the antichrist

The Slaughterhouse Losers have a rule: no normies. 

Everyone in that server has blood on their hands, a body count they can't erase, and a reason they'll never see the outside of a prison cell. 

They are killers with different goals and they've built their fragile little community on the understanding that they are all the same breed of broken. They trust each other because they have no choice—who else would accept them? Who else could look at the things they've done and not flinch? 

The rule keeps them safe. The rule keeps them together.

Until you join.

You see at first, you seem like one of them, kind, capable, and honest with that particular stillness that only comes from having ended lives. But as the weeks pass, they start to notice something different about you. 

You're not a thrillkiller like Ronin, who treats murder like a game and death like an aesthetic. You're not a vigilante like V, who kills with clinical precision and calls it justice.  You're not an assassin like Misaki, who turns murder into salary pay, or a cannibal like Angel, who hunts with elegance and eat with cruelty. 

You don't hunt at all anymore. You don't kill. You just... exist. Close like someone who used to be on fire and has long since burned out.

You're retired.

But, you know the server isn't stupid. They run background checks on everyone, after all it's standard protocol, a safety measure born from paranoia and hard-earned trust issues. 

Ronin is the one who starts digging, because he's always been too curious for his own good. He pokes around dark web archives, looking for traces of your old work, not because he doesn't trust you, but because he's fascinated. 

You're too normal. Way too composed and functional for someone who used to kill people. There has to be a story there, and Ronin wants to read it.

Then he finds the articles.

They're little old, somewhat buried deep in the forgotten corners of the internet, scrubbed from most mainstream databases by algorithms and time. But the underground forums remember. The whispers never truly die. And what they whisper about is you.

"The Antichrist," the articles call you. 

An unidentified serial killer active from 2016 to 2020. 

The estimated victim count stands at thirty-seven confirmed, though the real number is likely higher, as in some bodies were never found, some cases never connected. 

The signature alone was unmistakable: bodies arranged in crucifixion poses, arms outstretched, nailed or tied to whatever surface would hold them. Eyes removed from their sockets. Skulls cracked open, brains exposed to the elements. 

Hearts extracted from chest cavities. Organs spilled across the ground like offerings at a grotesque altar. All victims were found in states of advanced decomposition—some had been dead for weeks before discovery, their bodies left to rot in public spaces where they would inevitably be found.

The religious symbolism was careful and devastating.

 The victims were almost exclusively corrupt clergy, televangelists, or figures of organized religion, such as men and women who had used their positions of power to abuse, exploit, and destroy. 

Somehow the killer left no DNA, no witnesses, no pattern that law enforcement could predict or trace. The nickname came from both the method of display and the killer's apparent mockery of Christian iconography, truly a crucifixion that was also a condemnation, a punishment that was also a sermon.

Ronin stares at the screen.

His hands are still. His breathing is shallow. For once in his life, he has absolutely nothing to say. The devil-horn beanie on his head feels like a joke now, a cheap costume compared to the real thing sitting in his server. 

He thought he was the monster in the room. He thought his crowbar and his chaos made him dangerous. But you? 

You made him look like a Sunday school teacher.

The server is quiet. Like an unusually quiet.

Everyone was on the server voice chat utterly speechless once they heard the news about you.

Meaning, Misaki is muted for once, so no chaotic noise, no breathless rambling. Angel's camera is off, her profile picture frozen in its usual heart-shaped perfection. V's typing bubble appears and disappears without sending anything in the main chat, like he's starting and stopping a dozen sentences he can't finish. The silence stretches with a heavy and suffocating, until finally Ronin speaks.

"So."

Just one word is all he said. Flat and in all, his voice had a strange, not angry, not scared, just... processing tone. Like he's trying to fit this new information into the picture he had of you, and nothing is aligning.

"The Antichrist." He says it slowly, tasting the weight of the name. "That was you."

"Yes."

Silence again. Angel unmutes, her voice softer than usual, hesitant in a way you've never heard from her before. 

"The bodies were..." She pauses, searching for words that won't sound inadequate. "I've seen a lot of things. I've done a lot of things. But the descriptions I read—"

"They're accurate." You cut her off gently, not defensive, not proud—just honest. "Every detail. Every body. Every crime. It was all me."

V's voice cuts in, calm and clinical as always, but there's an edge to it now—something careful, something measured. "Thirty-seven confirmed victims. All religious figures. All found in states of advanced decomposition. The crucifixion positioning. The organ removal. The..." He hesitates, and for a moment he sounds almost human. "The eyes."

You don't flinch at all. 

You've made peace with what you did—or at least, you've learned to carry it without collapsing. "I don't do that anymore."

Misaki unmutes next, their voice smaller than usual, just genuine, fragile curiosity. "What made you stop?"

For a moment the question hangs in the air. Honestly, you're quiet for a long moment, feeling the weight of four killers waiting for your answer. When you finally speak, your voice is steady but tired.

“Ton of therapy," you say. "And medication. And the realization that I was becoming the thing I hated." Another pause, little longer this time. "I killed monsters. But somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to tell the difference between them and me. So I stopped. I got help. I started trying to be human again."

The silence that follows is different. Like there wasn’t no judgment, not fear, but something closer to understanding. 

They don't forgive you. They don't absolve you. 

But they do hear you out at least.

✑ 𝓇𝑜𝓃𝒾𝓃 | @.𝑔𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒷𝑜y 

Ronin is quiet for three days.

Ronin, who never shuts up. Ronin, who turns everything into a joke, who treats murder like a game and death like an aesthetic. Ronin, who styled himself after the devil and wore his cruelty like a crown.

Three days of silence from the loudest person in the server.

When he finally messages you, it's private. Very much random and late at night. Just two three, typed slowly, like he's still figuring out how to say them.

@.goreboy: and i thought i was the devil

@.goreboy: but u made me look like a sunday school teacher

@.goreboy: how do u live with it

And you saw it. You was staying up late doing whatever.

You think about his question. it made you think about the years of therapy, the medication, the sleepless nights, the nightmares that still come sometimes. You think about the weight you carry every single day, and how it gets a little lighter with time.

You: One day at a time.

You: And I don't do it anymore.

@.goreboy: u rly stopped? just like that?

You: It wasn't just like that. It took years. It took help. It took wanting to stop.

@.goreboy: ...does it get easier?

You: Hell no. But like, you get better at carrying it.

@.goreboy: fuck

@.goreboy: i think i need a minute

He doesn't message you again that night. But the next morning, there's a meme in the server—a religious meme, something about "when god sees you sinning and just sighs." 

It's from him. Tagged with @.you.

@.goreboy: u know this reminded me of u

@.goreboy: welcome to the server btw

@.goreboy: u earned it

It's not forgiveness nor acceptance. But it's something, like between the person he thought you were and the person you actually are. 

And for Ronin, that's as close to an olive branch as he knows how to give.

✑ 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 | @.𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁𝒾𝒸

Angel takes it differently. She's silent during the group call, her camera off, her presence reduced to a username and a muted icon. When she finally speaks, her voice is carefully controlled—the same voice she uses at work, at parties, at moments when she's performing for people she despises. 

She's wearing her mask, and it's seamless.

"I'd like to talk to you privately."

You agree. Her private message arrives a few minutes later, and it's unexpected.

@.angelic: I read the files.

@.angelic: You killed a televangelist in 2014. Marcus Webb. He ran a megachurch that funneled millions from his congregation while his family lived in luxury.

@.Angelic: The article didn't mention that he was laundering money for a human trafficking ring. I found it in a federal investigation file that got buried.

@.Angelic: His victims were children. Immigrants. People who trusted him because he wore a collar and spoke of God's love.

You wait. You don't deny it. There's no point.

@.Angelic: I've spent years watching people like that. People who use faith as a weapon, who hide their cruelty behind pretty words and stained glass windows.

@.Angelic: I've killed people like that too.

@.Angelic: But I never did what you did. I never made it a performance. I never made them face what they'd done before I ended them.

A long pause. You can almost see her typing, deleting, typing again.

@.Angelic: You made them look at their own sins.

@.Angelic: How did you make them see?

You: I showed them their victims. Photographs. Testimonies. Everything they'd tried to bury.

You: I made them read the names aloud before I took anything from them.

@.Angelic: ...I think I understand you.

@.Angelic: I don't like that I understand you.

@.Angelic: But I do. You're not my favorite person right now. But you're not the monster I thought you were. And I think... I think maybe that means something.

Something changes after that conversation.

Angel still treats you with her usual elegance—you know the way she always seems to be performing for an audience. But there's a warmth beneath it now. A recognition. A shared understanding that goes beyond the surface.

She starts sending you links to articles about corrupt religious figures. Sometimes with a simple message: "Found another one. You'd have liked this case."

She starts inviting you to her shopping trips—not as a bodyguard or a lookout, but as a companion. Someone who understands the weight of what they've done and still chooses to move forward.

One night, after a particularly difficult mission, she messages you at 3 AM.

@.Angelic: I still dream about them sometimes.

@.Angelic: The ones I killed. Not the ones who deserved it—the ones who were just... collateral.

@.Angelic: I don't know how to make peace with that.

You: You don't have to make peace with it. You just have to carry it.

@.Angelic: Is that what you do?

You: Every day.

@.Angelic: ...Does it get easier?

You: No. But you get better at carrying it.

@.Angelic: That's not very comforting.

You: It's honest.

@.Angelic: ...I think I prefer honesty. Thank you. For being honest. For not pretending you're something you're not. I don't trust many people. But I think I trust you.

You: lol that's a dangerous thing to say to someone like me.

@.Angelic: I know. That's why I said it.

She doesn't say she forgives you. She doesn't say she approves of what you did. But she says she understands and for Angel, who has spent her entire life being misunderstood by everyone who wasn't a victim, that's a gift she doesn't give lightly.

She still wears her masks. She still performs. She still kills with elegance and cruelty when the situation calls for it. But when she's with you, the mask slips. Just a little. Just enough to show the person underneath.

And you realize, with a quiet sort of wonder, that she's not afraid of you.

✑ 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝒶𝓀𝒾 | @.𝒽𝒾𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓊𝓅𝓅𝓅

Misaki is the only one who doesn't change how they treat you.

They still send you memes. Still invite you to voice chat. Still talk about their assassination vacations like you're just another friend in the server—maybe a slightly weirder one, but still a friend.

But one night, after a rough mission, they message you privately. Their usual chaos is dialed down, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable.

@.hitmeuppp: hey

@.hitmeuppp: i know everyone's being weird. i'm not gonna ask u about the bodies or whatever. that's not my business

@.hitmeuppp: but i want u to know

@.hitmeuppp: i've done bad things too

@.hitmeuppp: not like that but still

@.hitmeuppp: bad things

@.hitmeuppp: and i still wake up sometimes and think "oh god what did i do" and i just wanted to say

@.hitmeuppp: i think it's brave that u stopped

@.hitmeuppp: i don't think i could stop

@.hitmeuppp: so yeah, that's all

You: Misaki.

@.hitmeuppp: yeah?

You: Thank you.

@.hitmeuppp: anytime bestie 🎉

@.hitmeuppp: wanna play a game? i'm bored and v is being boring

You play games with them until 3 AM. Neither of you mentions the conversation again. That quiet understanding, a shared recognition of the weight you both carry.

Misaki doesn't judge you. They just... accept you, in that chaotic, unconditional way they accept everyone who earns their trust.

✑ 𝓋 | @.𝒦𝟿

V's reaction to you was the most unemotional attitude?

The best way to explain it that he doesn't avoid you. Hell He doesn't treat you differently. He simply observes—like you're a case study, like he's waiting for you to slip, to reveal the monster beneath the mask.

Weeks pass. Then, one night, he messages you. The message is precise, measured, exactly what you'd expect from him.

@.K9: I have reviewed the files on your previous... activities.

@.K9: I have also reviewed your therapy records. Your medical history. Your current lifestyle.

@.K9: You are not a threat to this group.

@.K9: I have concluded that your presence is acceptable.

You: That's very generous of you.

@.K9: It is not generosity. It is a statistical conclusion.

@.K9: I would like to ask you one question.

@.K9: Do you regret it?

You consider his question for a bit. The honest answer is complicated, but you've never lied to these people, and you're not about to start.

You: Yes and no.

@.K9: Explain.

You: I don't regret the people I killed. They were monsters. They deserved what they got.

You: I regret how I killed them. The cruelty. The performance. The need to make them suffer instead of just ending them.

You: I became a monster to kill monsters. And I don't think that's something to be proud of.

@.K9: ...I understand.

@.K9: I have done things I am not proud of. I have killed people who deserved it, but I have also killed people who could have been redeemed.

@.K9 The difference between us is that you stopped.

@.K9: I haven’t. I don't know if I can.

You: You can.

@.K9: How do you know?

You: Because you're still asking yourself that question.

@.K9: ...

@.K9: I think I owe you an apology. I misjudged you.

You: You judged me correctly. You just didn't have all the information.

@.K9: I have it now. And I think... I think I'm glad you're here.

It's not a declaration of friendship. It's not forgiveness.

But it's V's acknowledgment—a recognition that you are more than the worst thing you've ever done

♤ — 𝓀𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ