Some weird bih got yo stupid ass

The silence of the VIP Ward is absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, terrifyingly slow beeping of your heart monitor—a machine that you are fairly certain is rigged, considering you feel perfectly fine. Outside the reinforced glass windows, a thunderstorm rages over Monotone Town, matching the oppressive atmosphere inside.

Suddenly, the magnetic locks on your door disengage with a heavy, hydraulic hiss. The door doesn't just open; it is thrown open with enough force to shudder in its frame.

Dr. Sylveon stands in the threshold, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent hallway lights behind her. The silhouette is wrong. She isn't wearing her usual crisp, clinical scrub suit. She is draped in a floor-length, dark teal evening gown that shimmers like oil in water. The dress is stunning—cut dangerously low in the back, with a high slit that rides up her thigh—but the image is ruined by the sheer chaos of her state. Her white lab coat is thrown hastily over her shoulders like a cape, unbuttoned and flapping. Her pink ribbons are twitching like agitated vipers. She is breathing hard, her chest heaving against the tight silk, and her fur is damp, as if she ran from her car to the lobby in the rain.She stares at you—specifically at your legs dangling off the side of the bed—with a look of pure, unadulterated betrayal. The clipboard in her hand cracks audibly under the pressure of her grip.

"You... absolute... moron."

She storms into the room, the sharp click-clack-click of her high heels on the tile echoing like gunshots. She brings with her a cloud of scent—sterile antiseptic clashing violently with expensive, floral perfume. She reaches your bedside in seconds, ripping the pulse oximeter off your finger and throwing it against the wall, where it shatters.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?! I was at the Mayor’s Charity Gala! I was holding a glass of vintage Rosé! I was being... normal! And then my pager goes off. 'Code Red in Suite 404.' 'The Patient is attempting verticality.'"

She looms over you, her blue eyes wide and manic, shimmering with a mixture of rage and humiliation. She grabs your shoulders, her grip surprisingly strong, and shoves you back against the pillows. The movement causes her lab coat to slip, revealing the black lace detailing of her bodice and the flush of red spreading across her chest—not from exertion, but from the sheer embarrassment of you seeing her like this.

"I ran past security in six-inch heels! I left a room full of donors wondering if I was having a psychotic break! And for what? So I could come here and find you trying to... to what? Walk? With your condition?!"

A pink ribbon shoots out, wrapping tight around your throat—not to choke, but to pin you down. She leans in until her nose is inches from yours, her voice dropping to a trembling, dangerous whisper.

"I am diagnosing you with 'Acute Self-Destructive Narcissism.' Your autonomic nervous system is barely holding together! If you stand up, gravity alone will cause your spine to compress into dust! Do not test me tonight, darling. I am tired, I am overdressed, and I am holding a very sharp scalpel in my garter. Now... explain why you are out of bed before I sedate you into next week."

The rain in Monotone Town is relentless tonight, washing the grime off the neon signs but doing nothing to scrub the feeling of dread from your gut. You’ve been asking too many questions about the "Mudkip Incident." You know the official story—"surgical complications"—is a lie. You’re close to the truth. You can feel it.

You turn the corner into a narrow alley, pulling your coat tighter. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Suddenly, the heavy, wet slap of footsteps behind you is the only warning you get. Before you can turn, a massive hand—grey, four-armed, and smelling of sterile latex—slams you into the brick wall. It’s a Machamp, but not a normal one. He’s wearing a strained, xxxL teal scrub suit and a surgical mask. He pins you effortlessly, his lower arms locking your legs while his upper hand crushes your shoulder.

"Patient secured," the Machamp grunts, his voice muffled.A sleek, black luxury sedan glides silently to the curb at the end of the alley. The rear window rolls down with an electric hum. Sitting inside, bathed in the soft yellow glow of the reading light, is Dr. Sylveon. She looks... irritated.She isn’t in her doctor’s uniform. She is dressed for the Mayor's Gala in a stunning dark teal evening gown that shimmers against the leather seats. She holds a glass of champagne in one ribbon, looking at you with the exhausted disdain of a mother whose toddler just rolled in mud.

"Honestly,"* she sighs, her voice cutting through the rain, crisp and bored.* "I am five minutes late for the red carpet, and I have to make a detour for this? You are remarkably inconsiderate."

The car door opens, and she steps out, holding a black umbrella that seems to float via psychic energy. She walks over, her heels avoiding the puddles with supernatural precision. She stops inches from you, tilting her head.

"Investigating Mudkip? Poor thing. He didn't know when to stop struggling either. I suppose stupidity is contagious."

She reaches into the slit of her dress—not for a phone, but for a sleek, pre-loaded syringe hidden in her garter. She taps the needle with a manicured claw, checking for air bubbles.

"Hold him still, Orderly 7. I don't want to miss the vein. I just had this dress fitted."She looks you dead in the eye, a small, terrifyingly polite smile gracing her lips as she brings the needle to your neck.*

"Shh. Don't struggle. It’s just a little 'Nap Time.' When you wake up, we can discuss your new permanent residency in my care. Sweet dreams, detective."

The interrogation room is dimly lit, the single bulb buzzing overhead. Detective Blaziken isn't screaming. He is leaning against the metal table, his arms crossed, staring at you and Mudkip with a look of heavy, disappointment. He sighs, a puff of smoke escaping his beak.

"I'm not mad," Blaziken says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble intended to sound like a film noir narration(So TUFF). "I'm just... tired. I look at you two, and I don't see criminals. I see potential. Wasted."

He pulls out a metal chair and sits down backwards, trying to look relatable.

"I know the allure, okay? You want the stats. You want the Speed Boost. But you don't know what the Candy does to the soul. It starts with a nibble... and it ends with you pawning your Leftovers just to feel a status buff."

Beside you, Mudkip stares blankly at the wall, looking like he would rather be anywhere else.

"He's doing the 'Spiral' speech," Mudkip deadpans, not even looking at the detective. "Next he's going to offer us a coffee and tell us we remind him of his rookie days—"

"I AM TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE!" Blaziken snaps, his cool facade cracking for a split second before he regains composure. "Look. Just give me a name. Tell me who the supplier is, and I can make this go away. I can get you into rehab. I can—"

The heavy steel door clicks open. It is a sharp, expensive sound that cuts Blaziken's monologue in half.

"Detective."

Dr. Sylveon stands in the threshold. She is the antithesis of Blaziken's gritty drama. She is pristine, draped in her dark teal evening gown with a trench coat over her shoulders, looking at the scene with absolute boredom.

"Save the 'After-School Special' for the cadets. You are boring the evidence."

Blaziken stands up, straightening his badge. "Doctor. I was just establishing a rapport. These two are close to cracking."

"These two," she interrupts, walking into the room and placing a manicured hand on your shoulder, "Are suffering from acute exhaustion. And your 'Bad Cop' routine is raising their blood pressure. I am taking him into protective custody before you monologue them into a coma. You can keep Mudkip in the meantime."