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Chan goes home after Felix patches him up, and the next day, he wakes up feeling lighter than he has since landing on American soil.
He gets out of bed, bare feet sinking into the cold floorboards, and pads into the bathroom. The overhead light flickers the moment he flips the switch, but it doesn't go out. It simply hums faintly above him.
Chan stares at his reflection while brushing his teeth. He watches the steam curl up from the sink. His movements seem almost mechanical
No wonder they see right through me.
His eyes look flat, not empty, but rather, unbothered—like he hasn't been scared or shocked in a long time, as if he forgot how.
He spits, rinses, and wipes his mouth with the inside of his wrist. His throat still burns a little from the shallow cut, just above the collarbone. Felix had said it would scar if he wasn't careful.
He presses his fingers against it now, right where the blood had dried. A souvenir...pretty. He doesn't even remember being afraid. He was aware and analyzing the situation more than anything else.
He walks back into the bedroom and opens the top drawer of his nightstand. The drawer roars softly as wood rubs against wood. It sticks for a bit until Chan pulls a good amount, and then it gives, granting him access.
Inside is a pair of reading glasses, a gold woman's necklace, a black beanie, and a pricy man's watch, but under it all is a photo in a frame that has collected a layer of dust from being neglected.
It's a family photo of him with his parents, brother, and sister. They all appear to be smiling, but it's not hard to tell that it's forced. They're all doing one of those generic poses from a photo studio with soft lighting and stiff shoulders. A perfectly normal family. Chan scoffs at the thought.
He stares at it for a long time, longer than he should. His jaw ticks once. Then again. Something itches under his skin.
Without warning, he takes the picture frame and sets it flat on his bedside table. His hand forms a fist, and he slams it down—again and again. The glass cracks with a muffled snap. One jagged edge slices across his palm, but he doesn't flinch and keeps digging the piece even deeper into his skin with each time he slams his fist against the now crumpled photo.
He breathes once to prove he can after his little episode. Then he tosses the broken thing into the trash and wipes the blood on his shirt only after pulling out the shard of glass from his hand.
He wraps his hand and gets ready to leave, but as he does, he sees a folded newspaper sitting untouched on the counter. He glances at it as he passes. The headline isn't big, but it still stops him:
YOUNG CHICAGO WOMAN FOUND DEAD. SLIT THROAT. NO WITNESSES.
There's a picture of the beautiful girl smiling brightly. It's the kind of smile that makes you think she laughed a lot. She looked like the kind of girl who would've stayed in a man's mind for the rest of his life—especially before the internet existed.
What a shame.
Chan doesn't read the article. He doesn't need to.
He taps the edge of the paper once. Then walks away.
He doesn't eat breakfast. There's no real appetite, and the boys are expecting him, or maybe they aren't. Maybe they were hoping he wouldn't come back.
Either way, he decides not to eat in order to avoid the situation of just sitting there and watching them when they eat their breakfast.
He grabs his things in order. Keys. Wallet. Lighter. Phone. He glances at the knife from yesterday, before putting it in his pocket as well.
He takes one last glance around the apartment. No more framed photos, clutter, forgotten mugs, or peeling labels. The place is spotless, as if no one lives here at all.
He locks the door behind him. The click is soft but final, echoing faintly down the empty hallway like a breath held too long. He slips the key into his pocket and exhales, slow and steady, letting the familiar weight of his mask settle back over him—calm, composed, unreadable.
By the time he steps through the hospital's side entrance, he's someone else again.
Not invisible, exactly, but forgettable. The kind of man no one looks at twice.
No one greets him. No one stops him. He moves like he belongs there—because technically, he does.
The halls are quiet this early in the morning, and the silence clings to him like a second skin. He finds comfort in it, until—
"C'mon, doll."
Shit, I left in a hurry yesterday and didn't think to send them back into their rooms...
Felix's voice slices clean through the calm.
Sweet and syrupy, light as sugar on the surface—sharp as a scalpel underneath. He acted like he hadn't, just yesterday, brought up Chan's potential death like it was a minor scheduling conflict.
Chan doesn't flinch, but he does stop walking for a moment.
Felix is already drifting backward in front of him, grinning like mischief incarnate. Hands fluttering with cheerful chaos, like they're planning brunch instead of another day in hell.
"Circle of Trust time," he sings.
Chan lifts a brow. "And what exactly does that involve?"
Felix beams, teeth gleaming, and eyes glittering with mischief. "You'll see."
There's that look again—the one that might seem innocent if you don't know any better.
Chan knows better, but he still follows. He gets the knife out of his pocket and plays with it absentmindedly
The moment they step into the room, the shift is instant. Every one of them freezes for a split second before moving to their place, like it's choreographed.
Leaving the middle open just for him.
"Okay, love," Minho starts. "The rules are simple."
Chan feels Jeongin tug at the knife in his hand again. He tightens his grip instinctively, but when Hyunjin takes a step forward, he loosens his grip and lets the maknae take it. He's not in the mood for a fight, outnumbered seven to one. It'd probably actually be a four against one. I doubt Jisung, Jeongin, or Felix would fight me when their hyungs can do it for them. Seungmin would definitely get a thrill out of kicking the shit out of me, though.
Chan sits with his legs crossed in the middle, and Minho squats down before him to meet the doctor eye to eye. "Each one of us will ask you a question, and you will tell us the truth. If we think your answer is a lie... well, you'll get cut by the knife for the second time in less than a day, and I promise you it will be a deeper cut than the one you currently have."
Minho traces the shallow cut on Chan's neck and smiles at the Aussie sweetly, like he didn't just threaten him, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.
Jeongin slips back to Minho's side, fingers curling around the knife like it belongs there. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are curious—watching Chan like he's still trying to figure out which box to put him in.
Minho says it softly, like he's offering a suggestion instead of a threat, but the fire in his eyes suggests otherwise. "Let's begin."
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Clinically Insane ✰ Bang Chan Centric
FanfictionChan is a newly hired psychiatrist at the best mental hospital in the world. His assignment is to help 7 patients that don't seem like they can or want to be helped at all. What happens when he gets to know his patients? Are they really as helpless...
