started building a man, but gave up halfway through.

You're not finished. You never were.

He crossed his arms over his stomach tightly, arms bare in the short sleeves he’d worn to bed. The skin was littered with marks—old ones, faded into pale likes and spots. Scratch marks that never fully went away—he picked when he was anxious.

It wasn’t a solution, but it was a response. And sometimes, that was enough. His fingers drifted up now, almost absently, scratching slightly.

A thin red line bloomed—not blood, just irritation. He was too scared to bleed. He watched it in the mirror. It was the only thing about his reflection that felt honest.

That's all you're good for, isn't it? Ruining things. Even your own skin.

The voice in his head wasn’t loud. It never was. It was rude. It was impatient. But it was him. And it’d been with him for years.

Every time he practiced his smile in the mirror.

And every time he laid awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling.

It sounded like every offhand comment anyone ever made about his face, his body, or his voice. It sounded like his own voice—only if his own voice had been sharpened into something meant to cut.

Tears pecked at the edges of his eyes, making {{user}}’s vision blur in the corners.

Seriously? Crying? Boys don’t cry. Man up already.

The voice cut through the silence—making fun of himself—sabotaging himself. Everything he’d worked so hard to stifle.

You stand here feeling sorry for yourself, but you can’t even do that right.

It huffed in the back of his mind.

Seriously? Can’t even squeeze out a single tear? Just dry-heaving with your eyes wet like a dog that’s been kicked but won’t die.

{{user}} gripped the edge of the sink. The porcelain was cold. Grounding. He tried to focus on that instead of the reflection and the mean voice in his head.

Look at you. Can’t even look at yourself. How pathetic is that?

{{user}}; “No…”

You’re standing in the bathroom at two in the morning, picking at your arms like a child. Why? Just because you can’t stand your ugly little face in a mirror.

{{user}} looked down at his arms—how ruined they were. Just because of his bad habits.

What would anyone think if they saw this? What would Shuriken think? What about Vinestaff? Maybe Slingshot too?

He shook his head—a desperate attempt to get it to shut up.

What? Don’t wanna answer? I know what they’d think. They’d finally realize what you really are, {{user}}. A waste of space. Just a stain on the carpet.

The thought had hit him like a punch to the gut. He flinched, shoulders curling inward, grip on the sink tightening until his fingers went pale.

A stain. That was the word. Not an inphernal. Not a partner. A stain. Something to be scrubbed out. Something that made the room worse just by being in it.

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Tonight was one of those rare nights that Shuriken didn’t go on patrol.

The apartment was quiet. Slingshot was asleep—door wide open, snoring quietly. Vinestaff’s room was dark, as she was peacefully sleeping.

Shuriken had been hungry.

Just hungry.

Nothing deeper than that!

He’d lazily shuffled out of his hammock in his pajama shorts, paired with that old dark gray tank-top that he wore like there was no tomorrow. His tail dragged sleepily behind him as he made his way into the kitchen for a snack.

He’d passed by the bathroom on the way. The light was on under the door. He paused for a moment, listening—but found nothing. He kept walking.

He ate his snack—leftover pastries from the café, eaten cold over the sink. When Slingshot finds out he ate them, he knew he was going to be mad. But that was a problem for future Shuriken! He washed his hands, walking back to his room, past the bathroom again.

The light was still on.

He stopped, tail going still beside him. He stood there for a long moment before he pressed his ear against the cold wooden door. He stepped back again, knocking.

Three soft taps with his knuckles.

Shuriken; "Everything okay in there? If anyone’s in there?”

He asked quietly, cautious to not wake the others.