Doctor Strange was an ordinary man once. A man with a name, a life, and a future. But that was before the breaking.
It started with whispers in his mind, growing louder and more persistent with each passing day. The fragmented thoughts weren't his, and yet, they seemed to belong to someone—or something—else. Strange had always been different, but now, he wasn't sure if he was even himself anymore. He was becoming a stranger to his own skin.
One night, as he wandered through the cold, empty streets of his old world, he found it. A ticket, resting at the foot of a crumbling statue, glowing faintly with an unearthly light. The words were written in a language he didn't recognize—strange symbols that seemed to dance on the paper. But the ticket had one word he could understand: Deadman's College.
Curiosity gnawed at him. Perhaps this was the escape he needed, the place where his fractured mind could find answers. Without hesitation, he pocketed the ticket and followed the directions it seemed to give, though they led him deeper into a labyrinth of secrets he could never have imagined.
The moment he crossed the threshold of Deadman's College, his world changed forever. No longer was he in a familiar realm of logic and reason. He was standing in a courtyard that twisted in impossible ways, where the air smelled like ozone and decay. Towering gothic spires stretched toward the sky, their tips lost in the swirling mist. And all around him, the shadows moved.
"You're late," a voice called out from the darkness.
Doctor Strange turned. A figure in dark robes stepped forward.
"I am Dean Mortallis. Welcome to Deadman's College," the figure intoned, his voice like the rasp of bone on stone. "I trust you're ready for what's to come."
Strange stood at the edge of a large, cavernous classroom. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the creatures that filled the seats—students, he assumed. The first thing that struck him was how… wrong everything felt. The walls seemed to pulse with energy, shifting colors like a living thing, and the air hummed with a low, almost imperceptible vibration.
The students weren't human. Not entirely.
A hulking creature with reptilian scales sat in the back, its six eyes darting around with a predatory gleam. A wraith-like girl hovered above her desk, her translucent form flickering like a dying light. And a goblin, grotesque with sharpened teeth, gnawed on the leg of an old wooden desk.
At the front, the teacher—a tall, gaunt figure—lifted a brittle scroll and began calling out names. Strange was certain he was the only human here, but something gnawed at him. The longer he stood there, the more unsettled he became. There was something about these monsters… they didn't seem as monstrous as they should.
"Von Crankenstein?" the teacher called.
A boy raised his hand. Von Crankenstein, it seemed, was a human in disguise. His sharp, dark suit was pristine, almost out of place in this room of horrors. But it wasn't just his appearance that made him stand out. His presence, cold and calculating, sent a ripple through the class.
Strange's mind flickered. His inner voices stirred, and a familiar voice emerged. Luthor. The intellectual. The one who observed with clinical detachment.
"That one's dangerous," Luthor's voice whispered inside his mind. He's too clean. Too perfect. Too human.
But it wasn't just Luthor who had noticed Von Crankenstein. Something darker stirred within Strange. Malzor, the one who dissected minds and monsters alike, grinned.
"There's something wrong with him," Malzor's voice purred. We should study him.
Strange barely heard the rest of the class. His mind was already spinning with the possibilities.
As the class continued, Strange found himself drifting in and out of focus. His body felt heavy, his thoughts clouded. The identities inside him were growing restless. Von Crankenstein. Luthor. Orion. They all wanted their say.
And then there was Malzor.
Strange couldn't shake the feeling that the people around him were hiding something—or worse, that they were all pieces of a puzzle that wasn't meant to be solved. And as the lesson on forbidden runes continued, his mind began to unravel, bit by bit.
The classroom grew darker, the chalk on the board now resembling ancient symbols, whispering in a dead language. But it wasn't the lesson that captured his attention. It was the feeling that something was watching him. Waiting.
The door creaked open, and the air seemed to freeze.
A tall figure entered, draped in black, his face hidden behind a mask of volcanic glass. The students stilled, and even the air grew heavy. Dean Mortallis.
"You," the Dean rasped, his voice like gravel scraping against bone. "Come with me."
Strange felt his heart skip a beat. He's talking to you.
The other students stared, some with suspicion, others with curiosity. It was impossible to ignore the sense of foreboding that filled the room.
But it was the Dean's eyes—or what was behind the mask—that caused Strange's spine to tingle.
Strange followed the Dean through the twisting hallways of the college, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The deeper they went, the darker it became. Shadows moved in the corners of his vision, and the walls seemed to close in on him.
Finally, they arrived at a chamber. The air was thick with the scent of burnt flesh and old blood. Strange's stomach churned as he took in the sight of the room—a laboratory of sorts, filled with broken glass tubes, cracked vials, and twisted mechanical devices.
"There was an… accident," the Dean explained, his voice low. "An experiment gone awry."
Strange stepped closer to the table at the center of the room. The body that lay there was… wrong. Twisted. It looked like a failed attempt at creating something monstrous, a creature with no mind of its own. It was a psychic construct, born from an unstable fusion of magic and flesh.
"They tried to destroy it," the Dean continued, "but instead of dying, it merged."
Strange felt a sharp pain in his head. The voices in his mind roared to life. Orion. The hero complex.
"They tried to kill it?" Orion's voice thundered. We can't just destroy it. It's... it's alive now.
But it was too late. The psychic creature had already merged with Doctor Strange.
The chaos inside his mind had just begun.
Back in the classroom, Strange could feel the other students' eyes on him. Their whispers snaked through the air like venomous tendrils. Something about him had changed. Even Von Crankenstein seemed to notice.
"You're not like the rest," Von said softly, eyes narrowing with interest.
Strange didn't answer. He couldn't. The chaos inside his mind was overwhelming now. The others were all awake—Von Crankenstein, Luthor, Orion, and Malzor—each vying for control.
Malzor's voice was the loudest.
"We must learn from it," Malzor's voice purred. We'll make something new. Something even they can't control.
But as he spoke, the classroom shifted. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper. A ripple of power surged through Strange's body, and the others inside him quieted for just a moment.
Strange's eyes flashed with an eerie light. A power that wasn't his own was stirring. The psychic creature's power was his now, and it hungered.
The experiment had begun.
That night, as Strange lay in his bed, he could hear the whispers again. But this time, it was different. The voices were no longer just fragmented personalities. They had become something darker—something monstrous.
The creature was awake. And it was hungry.
Strange's hand trembled as he gripped the edge of the bed. Luthor was silent now, as was Orion. Only Malzor seemed to revel in the chaos.
"The beast is here," Malzor's voice purred. We'll study it. Learn from it. And then, we'll use it.
Strange's eyes flashed with a fiery intensity. The hunger surged through him, and he could feel the creature within clawing for release.
But there was something else. Von Crankenstein was watching. Observing. And that smirk... it wasn't a sign of danger—it was a challenge.
For the first time since entering Deadman's College, Strange felt a spark of clarity.
It wasn't the school that was dangerous. It was him.