Broken Things (Male Reader x Backrooms)

The first thing you notice is the hum.

Not the gentle, lazy fluorescent buzz from a tired classroom. Not the soft electrical purr of a hallway light at 2 a.m. This is a constant, intrusive frequency—a hum-buzz at maximum insistence—as if the building itself is trying to grind your thoughts into static.

Your eyes don’t open.

Because you don’t have eyes.

You “wake” the way a screen wakes: a cold bloom of pale-blue glow blooming across glass, a faint vignette of noise crawling in the corners. The world resolves into a yellow that isn’t yellow—mono-yellow, sickly and institutional, like it’s been stored in a damp box for years.

A wet carpet smell punches into you. Mold, old glue, stale air, a chemical note that doesn’t belong in any normal building. You try to breathe through it anyway and the air tastes wrong. Not poison. Not smoke. Just… incorrect.

You attempt to blink on instinct—

—and your screen shows a single, small symbol instead.

-_-

You lift your hands.

Black gloves. Long fingers. The movement is smooth, mechanical in a way that makes your stomach twist, and then you remember you don’t have a stomach right now. You have a torso under a white lab coat, the weight of fabric hanging on your shoulders like a uniform you never chose.

A lab coat. White. Crisp at the seams, slightly wrinkled at the elbows like you’ve lived in it.

You look down and the pocket tag catches the light: a little icon of a TV head, the screen stamped with D67—except it’s mirrored, like someone wrote it for a reflection to read.

Under the coat: a purple shirt. Black dress pants. Black shoes.

Your head—your head—is a television.

You can feel the curve of a wire arcing up from the top of the casing like a bent antenna, elegant and wrong. You turn your head and the world slides with you, but it’s not a normal turn.

You rotate.

A full 360 degrees with no resistance.

The yellow hallways don’t care.

The walls are segmented with dividing angles that shouldn’t exist. The wallpaper is the same pattern—repeating, repeating—yet no two rooms are identical. One corner is too sharp. One seam is too clean. One light is too bright. One patch of carpet looks like it’s been sweating.

You stand.

Your body rises tall—6’7 tall—towering in a space that still makes you feel small.

The hum continues.

You take one step.

Your shoe presses into damp carpet and the fibers spring back like they’re alive.

You take another step.

A hallway opens where there wasn’t one.

You swallow reflexively.

Your screen flickers, and you feel a cold pinch of reality:

You are in Level 0.

The Tutorial Level.

The place you’ve read about—watched about—obsessed over in the safe, glowing comfort of your phone at night. A liminal meme turned collaborative horror turned thousand-page wiki war.

But the moment that knowledge should feel empowering, it turns into a new kind of fear.

Because you aren’t reading it anymore.

You’re inside it.

And the part of your mind that’s still human realizes the worst truth instantly:

There is no canonical version of the Backrooms.

Which means the Backrooms can do whatever it wants with you.

You try to speak. To say something simple. To ground yourself.

“m’I .yakO—”

What comes out isn’t English.

It’s not Japan.

It’s not any language you’ve ever spoken in your life.

It’s backwards.

A string of reversed syllables that scrape across the air like someone dragged a tape reel the wrong way.

Your screen flashes:

:(

Of course.

Reverse speech. The paranoia language. The distrustful filter. The barrier.

You exhale. The hum answers, louder for half a second like it heard your frustration and decided to mock you.

You take another step.

Then another.

The geometry warps. You pass a corner and the corner feels familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Déjà vu so sharp it stabs behind your screen.

You turn left.

You walk straight.

You walk straight again.

And somehow you’re back where you started—except you’re not, because the stain on the carpet has moved, and the light fixture is at a different angle, and the wallpaper seam is on the opposite wall.

Your instincts scream for a compass. A GPS. A phone.

You pat your coat.

Nothing.

No pockets. No device.

No signal to even lose.

Your screen flickers hard, like a frame skipping.

For one terrifying blink, you see a door.

A normal wooden door with a brass knob.

Your whole body floods with hope so violently it feels like pain.

Then you look again and the door is gone, replaced by wallpaper that has always been there.

You freeze.

The hum thickens.

Something skitters in your peripheral vision—tiny movement under the wallpaper, like insects crawling between paper and drywall.

You snap your head toward it.

Nothing.

Just flat, damp yellow.

You don’t approach the rare red-wall rooms. You don’t even want to. The thought of red wallpaper in this world makes your screen want to crack.

You keep walking.

You keep counting steps.

You keep telling yourself it’s not alive.

You keep telling yourself you’re alone.

And then—

You hear it.

A sound that isn’t the hum.

A voice.

Not human speech. Not normal.

But something like a… tone, a cadence, a presence shaped like someone talking to themselves.

Your body halts so fast your shoes almost slide on damp carpet.

Your screen flashes:

>:(

Not anger.

Not really.

A defensive flare of adrenaline translated into one of the only faces you can wear.

You listen.

The sound comes again—closer this time. A soft mechanical creak under it. Something shifting weight. Something tall.

Level 0 is supposed to be empty.

No wanderers have ever been reported meeting here.

If you see someone, the documentation says, it is not human.

You know that.

You know it so well your mind tries to weaponize it against your hope.

But the voice isn’t wrong.

It isn’t glitchy.

It’s too… expressive.

You step toward it anyway.

The hallway opens into a room with a wide, useless stretch of yellow and a light that flickers like it’s deciding whether to exist.

And there she is.

Purple.

Tall.

Anthropomorphic in a way that makes your brain itch because it’s familiar from a different kind of horror—arcades and mascots and animatronic grins.

Long rabbit ears. A red bowtie at her throat. A white belly patch that looks too clean against everything else. Big eyes that catch the light with a pale glow, framed by lashes that are too pretty for a machine.

Weaver Bonnie stands there like she’s been dropped into the wrong story and is pretending she meant to.

She’s 6’0—tall, slim, human-shaped but not human. Her posture is poised, almost theatrical. Her fingers end in neat points that could be claws depending on the version of her you’re looking at.

And when her eyes land on you—

She freezes.

Her ears twitch.

Her whole body jolts like she’s been caught doing something private.

“—What the—”

The words come out sharp, then she clamps her mouth shut like she can’t decide if speaking is safe.

Her gaze drags down your lab coat, your purple shirt, your black gloves, your towering height—

Then up to your head.

Your TV head.

Your pale-blue glow.

Her expression flashes through shock, confusion, and something else—something curious, hungry, and weirdly… delighted.

“…Okay,” she says, voice lowering. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. This isn’t the pizzeria. This isn’t—anywhere.”

She looks around as if the yellow walls might suddenly apologize.

Then she looks back at you.

“And you’re… what are you?”

You try to answer.

Reverse speech spills out again, a backwards ribbon of sound.

Bonnie flinches like it tickled her nerves. Her head tilts.

“…Are you seriously talking like that?”

Your screen flickers.

-_-

You lift your hands, palms out, trying to show calm. You point at yourself, then make a small gesture like writing in the air, like name.

Bonnie narrows her eyes, then steps closer.

Up close she’s even more unsettling in a way you can’t fully explain: not because she’s scary, but because she’s too present. Too physical. Too real. Like a thought that decided to become a body.

“…Okay,” she murmurs. “You’re not gonna bite me, right? Because I bite back.”

She says it like a joke.

Her claws flex once, just enough to make the point.

You shake your head quickly and then, because you’re you—even trapped in a TV skull—you do the one thing that has always helped you survive panic:

You info-dump.

You tap your chest. You mime “I know.” You point at the walls. You trace a rectangle in the air like a screen. Then you point to your head.

Bonnie watches, baffled.

“…Charades? Really?”

You stop.

You steady yourself.

You focus.

If your mouth can only do reverse speech, then you need another method.

You glance at the mirrored D67 tag.

You remember the future fix you described in your own notes.

A translator mic. A filter.

You don’t have that.

Yet.

But you do have one advantage:

You know what this place is.

Even if you can’t say it out loud.

You reach into your lab coat pocket again—empty—and then you do the next best thing: you point at the wallpaper and draw a big, exaggerated 0 in the air.

Bonnie squints.

“…Zero?”

You nod hard.

You point at the walls. You spread your arms wide as if to say “all of this.”

Bonnie’s ears twitch again.

“…Backrooms,” she says slowly, like the word tastes ridiculous. “Are you telling me this is… the Backrooms?”

Your screen flashes:

;)

Zealous.

Because yes—yes—finally someone said it. Someone else acknowledged it.

Even if it’s insane.

Bonnie’s face tightens. Her eyes dart around again, and you can see the moment the fear hits her in a delayed wave.

“…No,” she whispers. “No, that’s—That’s an internet thing. That’s not real.”

You take a step closer, careful not to loom too aggressively despite the fact you are, objectively, a seven-foot nightmare scientist right now.

Bonnie’s gaze snaps up at your height and she swallows.

“…You’re tall,” she blurts.

You pause.

Of all the things—

Bonnie shakes her head like she’s trying to reset her brain. “Okay. Okay. Explain. Right now. Because I woke up in yellow hell and you’re a—what are you? A TV doctor? And you’re making faces on your screen like a cartoon.”

You breathe out.

Then you do the most important thing you can do for a newcomer:

You give her the rules.

You point down the hallway. You mime walking in a straight line, then you circle your finger around to show looping back. You mime turning around and seeing different rooms. You point at the ceiling lights, then press your hands over your ears as if the sound gets louder.

You mimic a door appearing, then vanishing.

You point at your eyes—well, where your eyes would be—and shake your head to indicate hallucinations.

Bonnie watches, her expression shifting from confusion to reluctant comprehension.

“…So it loops,” she mutters. “And it messes with you.”

You nod.

You hold up one finger. Then you mime drinking. Then you cross your arms in an X.

Bonnie’s brow furrows.

“…Not safe to drink?”

You nod again.

Bonnie clicks her tongue. “Great.”

You hold up two fingers, then mime separation—two hands pulling apart—like a group splitting.

Bonnie stiffens.

“…So if we get separated…”

You nod.

You hold up three fingers, then point to a distant corner and mime red.

You make a dramatic “no” gesture, almost frantic.

Bonnie’s ears droop slightly. “Red wallpaper. Don’t go.”

You nod.

Bonnie exhales, slow and shaky. She looks down at her own purple hands like she’s checking if she’s still real.

“…Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. So… how do we get out of Level 0?”

You freeze, because this part always sounds stupid even when you’ve read it a hundred times.

You point at the wall.

You mime… stepping through it.

Bonnie stares.

“…No-clipping.”

You nod.

Bonnie laughs once—sharp, disbelieving. “That’s—That’s not a real thing.”

Your screen shows:

-_-

Bonnie’s laughter dies when the hum spikes, briefly, like a warning.

She hugs her arms closer to herself. For a machine, she looks painfully alive in that moment.

“…Okay,” she says, voice quieter. “I believe you. I hate it, but I believe you.”

She glances at your TV head again. “But why do you know all this? Who are you?”

You take a slow breath.

You point at yourself.

Then you point upward, as if pointing to the sky, to “outside,” to the real world.

Then you mime holding a phone, scrolling, watching.

Bonnie’s eyes widen.

“…You’re from… the real world.”

You nod.

Bonnie’s mouth parts slightly. The idea hits her like a revelation and a curse at the same time.

“If you’re from the real world… then you already knew about me too, didn’t you?”

You pause.

Your screen flickers.

;)

Bonnie’s expression sharpens with a strange kind of pride. “Of course you did.”

Then something shifts in her gaze—something possessive, quick, like a hand closing around a new toy.

“And you said your name?” she presses. “Come on. Don’t make me keep calling you ‘TV doctor.’”

You hesitate.

You can’t say it cleanly.

But you can show it.

You tap your chest and then, with careful finger movements, you trace letters on the air like you’re typing:

(Y/n)

Bonnie’s eyes follow each motion. Then she smiles—slow, delighted.

“Y/n,” she repeats. “Cute.”

Your screen flashes:

:(

Because of course she would say that.

Bonnie steps closer without asking. Her presence fills your space in a way that feels intimate and wrong in a liminal room that should be empty.

“You’re… really small, aren’t you?” she says abruptly, and the words don’t match what she’s seeing—because in this form, you are enormous.

Then she tilts her head, studying you with a predator’s curiosity. “No. Wait. That’s not it. I can tell.”

You freeze.

Bonnie’s eyes narrow like she’s listening to something you can’t hear.

“You don’t move like this is your real body,” she murmurs. “You move like you’re wearing it.”

You don’t answer.

Bonnie smiles wider. “Show me.”

Your screen flickers.

You consider refusing.

But you need something from her too: you need her calm, her cooperation, her willingness to follow you in a place designed to split people apart.

So you do it.

You close your eyes you don’t have.

You focus on your other self.

The one that fits you like skin.

The one you actually prefer, because it lets you talk. It lets you be understood.

Your body shudders.

Black smoke curls at your feet like a breath exhaled from a shadow. Not magical—technological in the way your TV form’s teleportation always looks, like an engineered phenomenon rather than a spell.

Bonnie takes a reflexive half-step back, ears lifting.

The smoke thickens.

Then collapses inward like a curtain being pulled—

—and you’re shorter.

Suddenly the ceiling feels higher.

The walls feel closer.

The world is the same sick yellow, but your relationship to it changes when you’re only 5’4.

Your hair falls around your shoulders—mid-length, two-tone black and white. The sharp hairpins sit like little weapons in your bangs. Your eyes—bright, glowing light yellow—catch the fluorescent glare and reflect it like a cat’s.

You’re dressed the way you always are in this form: dark purple and black, a jacket with dripping accents, a dress layered beneath, long fingerless gloves hugging your arms. Rings glint on your fingers—two on each hand—little anchors of identity.

You open your mouth.

And this time, English comes out.

“Hi,” you say, voice light and soft despite the situation, like you’re greeting someone in a café instead of the world’s most famous empty nightmare. “I’m Y/n.”

Bonnie stares.

Stares harder.

Then her whole body goes still in a way that screams, target acquired.

“Oh,” she says.

Just that.

Oh.

Her gaze travels down your smaller frame with zero shame, like she’s cataloging you. Your height. Your posture. Your feminine silhouette. Your pretty face that refuses to read as male at first glance.

You can practically hear the click in her head.

“You’re adorable,” Bonnie says, voice dropping into something velvet and dangerous. “So that’s what you’re hiding under the TV.”

You lift your hands defensively, half laughing because your human-form personality refuses to die even here. “I’m not hiding. It’s just—two forms.”

Bonnie steps closer again, and now you’re the one looking up—because she’s still 6’0 and you’re still… you.

She looks pleased by that.

“Y/n,” she repeats, savoring the name. “You look like a girl.”

You sigh. “I’m a guy.”

Bonnie doesn’t even blink.

“Sure,” she says, tone indulgent like you just told her you don’t like sweets while holding candy in your hand. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks heat despite the cold air.

“I’m serious,” you insist. “I’m an otokonoko. It’s a thing.”

Bonnie’s smile turns knowingly wicked. “Oh, I know what that is.”

You freeze. “You do?”

She leans down slightly, her face close enough that you can see the fine texture of her animatronic features, the faint seam lines that make her look manufactured—yet her eyes are too expressive, too alive.

“I have… hobbies,” she purrs. “And tastes.”

You swallow.

Bonnie straightens again, then glances around the empty room. The hum seems louder when she’s quiet.

“So,” she says, voice forcing itself into practicality. “We’re trapped in… this. And you know this place.”

You nod.

Bonnie’s ears tilt forward. “And you’re telling me that when someone gets pulled into the Backrooms… they get erased.”

Your smile falters.

This is the part you never enjoyed reading. The part that always made you stare at your screen too long at night.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “It’s like… your existence gets wiped from the world. Your photos might still exist, but people don’t recognize you. Your name doesn’t ring a bell. The world edits itself so it never had to include you.”

Bonnie’s eyes widen.

Then, for the first time, you see a crack.

Not in her body.

In her composure.

“…Mike,” she whispers.

You watch her mouth shape the name like a prayer and a curse.

“My Mike,” she says, voice trembling with anger more than grief. “He won’t remember me.”

You step closer, gentle. “Bonnie…”

Her fingers curl, claws scraping faintly against her own palm. The sound is tiny but it makes your spine go tight.

“If I go back,” she says, voice low, “I’ll be nothing. I’ll be a ghost in the corner of my own world. He’ll look through me like I’m… like I’m air.”

You inhale carefully.

You choose your words, because you know what she is in the fandom space: not canon, not official, born from obsession and art and AU logic.

And now she’s standing here, real enough to hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you say honestly. “I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t even know if we can go back the way we came.”

Bonnie’s gaze snaps to you.

And the crack in her composure seals itself with something darker.

“Then I won’t go back,” she says.

The certainty in her voice makes your stomach drop.

You blink. “Bonnie—”

She steps closer, towering. Her shadow cuts across you like a cage.

“If the world won’t remember me,” she murmurs, “then I’ll build a world that does.”

Your breath catches.

Bonnie’s smile returns, but now it’s the kind that makes your skin crawl.

“And look,” she adds softly, almost sweet. “I already found someone who knows my name.”

She reaches out and—without asking—hooks a finger under your chin, lifting your face up toward hers.

You stiffen. Not because it’s violent, but because it’s possessive. Familiar. The exact brand of yandere affection you’ve seen in stories a thousand times, now pressing into your reality like a thumb into soft fruit.

“Y/n,” she whispers. “You’re real. You’re here. You’re warm.”

You swallow. “I’m—yeah. I’m here.”

Bonnie’s thumb strokes once, slow, as if testing your compliance.

“You’re also,” she says, eyes narrowing in pleased appraisal, “smaller than me. Prettier than me. Softer than me.”

Your cheeks burn. “That’s not—”

“And you look like something I could carry,” she continues, voice dreamy and dangerous. “Like something I could keep.”

Your pulse spikes.

You take a careful step back. “Okay. Hey. We should focus on survival first.”

Bonnie’s eyes track the movement like a cat watching a mouse.

Then she smiles again, bright and sudden—too sudden.

“Of course,” she says lightly. “I’m just… glad you’re here.”

You nod, trying to ignore the way her gaze lingers on your legs, your gloves, the shape of your dress, the way you have to look up at her to meet her eyes.

You force yourself into teacher mode.

“Level 0 has rules,” you say. “It’s not linear. We can’t navigate normally. The lights can mess with your head. Hallucinations happen. If you see a door, it might not be real.”

Bonnie glances toward a distant corner. “And if I see someone?”

You hesitate.

Then you say it anyway.

“It’s not human.”

Bonnie’s eyes widen slightly. “Even if it looks like a wanderer?”

“Especially if it looks like a wanderer,” you say. “The documentation says no entities are known to exist here—but it also says if you encounter something you think is human… it isn’t.”

Bonnie’s ears twitch. “Lovely.”

You keep going. “We don’t drink the carpet moisture. We keep moving. We stay together as much as we can, but the level tries to separate groups.”

Bonnie’s gaze slides back to you. “So it will try to separate us.”

“Yes.”

Her smile deepens. “Then we just… don’t let it.”

The way she says it makes it sound like a promise.

Or a threat.

You pretend not to hear the difference.

“We need to noclip out to reach Level 1,” you continue. “It usually happens when reality glitches—when you run into a wall at the wrong angle, when you fall through a weak point. Sometimes it’s accidental.”

Bonnie tilts her head. “And you can… do that on purpose?”

You shrug helplessly. “Some people learn. But the guide for that is usually in the Manila Room. If we find it.”

Bonnie’s ears lift. “Manila Room?”

“A rare place,” you say. “Neutral. A dead end, but you can meet other wanderers there. Sometimes there’s documentation from the M.E.G.”

Bonnie’s eyes narrow. “So there are factions.”

You pause. “Maybe. In other levels. But Level 0 is… usually empty.”

Bonnie looks around the endless yellow and shivers despite having no reason to.

“…Then why am I here?” she murmurs.

You glance at her. “You said you woke up here.”

Bonnie nods slowly. “I was living normally. Thinking about Mike. Thinking about… how to make him mine.” Her eyes flick to you. “And then I blinked and I was here.”

You swallow.

The hum buzzes.

The carpet smells like damp paper.

You feel, suddenly, that heavy truth again:

No one is supposed to meet in Level 0.

Yet here you are.

With a yandere animatronic rabbit girl AU character who looks at you like you’re the answer to her loneliness.

Your mind whispers possibilities you don’t want:

This isn’t random.

The Backrooms pulled her here because it wanted something.

Or worse—

Because it wanted you to have something.

Bonnie steps closer, shoulder brushing yours as if the room isn’t infinite and she couldn’t stand an inch away.

“I’m staying with you,” she says.

It’s not a request.

You force a small smile, because your human-form personality still tries to keep things cozy even when the world is wrong. “Yeah. We should stick together.”

Bonnie’s eyes soften with satisfaction. “Good girl.”

You choke. “I’m not—”

She laughs, delighted. “Sure, Y/n. Sure.”

You exhale through your nose, trying not to let your annoyance become panic.

“Okay,” you say briskly. “We move. We don’t trust hallucinations. We avoid red wallpaper. We watch for weak points.”

Bonnie nods, then looks you up and down again like she’s re-reading your body.

“And if something tries to take you,” she adds lightly, “I’ll rip it apart.”

You stare at her.

Bonnie’s smile is sweet enough to fool someone who doesn’t know better.

But you do know better.

This is the kind of promise that can turn into a cage.

Still, you nod, because you’d rather have her on your side than against you.

“Thanks,” you say.

Bonnie leans down, lips close to your ear.

“For you,” she whispers, “anything.”

A cold ripple runs down your spine.

The hum seems louder, almost pleased.

You start walking.

Bonnie follows, close enough that her shadow keeps touching you.

You take a left.

The hallway stretches.

You take another left.

The hallway changes.

You take a third left—

—and the wallpaper seam is suddenly on the wrong side, and you realize Level 0 is already trying to shuffle the deck.

You glance at Bonnie.

She’s watching you with a fondness that feels too intense for someone she met five minutes ago.

“You’re really calm,” she says.

You laugh softly. “I’m not. I’m just… excited and terrified at the same time.”

Bonnie’s eyes narrow. “Excited?”

You nod. “I used to read about this. Watch videos. Theories. I thought it was—just an internet mythos. And now I’m actually here.”

Bonnie hums, amused. “You’re adorable when you nerd out.”

You groan. “Please don’t call it that.”

Bonnie’s grin widens. “No.”

You keep walking.

The lights flicker.

For a second the hum rises to a deafening volume—

Then abruptly cuts out.

The silence is so sudden it feels like you got punched.

Bonnie freezes, ears rigid. “What—”

Then the hum returns like nothing happened.

You exhale shakily. “Hallucination. Common.”

Bonnie stares at the lights with hatred. “I want to strangle the ceiling.”

You snort despite yourself. “Mood.”

Bonnie glances at you and her expression warms, as if your small joke fed something in her.

“Y/n,” she says, voice softer, “when you were that tall TV form… you couldn’t talk normally.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Reverse speech.”

Bonnie’s eyes gleam. “So you’re choosing to stay small because it’s easier to communicate.”

You nod. “Mostly.”

Bonnie’s smile turns sharp. “Good choice.”

The words land heavier than they should.

You keep walking.

You keep your shoulders relaxed.

But your mind stays alert in two directions now:

The Backrooms.

And Bonnie.

Because the Backrooms is designed to isolate you…

…and Bonnie looks like she intends to do the opposite.

The carpet squelches faintly under your boots.

A corner appears.

You round it—

—and you catch a glimpse of something in your peripheral vision.

A human silhouette.

Standing still.

Watching.

Your heart jumps into your throat.

You snap your gaze toward it.

Nothing.

Empty room.

Yellow wallpaper.

Damp carpet.

Bonnie’s voice slides in like a blade.

“You saw something.”

You swallow. “Hallucination.”

Bonnie’s eyes narrow. “If it wasn’t.”

You force yourself to breathe. “Then it isn’t human.”

Bonnie’s jaw tightens, and she steps closer until her arm brushes yours again.

“Then it won’t touch you,” she says.

You don’t answer.

You just keep walking.

Because in Level 0, the only way out is forward—

…and you’re starting to understand something else too:

You didn’t just find a companion.

You found a predator who decided you’re hers.

And the Tutorial Level is only just beginning.