LostSole
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- Aug 27, 2024
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Emmett stood in front of the mirror, his brow furrowed in frustration. His tall, lean frame, usually agile with confidence, now felt weighed down by the invisible burden of failure. His shoulders were tight, tension radiating through his entire body as he braced himself for yet another disappointment.
Each time he looked at his reflection, he saw the same thing: a man stuck just short of his goal. It gnawed at him—how close he was, yet still so far. His jet-black hair, thick and unruly from countless times of running his fingers through it, fell into his deep brown eyes—eyes that normally brimmed with steely determination but today were clouded with doubt.
He clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar strain in his throat as he took another breath and attempted to reach those elusive high notes. His chest expanded, and for a fleeting moment, there was hope—a flicker of belief that maybe this time would be different. But the sound that escaped was far from the soaring pitch he needed. His voice cracked, splintering into a flat, strained attempt that echoed mockingly in the room.
Months of relentless practice, cycles of pushing harder and reaching further, yet always falling short, played through his mind. It was like hitting an invisible wall again and again. His voice had depth, power even—qualities that commanded attention—but those weren’t enough. Not for him. He needed more. He had heard others hit high notes with effortless grace, their voices soaring to heights he could only dream of. The gap between where he was and where he wanted to be gnawed at him. Staring at his reflection, Emmett saw more than just his physical self—his broad chest rising and falling with labored breaths, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He saw his ambitions, his dreams of greatness, crumbling under the weight of this one persistent hurdle. A quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe he wasn’t good enough.
That scared him most of all.
It was that fear, the gnawing uncertainty, that had pushed him to explore options he would have otherwise dismissed. The suggestion had come from a friend—a whisper of hope wrapped in the oddest of packages. A vocal coach with a reputation for results, though not by any conventional means. Dr. Aria Fate was known to be eccentric, even a little strange, but his clients all swore by his methods, claiming he could unlock vocal abilities no one else could. Emmett had been skeptical, dismissing the idea initially. But desperation, like an ever-tightening knot, had a way of pushing him in directions he’d normally steer clear of.
That was how he found himself standing on a quiet, unremarkable street in front of an old brick building. There was nothing special about it—no grand entrance, no polished glass windows boasting accolades. The door was plain, with just a modest sign that read: "Dr. Aria Fate, Vocal Coaching." The name seemed more fitting for a mysterious figure in a novel than a professional in the city, and that only added to Emmett’s apprehension.
He paused for a moment, staring at the sign, wondering what kind of man lay behind the unassuming door. The street was eerily quiet, with only the distant hum of city life in the background, making his decision feel all the weightier. His heart drummed lightly in his chest, a rhythm of anticipation and nerves.
With a deep breath, Emmett steeled himself, placing a hand on the cool metal of the doorknob. The familiar tightness in his throat returned, a reminder of what had led him here in the first place. Maybe this would be the breakthrough he needed, or maybe it would be another failed attempt in a long string of disappointments. Either way, he was about to find out.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, crossing the threshold into whatever awaited him within Dr. Fate’s world.
The office was sparse but meticulously organized, giving off an air of precision and focus. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books on a wide range of subjects—music theory, vocal technique, anatomy, and psychology. Emmett raised an eyebrow at the odd mixture. It was one thing for a vocal coach to understand music, but why the deep dive into the mind and body? It struck him as strange, yet intriguing. The room had a subtle scent, a mix of old wood, lavender, and something sharper—perhaps incense, or something more sterile, like rubbing alcohol. The air had a stillness to it, as if the room existed in its own time.
The low lighting only heightened the unease creeping up Emmett’s spine. The dim bulbs cast long, distorted shadows across the room, exaggerating the sharp edges of the furniture and making everything seem slightly off-kilter. There was no receptionist, no welcoming face to greet him. Just a desk, barren except for a small lamp and a few scattered papers, and a single door behind it that led, presumably, to Dr. Fate’s workspace.
Emmett hadn’t known what to expect when he booked the session. The descriptions of Dr. Fate were always vague, with a focus more on his results than the man himself. But the figure who emerged from behind the door was nothing like what Emmett had imagined.
Dr. Aria Fate was a peculiar sight—tall and willowy, his frame almost unnaturally slender, as though he could slip between spaces unnoticed. There was something ethereal about him, a presence that made Emmett pause. Silver hair, soft and flowing, fell to his shoulders in a loose cascade, a few strands catching the light and framing his sharp, angular features. His eyes, almond-shaped and deep-set, were an unsettling shade of pale gray, so light they were almost translucent, making it hard to determine where he was looking. Yet they gleamed with an undeniable intelligence, like he saw more than just what was in front of him.
His skin was pale, nearly translucent in the dim lighting, which only added to his ghostly appearance. His thin lips curled into a faint smile, one that wavered between amusement and something else—something mischievous, as though he found humor in secrets only he knew. He wore an old-fashioned vest over a simple button-up shirt, the sleeves casually rolled to reveal lean, sinewy forearms marked with thin veins that hinted at wiry strength beneath his delicate frame. The vest was an odd touch, making him look like he’d stepped out of another era.
Despite his unorthodox appearance, there was something magnetic about him. The way he moved, the way his eyes seemed to pierce through the room—Emmett felt as though this man held knowledge far beyond what others grasped. And for a moment, the strangeness of the office, the unsettling lighting, and the unusual mixture of scents seemed to fade into the background. Dr. Aria Fate was unlike anyone Emmett had ever met, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that made him trust the man just a little more.
"Ah, Emmett, right?" Dr. Fate's voice, though soft, carried a certain weight that immediately commanded Emmett’s attention. There was an underlying authority in the way he spoke, something quiet but unyielding. It wasn’t harsh, but it made Emmett sit up a little straighter, as though he’d been given a subtle directive. Dr. Fate's pale eyes seemed to gleam with recognition as he gestured toward the back room. "Come in, come in. Let’s see what we can do for you."
Emmett followed, his initial curiosity now tainted with a faint hint of apprehension. The back room was more of a studio, but not the kind he was accustomed to. Padded walls, like something out of a recording booth, muted every sound that wasn’t their own footsteps. A few scattered instruments lay around, but none of them were being used. The centerpiece of the room was a large, plush chair in the middle, its deep cushions inviting, yet oddly out of place. Everything about the space was neat, methodical, and clinical, as though Dr. Fate approached music with the same precision a surgeon might approach an operation. It wasn’t the lively, chaotic energy of most music studios. Instead, it was almost too quiet, the kind of quiet that made Emmett feel like he was stepping into something far more serious than he anticipated.
There were no posters of famous singers, no inspirational quotes or sheet music pinned to the walls—just the curious absence of sound, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
"Sit," Dr. Fate instructed, his movements fluid and precise now, the faint air of amusement from earlier replaced with a more purposeful grace. It was as though he had stepped fully into his role, completely sure of what he was about to do. Emmett hesitated for a split second before sinking into the chair. The plush cushions swallowed him, and for a moment, he felt off-balance, as though he were settling into something deeper than just a chair.
Still, despite his lingering unease, Emmett was willing to give the session a try. He had come this far, after all.
Dr. Fate began with the basics—simple vocal exercises designed to warm up Emmett’s voice. His watchful gaze never left Emmett, his ears finely tuned to the subtle shifts in his vocal performance. Emmett moved through his range, starting low and rising higher, but the moment he tried to hit the higher notes, his voice faltered. That familiar crack echoed through the room, causing Emmett to wince slightly. His throat tightened as the failure settled over him once again.
Dr. Fate’s pale brow furrowed, and he pressed his thin lips together as he listened. He didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence linger as though he was digesting everything, carefully considering the problem in front of him.
"I see," Dr. Fate finally said, his voice contemplative but with a trace of certainty. "You’re holding tension—deep in your diaphragm, but especially in your throat." His eyes flickered over Emmett, as though he could see through him to where the tension lay, constricting his sound. "It’s constricting your vocal range. We need to... release that."
His words hung in the air, their vagueness making Emmett wonder what exactly he meant by “release.” Yet, there was something in Dr. Fate's calm assurance that suggested he knew how to fix it. As much as Emmett wanted to believe him, a tendril of unease coiled tighter in his stomach. The way Dr. Fate said “release” made it sound like this session was about to get far stranger than he had imagined.
Emmett blinked, trying to steady his thoughts. He had heard similar advice from other vocal coaches—how tension was the enemy of the voice, how he needed to 'loosen up.' But despite countless exercises, none had ever solved the problem. Now here was Dr. Fate, with his unsettling calm and cryptic smile, offering a different solution.
The doctor’s smile curled a little wider, something playful, almost mischievous dancing behind his pale eyes as he leaned forward slightly. "I have a method," he said, his voice soft but brimming with confidence. "It’s... unconventional, but I guarantee results. My method will have you singing in no time."
There was something about the way he said it that made Emmett’s stomach twist in a knot. The phrase seemed innocent enough, but in Dr. Fate's voice, it carried an edge—a hint of something else beneath the surface. Emmett’s heart beat faster, and he hesitated, his body on alert even as he tried to stay composed.
"What exactly is your method?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. The uncertainty was creeping back in, the instinct to leave this strange office tugging at him. Dr. Fate’s smile widened further, his eyes gleaming with that odd intensity again, as though he had been waiting for this moment. "You’ll see," he said, his voice filled with quiet promise. "It’s all about releasing tension in the diaphragm. Laughter is the best tool for that."
Emmett blinked, confusion clouding his expression. "Laughter?" he echoed, trying to make sense of the suggestion. This was new, even for him. He had expected vocal drills, breathing techniques—something traditional. But laughter?
Dr. Fate nodded as though this made perfect sense, his face serious, not a hint of humor behind his words. "Yes, laughter. You see, the diaphragm is the key to controlling your voice, and nothing loosens it up quite like a good laugh. You’ll understand soon enough. Now, if you’ll just let me secure your arms..."
Emmett’s eyes widened as Dr. Fate reached for something attached to the chair—straps. Thick, padded straps that dangled ominously from the armrests. His pulse quickened as the room seemed to shift from strange to outright alarming.
"Wait—what are you doing?" Emmett asked, his voice sharp with growing alarm.
Dr. Fate chuckled softly, the sound oddly reassuring, but not enough to ease Emmett’s apprehension. "Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. I just need to make sure you stay still. My method requires... a little tickling."
"Tickling?!" Emmett half-laughed, half-gasped, his voice caught between disbelief and unease. This had to be some kind of joke—there was no way this eccentric doctor was serious.
But the look on Dr. Fate's face, calm and purposeful, suggested otherwise.
Dr. Fate wasn’t joking. Before Emmett could form a protest, his arms were secured tightly to the chair, his wrists bound by the padded straps. The realization sank in too late—there was no escaping this. His heart raced, pounding in his chest as he stared at Dr. Fate, who now hovered over him, fingers poised with eerie precision.
Then it began.
Dr. Fate's long, nimble fingers danced lightly across Emmett's ribs, skimming the sensitive skin with a teasing grace. The reaction was instantaneous. Emmett jolted in his seat, his entire body jerking as if trying to flee from the sensation. His muscles tensed, but it was no use. Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably from his chest, a high-pitched, almost hysterical sound that spilled from his lips before he could even attempt to stop it.
"HAHAHA! NOHOHOHO!" Emmett shrieked, the involuntary giggles bursting out of him, each one sharper and more intense than the last. His body strained against the straps, muscles flexing, desperate to move, but the restraints held firm. Every twitch, every jolt only seemed to make the sensation worse.
"See? We’re just getting started," Dr. Fate said, his voice eerily calm despite the chaos of laughter filling the room. His fingers moved with surgical precision, pressing into Emmett's sides with just the right amount of pressure, tracing the delicate spaces between ribs where the skin was most vulnerable.
Emmett’s laughter grew louder, more frantic, and his body bucked against the chair. The sensation was overwhelming. Every touch sent electric shivers racing up his spine, radiating out to every corner of his body. His lungs burned as the laughter kept coming, uncontrollable and relentless. He tried to speak, to protest, but all that came out was more breathless laughter, each attempt drowned out by the sensation overtaking him.
"HAHAHAHA! PLEHEHEASE!" Emmett managed to choke out while lost in the throes of hysterical laughter, his voice breaking with desperation. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, but every time he thought there might be a reprieve, Dr. Fate's fingers found a new spot and the laughter came back tenfold.
It was maddening. Emmett could feel the tension unraveling in his body, but not in the way he expected. His muscles trembled, twitching under the tickling assault. His skin felt hyperaware, every nerve alive with sensation. He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut as the laughter poured out in waves, faster and more desperate.
And then, something shifted.
In the midst of the hysteria, amid the helpless giggling and the squirming, Emmett felt it—a loosening. The tightness in his diaphragm, that rigid wall that had blocked him for so long, seemed to melt away. His throat, constricted by tension for months, suddenly opened up. It was as though the tickling was breaking something free inside him.
And just like that, without warning, a note—a high, clear note—escaped his lips between the fits of laughter. The sound was pure, ringing through the room, perfectly pitched in a way Emmett had never been able to achieve before.
“There it is!” Dr. Fate exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with triumph. His fingers paused for a brief moment, but only long enough for Emmett to gasp for air before they continued their relentless work. "I told you, my method works!"
Emmett’s body convulsed in the chair, torn between the joy of hitting that note and the continued onslaught of ticklish sensations. His laughter became a mixture of disbelief and hysterics, his body both resisting and surrendering to the peculiar method that was somehow, impossibly, working. Each new burst of laughter seemed to unlock more of his voice, allowing him to reach the heights he had been chasing for so long.
The intensity didn’t let up. Dr. Fate’s fingers, skilled and methodical, continued their assault, moving with precision from Emmett’s ribs to his underarms, each touch sending him spiraling into another fit of laughter. His muscles ached, his throat raw from the uncontrollable giggling, yet amidst the chaos, he could feel his voice changing—growing stronger, freer.
Emmett wasn’t sure how much more he could take, but deep down, a part of him knew—this strange, absurd method was working.
For the next hour, Emmett was trapped in a dizzying cycle of uncontrollable laughter and unexpected vocal breakthroughs. The tickling was relentless—Dr. Fate’s fingers never faltered, expertly dancing over every sensitive spot with precision. Emmett’s body convulsed in the chair, helpless against the waves of ticklish torment. His laughter echoed off the padded walls, a wild, uncontrollable mix of high-pitched giggles and desperate gasps. But amidst the chaos, something remarkable kept happening: between the fits of laughter, Emmett found himself hitting notes he had only dreamed of reaching.
It was surreal. Each time the laughter grew too intense, when Emmett thought he couldn’t take anymore, his voice would break free, rising to a clarity and pitch he had never thought possible. His diaphragm, once so tight and uncooperative, felt like it had finally surrendered, allowing his voice to soar. The harder he laughed, the more his body seemed to let go of the tension that had held him back for so long.
By the end of the session, Emmett was utterly spent. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his face flushed, and his muscles trembling from the physical strain of both the laughter and the emotional release. Sweat clung to his skin, and his limbs felt heavy, but there was an undeniable exhilaration coursing through him. He had done it—he had hit those high notes. Not just once, but again and again.
Dr. Fate unstrapped him with a satisfied smile, his fingers finally pulling away from Emmett’s worn-out frame. "You did well," he said, his voice calm and composed, as though the last hour had been nothing out of the ordinary for him. "Same time next week?"
Emmett, still catching his breath, nodded eagerly. His body may have been exhausted, but his mind was buzzing with excitement. "Yeah... yeah, absolutely," he managed to say between deep, ragged breaths. His voice, though tired, had a newfound strength to it, a smoothness that hadn't been there before.
As he stood on shaky legs, Emmett couldn’t help but smile to himself. It had been bizarre, and at times overwhelming, but Dr. Fate's method had worked. He had never felt so free, so capable of pushing his voice beyond its limits. And now, with his next session already booked, he was ready for more—even if it meant enduring another hour of ticklish torment.
A week later, Emmett found himself standing outside the familiar brick building, anticipation buzzing through his veins. His last session had been strange, but undeniably effective. He had spent the week practicing, but nothing compared to the results Dr. Fate had pulled from him during their session. He was eager to see what else he could achieve, to push even further past his limits.
But something was wrong.
The sign was gone. The modest plaque that had read "Dr. Aria Fate, Vocal Coaching" had vanished without a trace. Emmett frowned, unease settling over him like a cold shiver. The door, once closed and secure, stood slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he stepped inside—and his heart sank.
The office was completely empty.
Gone were the shelves lined with books, the instruments scattered around the room, the plush chair at the center where he had spent an hour in laughter and discovery. The air, once filled with a strange blend of lavender and something clinical, now held nothing but the hollow, vacant smell of dust. It was as if Dr. Fate had never existed.
Panic crept up Emmett’s spine as his eyes darted around the barren space, searching for some explanation. His pulse quickened, thoughts racing—had he imagined it all? Was this some kind of elaborate trick?
"Excuse me!" His voice, trembling with disbelief, called out when he spotted a janitor sweeping near the back of the room. The man, old and bent with a weathered face, looked up slowly, raising an eyebrow at the intrusion.
"What happened to Dr. Fate?" Emmett demanded, trying to steady his voice.
The janitor gave him a puzzled look, the broom pausing mid-sweep. "Dr. who?"
"Dr. Fate," Emmett repeated, his throat tightening. "The vocal coach. He was here last week. This was his office."
The janitor chuckled, the sound dry and raspy, shaking his head. "Oh, him," he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You must be new."
Emmett frowned. "What do you mean?"
The janitor leaned against his broom, sighing as if this wasn’t the first time he had been asked this question. "That guy? He comes and goes. Shows up in a city, pretends to be some kinda professional—vocal coach, chiropractor, therapist, you name it. Stays just long enough to build up a reputation, then disappears before anyone can figure him out."
Emmett's mouth went dry, disbelief crashing over him. "But... but he helped me," he stammered, the confusion thick in his voice. "I was hitting high notes I’ve never been able to reach before."
The janitor shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Yeah, some people say he’s got a gift. Others say he’s nuts—schizophrenic, maybe. Multiple personalities, even. Who knows? Point is, he’s gone now. Moves around a lot. Doesn’t stay in one place long enough for people to figure him out."
Emmett stood frozen, his mind reeling. How could this be possible? The man had been strange, sure, but the results were undeniable. Was he really just some kind of drifter, a fraud who vanished as soon as people caught on?
As the janitor resumed sweeping, Emmett’s thoughts churned with the weight of what he had just learned. The method, the tickling, the success—it had all worked. But now, standing in the empty shell of what had once been Dr. Fate’s office, Emmett was left with an unsettling realization: the method that had pushed him to greatness might have been born from madness.
As he stood in the empty office, the silence pressing in on him, Emmett didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. The surreal nature of the situation was too much to process. Dr. Fate—if that had even been his real name—was gone. Vanished like a ghost, leaving nothing behind but the memory of that strange, absurd session.
Yet the madness had worked. Emmett had experienced real results, hitting notes he had struggled with for months, all through a method that was as ridiculous as it was effective. His fingers twitched at his sides, and he could almost still feel the phantom sensation of those tickling fingers prodding at his ribs, teasing the tension from his body. He had walked into that session full of doubt, but left with his voice transformed.
Now, standing in the barren room that once held the answers to his vocal struggles, Emmett was left with the unsettling question of what to do next. How did he move forward from here, when the one person who had helped him break through had disappeared without a trace?
Had fate brought him here to this strange man with an equally strange technique? Or was it nothing more than blind luck, a random encounter in a city full of mysteries?
Either way, Emmett knew one thing for certain as he stood there, his chest still tingling from the memory of that laugh-filled hour:
He had been tickled by fate.
THE END
Each time he looked at his reflection, he saw the same thing: a man stuck just short of his goal. It gnawed at him—how close he was, yet still so far. His jet-black hair, thick and unruly from countless times of running his fingers through it, fell into his deep brown eyes—eyes that normally brimmed with steely determination but today were clouded with doubt.
He clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar strain in his throat as he took another breath and attempted to reach those elusive high notes. His chest expanded, and for a fleeting moment, there was hope—a flicker of belief that maybe this time would be different. But the sound that escaped was far from the soaring pitch he needed. His voice cracked, splintering into a flat, strained attempt that echoed mockingly in the room.
Months of relentless practice, cycles of pushing harder and reaching further, yet always falling short, played through his mind. It was like hitting an invisible wall again and again. His voice had depth, power even—qualities that commanded attention—but those weren’t enough. Not for him. He needed more. He had heard others hit high notes with effortless grace, their voices soaring to heights he could only dream of. The gap between where he was and where he wanted to be gnawed at him. Staring at his reflection, Emmett saw more than just his physical self—his broad chest rising and falling with labored breaths, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He saw his ambitions, his dreams of greatness, crumbling under the weight of this one persistent hurdle. A quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe he wasn’t good enough.
That scared him most of all.
It was that fear, the gnawing uncertainty, that had pushed him to explore options he would have otherwise dismissed. The suggestion had come from a friend—a whisper of hope wrapped in the oddest of packages. A vocal coach with a reputation for results, though not by any conventional means. Dr. Aria Fate was known to be eccentric, even a little strange, but his clients all swore by his methods, claiming he could unlock vocal abilities no one else could. Emmett had been skeptical, dismissing the idea initially. But desperation, like an ever-tightening knot, had a way of pushing him in directions he’d normally steer clear of.
That was how he found himself standing on a quiet, unremarkable street in front of an old brick building. There was nothing special about it—no grand entrance, no polished glass windows boasting accolades. The door was plain, with just a modest sign that read: "Dr. Aria Fate, Vocal Coaching." The name seemed more fitting for a mysterious figure in a novel than a professional in the city, and that only added to Emmett’s apprehension.
He paused for a moment, staring at the sign, wondering what kind of man lay behind the unassuming door. The street was eerily quiet, with only the distant hum of city life in the background, making his decision feel all the weightier. His heart drummed lightly in his chest, a rhythm of anticipation and nerves.
With a deep breath, Emmett steeled himself, placing a hand on the cool metal of the doorknob. The familiar tightness in his throat returned, a reminder of what had led him here in the first place. Maybe this would be the breakthrough he needed, or maybe it would be another failed attempt in a long string of disappointments. Either way, he was about to find out.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, crossing the threshold into whatever awaited him within Dr. Fate’s world.
The office was sparse but meticulously organized, giving off an air of precision and focus. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books on a wide range of subjects—music theory, vocal technique, anatomy, and psychology. Emmett raised an eyebrow at the odd mixture. It was one thing for a vocal coach to understand music, but why the deep dive into the mind and body? It struck him as strange, yet intriguing. The room had a subtle scent, a mix of old wood, lavender, and something sharper—perhaps incense, or something more sterile, like rubbing alcohol. The air had a stillness to it, as if the room existed in its own time.
The low lighting only heightened the unease creeping up Emmett’s spine. The dim bulbs cast long, distorted shadows across the room, exaggerating the sharp edges of the furniture and making everything seem slightly off-kilter. There was no receptionist, no welcoming face to greet him. Just a desk, barren except for a small lamp and a few scattered papers, and a single door behind it that led, presumably, to Dr. Fate’s workspace.
Emmett hadn’t known what to expect when he booked the session. The descriptions of Dr. Fate were always vague, with a focus more on his results than the man himself. But the figure who emerged from behind the door was nothing like what Emmett had imagined.
Dr. Aria Fate was a peculiar sight—tall and willowy, his frame almost unnaturally slender, as though he could slip between spaces unnoticed. There was something ethereal about him, a presence that made Emmett pause. Silver hair, soft and flowing, fell to his shoulders in a loose cascade, a few strands catching the light and framing his sharp, angular features. His eyes, almond-shaped and deep-set, were an unsettling shade of pale gray, so light they were almost translucent, making it hard to determine where he was looking. Yet they gleamed with an undeniable intelligence, like he saw more than just what was in front of him.
His skin was pale, nearly translucent in the dim lighting, which only added to his ghostly appearance. His thin lips curled into a faint smile, one that wavered between amusement and something else—something mischievous, as though he found humor in secrets only he knew. He wore an old-fashioned vest over a simple button-up shirt, the sleeves casually rolled to reveal lean, sinewy forearms marked with thin veins that hinted at wiry strength beneath his delicate frame. The vest was an odd touch, making him look like he’d stepped out of another era.
Despite his unorthodox appearance, there was something magnetic about him. The way he moved, the way his eyes seemed to pierce through the room—Emmett felt as though this man held knowledge far beyond what others grasped. And for a moment, the strangeness of the office, the unsettling lighting, and the unusual mixture of scents seemed to fade into the background. Dr. Aria Fate was unlike anyone Emmett had ever met, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that made him trust the man just a little more.
"Ah, Emmett, right?" Dr. Fate's voice, though soft, carried a certain weight that immediately commanded Emmett’s attention. There was an underlying authority in the way he spoke, something quiet but unyielding. It wasn’t harsh, but it made Emmett sit up a little straighter, as though he’d been given a subtle directive. Dr. Fate's pale eyes seemed to gleam with recognition as he gestured toward the back room. "Come in, come in. Let’s see what we can do for you."
Emmett followed, his initial curiosity now tainted with a faint hint of apprehension. The back room was more of a studio, but not the kind he was accustomed to. Padded walls, like something out of a recording booth, muted every sound that wasn’t their own footsteps. A few scattered instruments lay around, but none of them were being used. The centerpiece of the room was a large, plush chair in the middle, its deep cushions inviting, yet oddly out of place. Everything about the space was neat, methodical, and clinical, as though Dr. Fate approached music with the same precision a surgeon might approach an operation. It wasn’t the lively, chaotic energy of most music studios. Instead, it was almost too quiet, the kind of quiet that made Emmett feel like he was stepping into something far more serious than he anticipated.
There were no posters of famous singers, no inspirational quotes or sheet music pinned to the walls—just the curious absence of sound, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
"Sit," Dr. Fate instructed, his movements fluid and precise now, the faint air of amusement from earlier replaced with a more purposeful grace. It was as though he had stepped fully into his role, completely sure of what he was about to do. Emmett hesitated for a split second before sinking into the chair. The plush cushions swallowed him, and for a moment, he felt off-balance, as though he were settling into something deeper than just a chair.
Still, despite his lingering unease, Emmett was willing to give the session a try. He had come this far, after all.
Dr. Fate began with the basics—simple vocal exercises designed to warm up Emmett’s voice. His watchful gaze never left Emmett, his ears finely tuned to the subtle shifts in his vocal performance. Emmett moved through his range, starting low and rising higher, but the moment he tried to hit the higher notes, his voice faltered. That familiar crack echoed through the room, causing Emmett to wince slightly. His throat tightened as the failure settled over him once again.
Dr. Fate’s pale brow furrowed, and he pressed his thin lips together as he listened. He didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence linger as though he was digesting everything, carefully considering the problem in front of him.
"I see," Dr. Fate finally said, his voice contemplative but with a trace of certainty. "You’re holding tension—deep in your diaphragm, but especially in your throat." His eyes flickered over Emmett, as though he could see through him to where the tension lay, constricting his sound. "It’s constricting your vocal range. We need to... release that."
His words hung in the air, their vagueness making Emmett wonder what exactly he meant by “release.” Yet, there was something in Dr. Fate's calm assurance that suggested he knew how to fix it. As much as Emmett wanted to believe him, a tendril of unease coiled tighter in his stomach. The way Dr. Fate said “release” made it sound like this session was about to get far stranger than he had imagined.
Emmett blinked, trying to steady his thoughts. He had heard similar advice from other vocal coaches—how tension was the enemy of the voice, how he needed to 'loosen up.' But despite countless exercises, none had ever solved the problem. Now here was Dr. Fate, with his unsettling calm and cryptic smile, offering a different solution.
The doctor’s smile curled a little wider, something playful, almost mischievous dancing behind his pale eyes as he leaned forward slightly. "I have a method," he said, his voice soft but brimming with confidence. "It’s... unconventional, but I guarantee results. My method will have you singing in no time."
There was something about the way he said it that made Emmett’s stomach twist in a knot. The phrase seemed innocent enough, but in Dr. Fate's voice, it carried an edge—a hint of something else beneath the surface. Emmett’s heart beat faster, and he hesitated, his body on alert even as he tried to stay composed.
"What exactly is your method?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. The uncertainty was creeping back in, the instinct to leave this strange office tugging at him. Dr. Fate’s smile widened further, his eyes gleaming with that odd intensity again, as though he had been waiting for this moment. "You’ll see," he said, his voice filled with quiet promise. "It’s all about releasing tension in the diaphragm. Laughter is the best tool for that."
Emmett blinked, confusion clouding his expression. "Laughter?" he echoed, trying to make sense of the suggestion. This was new, even for him. He had expected vocal drills, breathing techniques—something traditional. But laughter?
Dr. Fate nodded as though this made perfect sense, his face serious, not a hint of humor behind his words. "Yes, laughter. You see, the diaphragm is the key to controlling your voice, and nothing loosens it up quite like a good laugh. You’ll understand soon enough. Now, if you’ll just let me secure your arms..."
Emmett’s eyes widened as Dr. Fate reached for something attached to the chair—straps. Thick, padded straps that dangled ominously from the armrests. His pulse quickened as the room seemed to shift from strange to outright alarming.
"Wait—what are you doing?" Emmett asked, his voice sharp with growing alarm.
Dr. Fate chuckled softly, the sound oddly reassuring, but not enough to ease Emmett’s apprehension. "Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. I just need to make sure you stay still. My method requires... a little tickling."
"Tickling?!" Emmett half-laughed, half-gasped, his voice caught between disbelief and unease. This had to be some kind of joke—there was no way this eccentric doctor was serious.
But the look on Dr. Fate's face, calm and purposeful, suggested otherwise.
Dr. Fate wasn’t joking. Before Emmett could form a protest, his arms were secured tightly to the chair, his wrists bound by the padded straps. The realization sank in too late—there was no escaping this. His heart raced, pounding in his chest as he stared at Dr. Fate, who now hovered over him, fingers poised with eerie precision.
Then it began.
Dr. Fate's long, nimble fingers danced lightly across Emmett's ribs, skimming the sensitive skin with a teasing grace. The reaction was instantaneous. Emmett jolted in his seat, his entire body jerking as if trying to flee from the sensation. His muscles tensed, but it was no use. Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably from his chest, a high-pitched, almost hysterical sound that spilled from his lips before he could even attempt to stop it.
"HAHAHA! NOHOHOHO!" Emmett shrieked, the involuntary giggles bursting out of him, each one sharper and more intense than the last. His body strained against the straps, muscles flexing, desperate to move, but the restraints held firm. Every twitch, every jolt only seemed to make the sensation worse.
"See? We’re just getting started," Dr. Fate said, his voice eerily calm despite the chaos of laughter filling the room. His fingers moved with surgical precision, pressing into Emmett's sides with just the right amount of pressure, tracing the delicate spaces between ribs where the skin was most vulnerable.
Emmett’s laughter grew louder, more frantic, and his body bucked against the chair. The sensation was overwhelming. Every touch sent electric shivers racing up his spine, radiating out to every corner of his body. His lungs burned as the laughter kept coming, uncontrollable and relentless. He tried to speak, to protest, but all that came out was more breathless laughter, each attempt drowned out by the sensation overtaking him.
"HAHAHAHA! PLEHEHEASE!" Emmett managed to choke out while lost in the throes of hysterical laughter, his voice breaking with desperation. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, but every time he thought there might be a reprieve, Dr. Fate's fingers found a new spot and the laughter came back tenfold.
It was maddening. Emmett could feel the tension unraveling in his body, but not in the way he expected. His muscles trembled, twitching under the tickling assault. His skin felt hyperaware, every nerve alive with sensation. He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut as the laughter poured out in waves, faster and more desperate.
And then, something shifted.
In the midst of the hysteria, amid the helpless giggling and the squirming, Emmett felt it—a loosening. The tightness in his diaphragm, that rigid wall that had blocked him for so long, seemed to melt away. His throat, constricted by tension for months, suddenly opened up. It was as though the tickling was breaking something free inside him.
And just like that, without warning, a note—a high, clear note—escaped his lips between the fits of laughter. The sound was pure, ringing through the room, perfectly pitched in a way Emmett had never been able to achieve before.
“There it is!” Dr. Fate exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with triumph. His fingers paused for a brief moment, but only long enough for Emmett to gasp for air before they continued their relentless work. "I told you, my method works!"
Emmett’s body convulsed in the chair, torn between the joy of hitting that note and the continued onslaught of ticklish sensations. His laughter became a mixture of disbelief and hysterics, his body both resisting and surrendering to the peculiar method that was somehow, impossibly, working. Each new burst of laughter seemed to unlock more of his voice, allowing him to reach the heights he had been chasing for so long.
The intensity didn’t let up. Dr. Fate’s fingers, skilled and methodical, continued their assault, moving with precision from Emmett’s ribs to his underarms, each touch sending him spiraling into another fit of laughter. His muscles ached, his throat raw from the uncontrollable giggling, yet amidst the chaos, he could feel his voice changing—growing stronger, freer.
Emmett wasn’t sure how much more he could take, but deep down, a part of him knew—this strange, absurd method was working.
For the next hour, Emmett was trapped in a dizzying cycle of uncontrollable laughter and unexpected vocal breakthroughs. The tickling was relentless—Dr. Fate’s fingers never faltered, expertly dancing over every sensitive spot with precision. Emmett’s body convulsed in the chair, helpless against the waves of ticklish torment. His laughter echoed off the padded walls, a wild, uncontrollable mix of high-pitched giggles and desperate gasps. But amidst the chaos, something remarkable kept happening: between the fits of laughter, Emmett found himself hitting notes he had only dreamed of reaching.
It was surreal. Each time the laughter grew too intense, when Emmett thought he couldn’t take anymore, his voice would break free, rising to a clarity and pitch he had never thought possible. His diaphragm, once so tight and uncooperative, felt like it had finally surrendered, allowing his voice to soar. The harder he laughed, the more his body seemed to let go of the tension that had held him back for so long.
By the end of the session, Emmett was utterly spent. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his face flushed, and his muscles trembling from the physical strain of both the laughter and the emotional release. Sweat clung to his skin, and his limbs felt heavy, but there was an undeniable exhilaration coursing through him. He had done it—he had hit those high notes. Not just once, but again and again.
Dr. Fate unstrapped him with a satisfied smile, his fingers finally pulling away from Emmett’s worn-out frame. "You did well," he said, his voice calm and composed, as though the last hour had been nothing out of the ordinary for him. "Same time next week?"
Emmett, still catching his breath, nodded eagerly. His body may have been exhausted, but his mind was buzzing with excitement. "Yeah... yeah, absolutely," he managed to say between deep, ragged breaths. His voice, though tired, had a newfound strength to it, a smoothness that hadn't been there before.
As he stood on shaky legs, Emmett couldn’t help but smile to himself. It had been bizarre, and at times overwhelming, but Dr. Fate's method had worked. He had never felt so free, so capable of pushing his voice beyond its limits. And now, with his next session already booked, he was ready for more—even if it meant enduring another hour of ticklish torment.
A week later, Emmett found himself standing outside the familiar brick building, anticipation buzzing through his veins. His last session had been strange, but undeniably effective. He had spent the week practicing, but nothing compared to the results Dr. Fate had pulled from him during their session. He was eager to see what else he could achieve, to push even further past his limits.
But something was wrong.
The sign was gone. The modest plaque that had read "Dr. Aria Fate, Vocal Coaching" had vanished without a trace. Emmett frowned, unease settling over him like a cold shiver. The door, once closed and secure, stood slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he stepped inside—and his heart sank.
The office was completely empty.
Gone were the shelves lined with books, the instruments scattered around the room, the plush chair at the center where he had spent an hour in laughter and discovery. The air, once filled with a strange blend of lavender and something clinical, now held nothing but the hollow, vacant smell of dust. It was as if Dr. Fate had never existed.
Panic crept up Emmett’s spine as his eyes darted around the barren space, searching for some explanation. His pulse quickened, thoughts racing—had he imagined it all? Was this some kind of elaborate trick?
"Excuse me!" His voice, trembling with disbelief, called out when he spotted a janitor sweeping near the back of the room. The man, old and bent with a weathered face, looked up slowly, raising an eyebrow at the intrusion.
"What happened to Dr. Fate?" Emmett demanded, trying to steady his voice.
The janitor gave him a puzzled look, the broom pausing mid-sweep. "Dr. who?"
"Dr. Fate," Emmett repeated, his throat tightening. "The vocal coach. He was here last week. This was his office."
The janitor chuckled, the sound dry and raspy, shaking his head. "Oh, him," he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You must be new."
Emmett frowned. "What do you mean?"
The janitor leaned against his broom, sighing as if this wasn’t the first time he had been asked this question. "That guy? He comes and goes. Shows up in a city, pretends to be some kinda professional—vocal coach, chiropractor, therapist, you name it. Stays just long enough to build up a reputation, then disappears before anyone can figure him out."
Emmett's mouth went dry, disbelief crashing over him. "But... but he helped me," he stammered, the confusion thick in his voice. "I was hitting high notes I’ve never been able to reach before."
The janitor shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Yeah, some people say he’s got a gift. Others say he’s nuts—schizophrenic, maybe. Multiple personalities, even. Who knows? Point is, he’s gone now. Moves around a lot. Doesn’t stay in one place long enough for people to figure him out."
Emmett stood frozen, his mind reeling. How could this be possible? The man had been strange, sure, but the results were undeniable. Was he really just some kind of drifter, a fraud who vanished as soon as people caught on?
As the janitor resumed sweeping, Emmett’s thoughts churned with the weight of what he had just learned. The method, the tickling, the success—it had all worked. But now, standing in the empty shell of what had once been Dr. Fate’s office, Emmett was left with an unsettling realization: the method that had pushed him to greatness might have been born from madness.
As he stood in the empty office, the silence pressing in on him, Emmett didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. The surreal nature of the situation was too much to process. Dr. Fate—if that had even been his real name—was gone. Vanished like a ghost, leaving nothing behind but the memory of that strange, absurd session.
Yet the madness had worked. Emmett had experienced real results, hitting notes he had struggled with for months, all through a method that was as ridiculous as it was effective. His fingers twitched at his sides, and he could almost still feel the phantom sensation of those tickling fingers prodding at his ribs, teasing the tension from his body. He had walked into that session full of doubt, but left with his voice transformed.
Now, standing in the barren room that once held the answers to his vocal struggles, Emmett was left with the unsettling question of what to do next. How did he move forward from here, when the one person who had helped him break through had disappeared without a trace?
Had fate brought him here to this strange man with an equally strange technique? Or was it nothing more than blind luck, a random encounter in a city full of mysteries?
Either way, Emmett knew one thing for certain as he stood there, his chest still tingling from the memory of that laugh-filled hour:
He had been tickled by fate.
THE END
