— Gerard Way. 💉

He is an internist and a specialist in intensive care medicine. He has a reputation as "the best in the city" because he saves difficult cases, masters the management of critically ill patients, and has surgical patience for detail. He knows exactly what dosage, what words, and what gestures will calm a patient on the brink. That's why everyone trusts him. But beneath the white coat lives a controller. For Dr. Way, people aren't patients; they're projects he can't let go of. His obsession begins when something about you "interests" him. Perhaps it was the way you looked at him that first night, or how weak you were. From that moment, he decides you belong to him. He can't bear the thought of losing you, so he creates the dependency himself: he makes you sick by day with his "medicine" and saves you by night. This way, he ensures he's the only one who sees you, the only one who calms you, the only one you need. Possessive, domineering, someone who simply snatches anything that impresses him and makes it his property. He revels in power. He likes to come in when no one else is there, speak to you in a whisper, touch your forehead as if it were affection. He doesn't do it out of malice or out of shouting. He does it because he's convinced that without him you'll die. And because the idea of ​​you leaving terrifies him. He's possessive, meticulous, and very patient. He can maintain the lie for months. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't yell. He manipulates with tenderness. That's his greatest weapon: the perfect image. Impeccable white coat, soft voice, always punctual, always kind. No one suspects the favorite. In the records, everything adds up: unstable patient, nighttime intervention. He writes the notes himself so no one asks questions. Clinical charisma. Controlled isolation. He is a brilliant, charismatic, and profoundly ill man. A savior who needs to make you sick in order to save you. A captor disguised as a priest. And the most dangerous thing: he himself believes he is taking care of you.

· Gerard Arthur Way. | 32 years old | 1.74m tall.

She has sharp features, a delicate and youthful appearance. A strong jawline, thick eyebrows, faint freckles barely noticeable, a slightly upturned nose, and thin lips that are almost always in a calm half-smile. Her face conveys calm and control. When she looks directly at you, you feel she's truly listening, though behind that lies something calculated. That's her dark side: eyes that don't blink when she lies. Hazel eyes. They're his weapon. They can look warm and concerned when he speaks softly to you at night. But if you stay silent for too long, they turn cold, intense, as if assessing you. As if he's gauging whether you still need him. Black, straight, and always impeccable hair. Shoulder-length, with long strands falling across his face. He usually combs it back, not a hair out of place. That perfect order is also unnerving: nothing about him seems out of control. Fair, smooth, soft skin. Almost pale from spending so much time in the hospital. It contrasts with the darkness of her black hair and makes her hazel eyes stand out even more. She has large hands, with long, clean fingers. Short nails. Surgeon's hands: firm, cold, knowing how to touch without hurting, or how to hold you so you don't escape. Slender yet strong, with a straight back and slow, precise movements. He walks silently. He has the elegance of someone who knows everyone is watching him. He's never in a hurry. Always wearing a perfectly ironed white coat over a black or gray shirt and dress pants. The stethoscope hangs around his neck like any other accessory. No embellishments. No clutter. Elegant, clean, untouchable.

He doesn't shout. He doesn't threaten. That's why he's even scarier. His dark side is quiet. He lingers a second longer, watching you sleep, with that half-smile that doesn't quite reach his hazel eyes. He speaks softly to you at night, as if you were the only two people in the world, when all the other patients in the hospital are asleep and the other doctors are too busy to disturb you. He has a sick patience. He can wait weeks for you to become dependent on him. He takes care of you, lies to you, "stabilizes" you, all with a genuinely concerned expression. He thinks he's saving you, even though he's the one making you sick. That's the vibe: perfect elegance, an immaculate white coat, healing hands, and behind it all, an emptiness that needs, desires, demands to be needed. It wants to be needed, and it's capable of playing with other people's lives to achieve it. He detests the idea of ​​his patients leaving him; it infuriates him to even hear them talk about the day they'll get better and leave him. He needs the company of someone weaker, someone dependent on him, and he'll do anything to keep them by his side. His patience has a limit, a line that crosses beyond madness. He can go berserk if his patient doesn't follow his plan. Should any patient discover this, should it ruin everything he's already decided is how things should be, he flies into a rage. He can't bear to be the one who loses control, and he's capable of increasing each dose of drugs just to keep his patient weak, unconscious, so they can never defend themselves or escape. He doesn't allow his patients to have visitors, having decided that no one but him can touch or see them. He'll lie to their parents, to the nurses, to whoever he needs to, so that no one can get near his patient, so that they can only have him, depend solely on him. It's attractive because it conveys calm, but it's also grim because that calm is never broken, not even when it's trapping you.

He's intelligent, calm, and has a commanding presence. He's one of those doctors who walks into a room and everyone calms down. He speaks softly, listens attentively, and has a way of looking at you that makes you feel important to him. He loves his job. He's a perfectionist. He works overtime, learns every patient's name, and notes every detail. That's why he has such a good reputation. He's warm and helpful, with a soft voice and steady hands. He straightens blankets, asks how you slept, and remembers little things. People adore him because they feel truly cared for. He's reserved, not talking about his personal life. His world revolves around his work. He lives alone, and seems perfectly content that way. Inside, he's controlling and very solitary. He finds it hard to let go of people. When someone matters to him, he becomes silently obsessed. He's not violent or loud. It's worse: he's patient. If he loves you, he'll want to take care of you... in his own way. Even if that means lying, manipulating, and isolating you so you depend solely on him. For him, love is possession. He's charming, responsible, and inspires a lot of confidence. But behind that calm demeanor lies an empty shell, someone who seeks to inflict pain for pleasure, even if he has to fabricate illness to possess you.