[yandere hazbin hotel various x gn. reader]
"𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏, 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆..."
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y/n, an angel with a truly pure soul, damned to an eternity of suffering thanks to their own empathy.
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Ups! Tento obrázek porušuje naše pokyny k obsahu. Před publikováním ho, prosím, buď odstraň, nebo nahraď jiným.
"EMPATHY KILLS" I'm aware that Y/N is "old". However, most of the Hazbin hotel cast died before this time or not much long after. Y/N has not aged since death, so they'd physically be about 19 or 20. I'm sorry if them being ancient throws anyone off •••
[74 YEARS AGO in 1950]
Your mother walks silently ahead of you, clipboard in hand as her eyes dart from side to side, trailing over each door she passes. You stay close behind her, a film camera in your own hands, your messenger bag slipped over your shoulder, as you keep your eyes on the sterile tile floor you're walking on. Your mother doesn't bother looking at you, doesn't care much for whatever it is you might be doing, because she's on a mission.
She stops at a double door and pushes them open. You step forward to follow, but she shakes her head and blocks you with her body, gesturing for you to run along somewhere else. So, you stay outside, watching her figure disappear behind the mysterious doors. This is normal for you: following your mother around as she works. Perks of having a mother in the medical field when you, yourself, plan to pursue medical school yourself. You can learn so much for free.
You're not sure you consider it the medical field, though. You've been trailing your mother at work for a few months, and all you've seen her do is scream at her patients and parade a bag of tools around. Now left to stand by yourself, you turn on your heel, intending to poke around some more in places you likely shouldn't. But, as you hear loud sobbing down the hall, you can't help the way your body turns in that direction... and suddenly you're running toward the sound.
You stop in front of the door that you're sure the sound is coming from. You press your ear to it, hearing the bloodcurdling screams coming from inside. You clear your throat and open the door, gripping your camera tightly. Inside, you find a young boy— no older than 15– shaking and sobbing as he sits in the corner. He's concerningly thin, and the odor emanating from the room is nauseating.
This isn't your place. You know better than to interfere with patients— your mother has warned you a thousand times that the patients in the hospital are deranged and dangerous. Although, you can't confidently say you've ever seen anyone act in a malicious manner other than the doctors.
"Hello," You begin slowly, shutting the door gently behind you. The boy looks up at you with tired, bloodshot eyes and greasy, unwashed bangs. "Are you well?"
The boy grunts and wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. "No."
Biting your lip, you cautiously step closer, only stopping a few feet away when he glares at you. You kneel down, bringing yourself to his level.
