Three weeks.
Three weeks of beige ceilings, saltless meals, and sponge baths from overly friendly nursefish who kept calling him "champ."
Squidward lay in his hospital bed, staring at the window while a "Get Well Soon!" balloon bobbed gently beside him. It had Mermaid Man's face on it.
He'd considered popping it six times.
The nurses said it was a miracle he survived. Multiple fractures, a dislocated shoulder, two broken ribs, and minor brain swelling from "blunt object trauma." But what they marveled at more than his recovery… was the story.
According to Squidward (and now, Bikini Bottom):
Sandy Cheeks had snapped.
Driven mad by his "Seer" proclamations and growing public support, she had accused him of staging the deaths—of playing god.
"She couldn't accept that someone like me… could see the future," he'd said weakly to the press, voice hoarse and "emotionally shattered."
"She kept shouting about patterns. About death gods. She said… if I didn't confess, she'd make me."
The book Sandy had brought to his house—that tattered book detailing the occult—was quickly passed off as the ramblings of a once-brilliant mind unraveling.
"She tied me up," Squidward said, feigning a tremble. "Said I was lying. That no one could predict death unless they caused it. I told her… she was going to die that night. I saw it. I begged her to listen."
He teared up on cue.
"But she didn't believe me."
The city wept for him.
Cards arrived by the shoal.
Baskets of kelp-cakes, coral-scented candles, a signed "Stay Strong!" letter from the Jellyspotters, and even a giant novelty clarinet signed by the Bikini Bottom Philharmonic.
As for Sandy?
She was mourned—yes. But more like a tragic cautionary tale.
"She came from land," the newscasters sighed. "Brilliant mind. But sometimes, genius walks too close to the abyss."
"She couldn't accept Squidward's gift," another report read. "And in her fear… she lashed out."
Squidward watched it all unfold from his hospital bed, cloaked in blankets and false humility.
"Poor Sandy," one nurse said, adjusting his IV. "She must've been so scared. To hurt someone like you, just because you were different?"
He gave her a weak smile.
"Yeah," he said. "Tragic."
By the time he was discharged, Squidward felt more like royalty than a victim. The press had been asked to wait outside, so his exit could be "quiet." A formality. Everyone already knew his face.
He stepped out into the salt-tinged air, his arm in a sling and his shell-colored hospital robe trailing behind him.
Lurala materialized beside him, yawning and flipping a hospital fruit cup into her mouth.
"Congrats on your acting. You deserve an award," she said, licking pear juice off her claw.
"Spare me," Squidward muttered, adjusting the strap of his shoulder brace. "I had to rehearse that line about twenty times in my head before I cried on camera."
"You played the broken soul perfectly," she said. "Even I believed you for a second."
They walked side by side through the streets of Bikini Bottom, past storefronts adorned with WELCOME HOME, SQUIDWARD! signs and kids on bikes wearing little paper hats that read "I Believe the Seer."
But underneath all that…
The city had changed.
Neptune's royal guards now patrolled the intersections, their golden armor gleaming beneath the jellyfish streetlights. They weren't just standing around—they were watching. Questioning. Writing down names. Enforcing curfews.
The old police station was gone. No replacements had been hired yet. The guards were the law now.
Lurala drifted beside Squidward like a lazy fogbank. "You see that one?" she whispered, pointing to a guard frisking a squid teenager for carrying a fake trident. "He's got executioner vibes. Strong ones."
"I'm not worried about him," Squidward muttered.
"You should be. They're sniffing around. Neptune doesn't like things he can't control."
They passed a bakery with a chalkboard outside:
TODAY'S SPECIAL: THE SEER'S VISION MUFFINS — CHERRY-FILLED WITH DIVINE INTUITION
Squidward sighed.
"I hate this."
"What? The fame? The devotion? The muffin branding?"
He stopped.
Looked around at the armored guards.
The fearful glances from citizens.
The veiled tension wrapped in ribbons of sympathy.
And finally, the balloon someone had tied to his mailbox: WE LOVE YOU, SQUID!
He exhaled.
"No," he said. "I hate how unsafe I still am."
Lurala raised a brow. "Unsafe? You've killed your enemies. Convinced the city you're a prophet. You're the most loved cephalopod in town."
Squidward stared ahead, eyes hard.
"It's not enough."
A silence passed between them.
Lurala floated upside-down, grinning.
"Oh… do tell."
Squidward turned toward his house—the home where Sandy had died, where his world had shifted.
He stepped up to the front door.
Paused.
Then said softly:
"I have to become king."
Lurala let out a slow, sharp-toothed smile.
"Oh, Squiddy," she purred. "Now that's ambition."
And as the door creaked open, the shadows inside swallowed them both.