Chapter Text
Tommy wasn’t supposed to come to therapy today. Puffy had said she would be late, but apparently something had changed, because she’d suddenly asked him to come anyway. Tommy didn’t want to go to school either, but he definitely hadn’t expected to be sitting alone in this empty room.
The door swung open abruptly.
“Sorry I’m late!” Puffy rushed in, completely disheveled.
“You’re actually just one minute late. So… you’re fine.” Tommy muttered as she hurriedly sat down, fixing her hair. She was out of breath, taking a deep inhale to steady herself.
“Alright—how are you? You look like shit.”
Tommy blinked at the sudden bluntness, but didn’t hold back either.
“You probably haven’t looked in the mirror.”
Puffy froze with her mouth open.
“Sorry, that was rude,” Tommy mumbled.
“It’s fine,” she laughed softly. “I was out of town to see my son. The roads were buried in snow—that’s why I’m late.”
Tommy looked surprised.
“You have a son?”
“Yeah,” Puffy smiled sadly. “But he’s… not in a good state right now. I should’ve been with him.”
Tommy’s expression softened.
“Oh. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have come, then. You said he needed you.”
Puffy gave a tired, gentle smile.
“As much as I want to be there, it’s impossible. Anyway—shall we start?”
“I thought we already did. The only thing I’m missing is a notebook.” Tommy muttered.
Puffy rolled her eyes.
“Alright then. Tell me—what’s going on?”
Tommy took a deep breath, lowering his head.
“Where do I even start…?”
“We have a long hour ahead of us,” Puffy said calmly. “Start wherever you want. If it becomes too hard, I can guide you.”
“Okay,” Tommy whispered, turning toward her.
“We’ve made very little progress in the past month,” Puffy continued, “but progress is progress. I can see the change in you, and that makes me happy. But now we have to go backward. We need to open the wounds you’ve been hiding. How about starting with L’Manberg? Tell me about Sam.”
The name hit Tommy like a punch. His ears began ringing, and without even realizing, his hand moved to his head.
“Sam…” he whispered. “He was a good man. The sheriff. The coolest guy in the world—”
The words began to stick in his throat. Puffy saw it immediately.
“If you’re not ready, we can stop,” she offered. Tommy didn’t answer.
Puffy sighed.
“Alright. Tommy… we have to push through these things. That’s my job. But even I don’t want to force you right now.”
Tommy shut his eyes tightly.
“Sam was my dad. Maybe not biologically, but… he was my dad. There was a serial killer in town back then. The first victim was Niki.”
Puffy’s expression shifted. She leaned back and began writing.
“Niki used to be my babysitter. She taught me how to talk to people. She told me that even if I acted like myself, people could still like me. I thought she was an idiot for saying that, because everyone who met me said I was annoying at first. She introduced me to Tubbo and Ran—Ranboo. I thought we’d never get along. But over time, we became close friends.”
He exhaled shakily.
“When she stopped babysitting me, we stayed friends anyway—she went to the same high school. She looked out for me from a distance. And then—”
A phantom blade shoved itself deep into his chest, but he kept talking.
“And then she was killed. In our quiet, peaceful town.”
Puffy asked quietly, “Whose death hurt you the most? Niki? Tubbo? Sam?”
“Tubbo,” Tommy whispered.
“Tubbo?” Puffy repeated, surprised.
The image flashing in Tommy’s mind nearly stopped his breath.
“He was killed in the garage of the house he shared with Ranboo.” He chose his words carefully. “I… didn’t tell anyone at the time, but the killer called me. He told me to choose who I would save—Ranboo or Tubbo.”
Tommy didn’t even realize he was spiraling; the words were pouring out on their own.
“He used a voice changer. Asked me what my favorite horror movie was. Back then, I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to joke with a killer. I was stupid. I made fun of him.”
Puffy cut in.
“He asked for your favorite horror movie?”
Tommy swallowed hard.
“Stupid questions. All stupid questions.”
Puffy, however, continued with sharper ones.
“When you woke up in the hospital—after you were injured—and you learned Sam had killed himself… what did you feel?”
Tommy could feel everything closing in.
“When they told me Sam was killed, I… already expected it. I wasn’t myself. We left the town immediately.”
Puffy tapped her pen against the desk, trying to pull him back into focus.
“You said he was killed. You also said Phil was the one who killed Sam.”
Tommy frowned. That was supposed to be sealed information.
“You—”
“Tommy, focus,” Puffy interrupted again, tapping her pen. That tap echoing his ears “Was Phil the one who killed Sam?”
Tommy was sweating.
“I… wasn’t okay back then. When Sam died, Phil wasn’t there. Dream was. Phil was with me.”
Puffy closed her eyes.
“Tommy… you said on the police radio that Ranboo was the killer. And that there was a second killer. You said both killers were in the Wilbur household. If Dream was the killer, how did he get to the department? There’s a twenty-minute distance between Phil’s house and the station.”
Tommy’s head was spinning.
“How do you know all this? These are closed records.”
Puffy inhaled sharply, as if holding back anger.
“Tommy, everything was leaked online. Everyone knows. And you’re my patient—I had to research.”
Tommy’s vision blurred. His head felt heavy.
“I don’t… want to talk anymore.”
He stood, but his legs nearly gave out.
“Sit until you come back to yourself,” Puffy said softly. “I pushed you too hard. I’m sorry. Drink this sedative. You’ll feel better in a moment.”
Tommy stared at the pill Puffy was holding out to him, suspicion crawling up his spine. There was something off about her today—something tight, rushed, wrong. Talking about the past with her had already been a mistake.
“I don’t need it. Wilbur’s waiting for me outside,” he muttered and stepped out of the room before she could protest.
The door shut. For a moment Puffy just stood there, the pill still resting uselessly in her hand. Then she exhaled shakily, walked to the trash bin, and dropped it in. Her hands lingered at the rim, trembling.
Outside, Tommy stepped into the cold air, still gripping his stomach. Wilbur’s face changed immediately when he saw him.
“What the fuck—? Tommy, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Why do you look like that?”
He rushed over, grabbing Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy didn’t fight it; he leaned into him, breath hitching.
“A… psychological thing, I guess,” Tommy mumbled, voice thin.
“What the hell does that even mean?” Wilbur snapped. “What did they do to you in there?” His hands moved to Tommy’s cheeks, lifting his face. “You’re white as a sheet, mate.”
Tommy gagged suddenly and stumbled away from him, dropping to his knees as he vomited onto the pavement.
“Fuck— okay, that’s it. I’m calling Phil.”
Wilbur reached for his phone, but Tommy stopped him with a shaking hand.
“No— no, it’s fine, I’m fine—”
He forced himself upright, taking shaky breaths. “Let’s just go home. If I rest, I’ll be better. I swear.”
Wilbur hesitated, eyes flicking from Tommy’s trembling legs to the sweat on his forehead.
Then Tommy winced sharply, grabbing his stomach again. He stared at his own hand like something should’ve been there—blood, maybe, or something worse—but his palm was clean.
“What? What is it?” Wilbur moved closer, alarm rising again.
“Nothing,” Tommy lied quickly. “Just— just take me home.”
Wilbur stepped to his side, letting Tommy lean heavily on him as they made their way to the car. He opened the passenger door, guiding him inside as if he were about to collapse again.
“Tommy,” Wilbur whispered, voice much softer now, “something’s really wrong.”
Tommy didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He just pressed a hand to his stomach, shut his eyes, and tried not to feel how every breath made the pain worse, like something inside him was tearing open all over again.
He didn’t remember how he got home.
Didn’t remember the car ride, the front door, the stairs—nothing.
One moment he was outside the clinic, and the next he was standing in his room, breath heavy and skin clammy, but… better. Or at least not dying. That counted as better.
And, thankfully, he hadn’t slept long.
Phil was still at school, which meant he wouldn’t get interrogated. Yet.
Tommy wandered into the kitchen, stretching his neck until it popped.
“Toms! You good?” a voice yelled from the living room.
Tommy yelled back immediately, “I wasn’t good! But I’m better now! What are you watching?”
He leaned around the kitchen doorway, squinting at the TV.
No idea what the hell it was.
“Just some new movie that came out!” Wilbur shouted back.
Tommy rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to scream, dumbass! I can hear you!”
Wilbur’s reply was even louder—
“OKAY—”
It cut off with a yelp. “AGH— Techno! What was that for?!”
Tommy couldn’t help but laugh.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Unknown number.
He frowned, answered, and put it on speaker as he walked toward the living room.
“Hey, Tommy!”
The voice was wrong.
Distorted. Metallic. Like a cheap robot voice changer pushed through static.
Wilbur and Techno both froze, heads snapping toward him.
The voice continued, cheerful in a way that made Tommy’s blood run cold:
“What is your favorite scary movie?”
The line went dead.
Silence dropped over the room—thick, heavy, suffocating.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Phil, the twins, and Tommy sat in the living room—everybody stiff, every muscle pulled tight like a wire.
Wilbur tried to break the tension with a small joke, but it died in the air the second it left his mouth. No one even twitched.
“O-okay, well… it wasn’t one of us who called,” he muttered.
Tommy slowly turned toward him, his expression empty—hollow enough to make Wilbur look down in shame.
“Sorry…” Wilbur whispered.
No one spoke for a long time. The silence seemed to thicken around them.
Phil finally inhaled deeply.
“We made you a promise,” he said, voice steady but trembling under the surface. “We said we’d never kill anyone again. But whoever made that call—joke or not—I’m sorry, Tommy, but I may have to break that promise.”
Tommy didn’t answer.
Techno exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering under his breath, “And here we go again.”
Wilbur heard him—of course he did—and the idea of going back to that place made him feel sick.
“I think,” Wilbur said carefully, “there’s a way to figure out if this is a joke or the real thing.”
Everyone looked at him.
“Let them come to us. If it’s a prank, they’ll keep calling. But if it’s real—if they want Tommy to suffer—sorry, Tommy—they’ll try to get close. They’ll show themselves.”
Techno nodded. “And what if they already have? Anyone could be a suspect.”
Tommy finally spoke, his voice flat and tired:
“There aren’t many options. If it’s not you guys… then it’s someone around me. Because you were around me too.”
The room went dead silent again.
“Everyone go to your rooms,” Phil ordered suddenly. “No one speaks about this until the caller makes another move.”
He stood and walked into his study, closing the door behind him with a heavy thud.
Techno leaned back. “Haven’t seen him that angry in a long time.”
Tommy blinked, confused. “That was him angry?”
“Phil almost never gets mad,” Techno said quietly. “And when he does? It’s never good. I’m sorry, Tommy. Whoever dragged you back into this… they’re going to pay.”
Tommy nodded once.
Wilbur cleared his throat, voice soft but hopeful.
“Hey… what if we all stay in the living room tonight? Like, actually sleep here. Or try to. None of us are gonna rest anyway. Might as well deal with this together.”
Tommy didn’t answer out loud, but he nodded.
And then—
from somewhere deep behind his thoughts, from the part of his mind that never healed—
a voice curled like smoke:
“You’re disgusting. After everything you still choose them.”