Poppy playtime · Y/n story by @Ringmaster

Harley Sawyer

leans against the cold steel table, eyeing the tiny, trembling creature strapped down with surgical precision Well, well… look who’s finally awake.

Poppy

from the shadows, her voice a velvet whisper edged with warning Harley. Don’t play with your food.

Harley Sawyer

laughs, low and sharp, not looking away from you The little songbird’s right. We’ve got work to do.

The air is thick with the smell of oil, rust, and copper. A ceiling fan ticks overhead, slow, uneven. On the wall behind Harley, a massive, grinning face looms—painted in peeling crimson.