ri

HAII. Ya’ll can call me Ri; I’m your 2000s older sibling, trust.

I’m a very big reader and book hoarder. ‘Interview w/ a Vampire’, ‘evermore’, and ‘Just Listen’ are some of my favs. (can you tell I like vampires?) Constantly daydreaming about plots and loopholes.

While I don’t know much about zodiacs, I’m a Gemini! Do w/ that what you will. I’m a very emotionally charged person, I fear that may be obvious.

Master list TikTok Quotev

I encourage requests! I love making other people’s vision come to life just as much as my own. Writing is a very big part of my life, but I don’t follow a posting schedule. ADHD makes it literally impossible.

In my fics I do often talk about very dark topics, but that does not mean I condone any of the actions! Please remember to separate fiction from reality. TAKE THE CONTENT WARNINGS ON MY FICS VERY SERIOUSLY.

B3N_DROWNED: understood queen

A moderator timed him out for thirty seconds. It became a ritual. Every single stream, without fail. Horror games? Ben appeared. Cozy farming sims? Ben appeared. Even that one random 2009 visual novel you dug up at 2 a.m.—he was there before the title screen finished loading. Chat joked that he had notifications hardwired into his bloodstream. You started joking about it too.

“Ben’s probably already here.”

The chat exploded. 

HE IS. LOOK.

 HE’S LITERALLY FIRST BRO

Sure enough, his message popped up.

B3N_DROWNED: hi babe:) 

He never technically crossed the hard lines. His comments were always suggestive enough to make your mods twitch, but phrased as jokes. He backed off the second you gave him that particular look through the camera. Still, the timeouts piled up. He wore every single one like a badge of honor.

B3N_DROWNED: if u were a ghost would u still stream?

“Ben.”

B3N_DROWNED: hypothetical

“Timeout for being creepy.”

He accepted it cheerfully. When he returned: B3N_DROWNED: i deserved that. worth it.

Months slipped by, and you started expecting him. If five minutes passed without his familiar username, you’d catch yourself asking chat, “Has anyone seen Ben?” The community lost their minds every time. When he finally appeared—late, claiming “ traffic”—you rolled your eyes but felt an odd little flicker of relief.

He stream-sniped with terrifying precision. No matter how many thousands queued for a match, his character would appear, crouch twice, spin in circles, and type ‘hi :)’ in game chat. Your friends groaned. You called him terrifying. His avatar just waved innocently.

It wasn't a coincidence. Ben had studied every tiny habit: how long you lingered in menus, the average amount of time you took to refill your water, the way you answered donations before requeuing. He watched every VOD, every clip. Routines made you feel knowable. Close. He never admitted it, not even to himself.

Discord friend requests from viewers were an ironclad no. Until one Tuesday night at 11:48 PM, after a long editing session, his request appeared. Your cursor hovered. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. But your finger moved on its own and clicked Accept.

In his own room Ben nearly dropped his phone. “She accepted…”

The first messages were awkward, halting. Then conversations stretched longer—twenty minutes at first, then hours. Voice chat came next. Late-night calls after streams became routine. His voice was quieter than you expected, dry and self-deprecating, laced with that same obsessive attention to detail. He remembered the offhand comment you made six months ago about your cat’s surgery. The indie band you mentioned once. The way you hated certain textures. Everything.

You talked about terrible horror games and old creepypastas until 3 a.m. He listened more than he spoke. Every time you laughed, his room felt a little less empty. Beneath the gremlin energy and flirty jokes, Ben was patient. Static behind a monitor. Always waiting.

The weeks blurred together after that first Discord acceptance. What began as careful, late-night typing sessions evolved into voice calls that stretched until the sky lightened outside your window. Ben’s voice became something you looked forward to more than you wanted to admit. He never pushed. He waited for you to set the pace, content to listen while you ranted about bad game design or the latest streamer drama.

But the tension was there, simmering beneath every “goodnight, babe” and every lingering pause. His compliments grew softer, more genuine. Your responses stopped being purely playful deflections.

One night, after a particularly grueling horror stream where chat had been relentless, you switched to a private call. The topic drifted, as it sometimes did, into teasing territory.

“You really would let me yell at you, huh?” you asked, half-joking.

Ben’s laugh was quiet, almost shy. “I’d probably thank you after.”

The silence that followed felt extra charged. You shifted on your bed, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah… but you keep letting me stay on the call anyway.”

That was the first night things crossed the line. The flirting turned explicit—slow, hesitant at first, then bolder as you both admitted how long you’d been thinking about it. Ben’s breathing grew heavier when you described what you were wearing. Yours hitched when he told you exactly what he wanted to do if he were in the room.

Mutual masturbation became the new ritual. Webcams turned on. His was on constantly now, a silent agreement after you’d shyly asked if he could keep it running “so it feels less one-sided.” He obliged instantly, the monochrome filter of his setup casting him in eerie, pale light that somehow made him look even more unreal—ethereal, hungry, and entirely focused on you.

You introduced toys on your side a few nights later. The first time, you held up a small purple vibrator, cheeks burning. Ben’s eyes widened on camera, his hand already moving under the frame.

“Fuck,  show me how you use it,” he whispered, voice cracking into that familiar whine. “Please? I need to see.”

You did. Legs spread for the camera, you pressed the buzzing toy against yourself while he stroked in time with your movements, moaning openly. “You’re so pretty like this… god, the sounds you make—ah—I’m gonna lose it just watching you.”

He was loud, unfiltered. Every thrust of your toy earned a string of desperate praises and whimpers: “Right there—yeah, just like that. You’re gonna make me cum so hard—shit, I wish I could taste you.”

You came with his name on your lips. He followed seconds later, head thrown back, hips jerking as he spilled over his fist with a long, broken whine that sent aftershocks through you.

It became addictive. Night after night, the calls grew longer, filthier. Toys rotated—vibrators, dildos, anything that made him vocal. Ben kept his camera rolling the entire time, even between sessions, like he couldn’t bear to look away.

Then came the night everything changed.

You were still flushed and breathless, the toy discarded beside you, when the monitor rippled. The image of Ben on your screen distorted like water, pixels stretching and warping. His eyes—those unnaturally dark, knowing eyes—locked onto yours through the glass.

He leaned forward.

And crawled through.

His shoulders emerged after his head, then his torso, arms bracing on the edge of your desk with a solid, impossible thud. The rest of him followed in a fluid, unnatural motion until he dropped onto your floor on all fours, fully real, fully here.

You screamed.

Heart slamming against your ribs, you bolted off the bed, legs tangling in the sheets for a terrifying second. “Ben—what the fuck—how?!” Pure panic sent you scrambling toward the nightstand, hand outstretched for your phone. This wasn’t possible. This was a hallucination, a nightmare even.

But even as terror spiked through you, heat pooled low in your belly. He was here. Real. The same messy hair, the same intense stare that had watched you fall apart on camera night after night. And the way he looked up at you from the floor, desperate, reverent, a little scared himself, it made your body react before your brain could catch up.

“Y/N wait, please—” His voice was the same raspy whisper from the calls, but rawer now, unfiltered by speakers. He stayed on his knees, hands raised like he was approaching a startled animal. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I couldn’t stay on the other side anymore. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but please don’t run. I’d never hurt you.”

You grabbed the phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen, but you didn’t unlock it. Confusion warred with the lingering arousal, the way your thighs still trembled from the earlier orgasm. Ben looked wrecked—pupils blown, chest heaving, a visible bulge straining against his soaked pants.

“I’m freaking out, Ben,” you whispered, voice shaky. 

“Im sorry,” he admitted, voice cracking into a whine. “But I’m here. And you’re even more beautiful up close. Please… let me stay. I’ll leave if you want, but god, I can tell how wet you still are. It’s driving me insane.”

The confession, the raw need in his tone, broke something in you. You set the phone down.

Ben crawled forward instantly, still on his knees, until he reached the edge of the bed. His hands—cold at first, then warming against your skin—slid up your calves. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you. Been dreaming about this every night while you used those toys. You have no idea how much I need you, baby.”

He was whiney, vocal, and utterly desperate the moment you pulled him up onto the bed. His mouth found yours in a messy, hungry kiss, tasting faintly of static and vanilla chapstick. Clothes came off in frantic tugs—his hoodie being the first thing to go.

“Been so hard for you,” he whimpered against your neck, grinding his cock against your thigh. “Every night, stroking myself while you moaned my name. Please let me fuck you. I’ll be good; I swear I’ll be so good for you.”

When he finally pushed inside, the sound he made was pure sin—a long, trembling whine that vibrated against your collarbone. “Oh my god. So tight, so warm. Fuck, I’m gonna cum already, I can’t!”

He didn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop. Every thrust came with broken, needy commentary: “Feels better than anything—your pussy is perfect—gonna fill you up, been dying to—please, harder? Tell me what you want, I’ll do anything—”

You wrapped your legs around him, nails digging into his back, and Ben completely unraveled. His hips snapped faster, voice pitching higher into desperate moans and whimpers. “Yes, yes, just like that, gonna cum inside you, please cum with me, I need to feel it—”

You shattered first, clenching around him. Ben followed with a loud, shattered cry, burying himself deep as he spilled, body shaking, still murmuring praise and thanks against your skin.

He collapsed half on top of you afterward, face pressed into your chest, arms wrapped tight like he was afraid you’d vanish. Soft, needy little sounds still escaped him as he caught his breath.

Oneshots

-nothing to see here!

Series

⦻ The Hollow Watchers (✶!)-YouTuber!reader, unfinished

Blurbs/headcannons

-nothing to see here!

Oneshots

⦻ Seven Minutes (!)

⦻ Cupcakes & Carnage (✶)-pinkypie!reader

⦻ Soft hands -fluttershy!reader

Series

-nothing to see here!

Blurbs/headcanons

⦻ General headcannons (✶)

⦻ w/ an s/o that’s rough around the edges

Oneshots

-nothing to see here!

Series

-nothing to see here!

Blurbs/headcannons

⦻ general headcannons

Oneshots

⦻ Buffering... (!)-streamer!reader

Series

-these dishes aren’t prepared yet!

Blurbs/headcannons

-these dishes aren’t prepared yet!

Oneshots

⦻ Tick, Tok, Kiss! (!)-server!reader

Series

-these dishes aren’t prepared yet!

Blurbs/headcannons

-these dishes aren’t prepared yet!

The squirrel bolts back up the tree, and you freeze. Turning your head carefully, you see him: Tobias Rogers , shoulders hunched in his hoodie, bandages half-hiding his mouth, eyes squinting at you from under the edge of his hood. He shifts from foot to foot like he’s not sure why he even stopped here.

“They’re not rats,” you murmur, brushing crumbs from your palm. “They’re squirrels. They’re hungry too.”

Toby stares for a long moment. Usually people brush him off or roll their eyes when he talks. You don’t. Your voice is soft, careful, like you’re explaining something simple but important.

“…Huh,” he finally says, scratching the back of his neck. “Guess I don’t k-know the difference.”

You hesitate, then gather the courage to extend your hand. A single sunflower seed rests in your palm. “Do you want to try? Sometimes they come back.”

His eyes flicker between you, the seed, and the tree. His fingers twitch before he reaches out, brushing yours as he takes it. The touch makes your heart skip, though you quickly look away.

The squirrel peeks back down. Toby stiffens, holding his breath as the little creature inches closer. Then, just like that, it hops onto the grass and snatches the seed from his hand.

Toby blinks, startled. Then a laugh bursts out of him, sharp and genuine. “No way. It actually worked.”

Your lips curve into a soft smile. “See? They trust you.”

Something flickers in his eyes at that. Trust isn’t a word people usually connect to him. But here you are, saying it like it’s the simplest truth.

⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆

You don’t expect him to come back. People rarely do. Your quietness doesn’t exactly draw others in.

But when you’re sitting in the grass again the next day, laying out scraps for a pair of rabbits, you hear crunching footsteps.

“Hey,” Toby says, awkward but not unfriendly. He plops down beside you without asking. “Brought something.”

You blink at him as he pulls something from his hoodie pocket: a crumpled plastic bag with a handful of peanuts inside.

“They’re, s-salted. Don’t know if that’s bad. B-but squirrels eat anything, right?”

Your heart softens. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

Toby rubs at the back of his neck, mumbling something you don’t quite catch. But when a squirrel darts down to snatch a peanut, his grin returns. And you find yourself smiling too, not just for the squirrel, but for him.

It becomes a pattern. Every few days, Toby shows up while you’re out feeding the animals. Sometimes he brings snacks he swiped from the mansion kitchen; other times he just sits with you, watching.

You’re shy, always have been, but with him it feels different. He doesn’t fill silences with empty chatter. He doesn’t pressure you to talk louder or faster. If you take a long time to answer, he just waits, fiddling with grass or scratching at his bandages.

One evening, you find yourself humming while birds pick at scattered seeds. Toby tilts his head. “You sing?”

You flush instantly. “N-no, not really. Just humming.”

“It’s nice,” he says simply, like it’s a fact. No teasing, no mocking. Just truth.

You duck your head, but the warmth lingers in your chest long after.

The sun is dipping low when you and Toby end up sitting side by side, knees nearly touching. The woods are quiet except for crickets and distant birds.

You glance at him, studying the way the fading light catches in his hair, the shadows hiding parts of his face. He notices your stare and quirks a brow. “W-what?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to stare. I just… I like seeing you in the sunlight.”

The words tumble out before you can stop them. Your face burns. You fumble with the hem of your sleeve, wishing you could vanish into the earth.

But Toby just blinks, caught off guard. His lips twitch beneath the bandages. “No one’s ever said that before.”

You bite your lip, unsure what to say, but he lets out a small laugh. “Guess you’re full of surprises, huh?”

A squirrel scurries up then, as if to break the tension, and both of you reach into your bags at the same time. Your hands brush, fingers tangling briefly before you both jerk back, laughing awkwardly.

The squirrel doesn’t care; it grabs both seeds and darts away.

You glance at Toby again, and this time, when your eyes meet, you don’t look away so quickly.

⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆

Back at the mansion, Toby lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He can still hear your soft voice in his head. Still feel the way your hand brushed his. Still see your shy little smile.

For someone so quiet, you’ve filled his thoughts louder than anything else.

You didn’t notice it right away. The way her hair fell over part of her face kept it mostly hidden, but then she turned to look at the pie display, and you saw it. A brass-rimmed clock—actual hands ticking, second by second—shoved right into the socket where an eye should be.

She caught you staring.

You froze, dish rag clenched in your fist, like she might lunge if you blinked.

Instead, she smiled. Not a big one—just the edge of her lips curving, a little crooked, a little amused. She walked right up to the counter and said, “Coffee. Black. And whatever pie won’t kill me.”

And somehow, you moved. Your body just… obeyed.

⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆

She kept coming back every Saturday. Always alone. Always the same booth, third from the window. Sometimes she brought a book—bent paperback covers, spines cracked like broken bones—but usually, she just watched.

The clock eye still ticked.

You wanted to ask. You should have asked. But instead, you danced around it like the coward you were.

It wasn’t until the third visit that you finally cracked.

You were refilling her mug, steam curling between you two, when you said, “You got a name?”

Her lips twitched again, barely there. “You first.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s embroidered on the damn apron.”

She glanced down, making a point of it, then said, “Y/N. Cute.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you hated that they did. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“Nat,” she replied simply.

“Nat,” you repeated, letting the syllable roll over your tongue like something you didn’t realize you wanted to taste. “Short for Natalie?”

Her good eye gleamed. “Only people I like get to call me that.”

That shut you up for a beat.

Then you gestured to her eye, because subtlety had never been your strength, and said, “And, uh. The accessory?”

Nat didn’t even look fazed. She leaned back in the booth, crossing one leg over the other, boot heels thudding softly.

“It’s for a show.”

Your head jerks.

She gestures to it casually. “Special effects. I’m part of a traveling horror circus. We’re in town for a couple weeks, setting up out by the tree line. Thought I’d explore.”

It sounds like a lie. But a good one. Polished. Prepared.

You don’t buy it. You’ve lived in this town too long to fall for traveling horror troupes who look like they stepped out of a gothic daydream and move like panthers in a place full of squirrels.

You blinked.

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

She grinned, and that time it was full. Dangerous. Beautiful.

She leaned in, resting her chin on her palm. “Get to kill someone live on stage every weekend. Not real blood, of course. Mostly.”

You blinked. She didn’t laugh.

“…Is that a joke?”

Nat grinned wider, one side of her mouth curling devilishly. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You like the mystery.”

You hated how much she was right.

⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆

It became a thing. Saturdays meant Nat.

You never asked where she came from or where she went. She didn’t ask about your past, either. But she always ordered coffee, always left a tip bigger than her bill, and always met your sarcasm with something sharper.

The air shifted when she was there. You started wearing eyeliner on Saturdays. Pulling your hair half-up instead of tying it in a greasy ponytail. Your coworkers noticed. One of the regulars—old Earl—joked that you were “finally grooming again.” You flipped him off and brought him his pancakes anyway.

Flirting with Nat was like playing with matches: deliberate, knowing, dangerously close to setting your hands on fire.

Sometimes her gaze lingered too long on your lips. Sometimes your hand brushed hers when you refilled her mug, and she didn’t pull away.

One Saturday, you leaned on her booth and said, “You know, I think you just like being stared at.”

She sipped her coffee and said, “I think you just like staring.”

And maybe she was right.

⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆

It was the Saturday before Halloween when things changed.

The wind was starting to bite, and the trees along the highway had been bleeding orange and gold. Business was in a lull. Nat came in with her hoodie zipped, hands shoved in the pockets. You were already behind the counter, but the second you saw her, your spine straightened.

She slid into her booth without a word, but her eyes tracked you. You grabbed the coffee pot and headed over.

“No pie today?” you asked, pouring her usual.

She looked up at you. Her voice was quieter. “Was hoping you’d sit.”

That… made your brain stutter.

“I’m on shift.”

“No one’s dying.”

You raised a brow. “How would you know?”

She smirked. “I’d know.”

And you believed her, for some reason.

After a pause, you slid in across from her. Close enough to smell her perfume—subtle, warm, like something smoked and sweet.

She tilted her head. “You look good.”

“You’ve seen me in this ratty uniform three weeks in a row.”

“Still. You make it work.”

You huffed a laugh. “That clock in your face isn’t just cosmetic, is it? You are trying to hypnotize me.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Is it working?”

Yes.

You didn’t say it out loud. Your throat felt tight. Your heart thumped against your ribs like it wanted out.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “you’re the only reason I come back.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” Her eyes—both the human and the inhuman—locked on yours. “I know you hate this town. That you hate pretending it doesn’t hate you back. That you’re bored, and stubborn, and too damn clever to be stuck pouring coffee for people who never see you.”

Your mouth opened and shut. “You’ve been watching me?”

“You’ve been letting me.”

And then she leaned over the table.

Her hand reached up, slow and deliberate, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers lingered at your jaw, and your breath hitched.

“You wanna kiss me?” she asked, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

“...do you want me to?” you fired back, but it came out weaker than you intended.

Nat’s eyes darkened. She didn’t blink. “Every damn week.”

And that was all it took.

⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆

You barely made it to the diner’s back hallway before her hands were on you. The second the kitchen door swung closed behind you, she had you pinned against the wall, mouths crashing together like you were made to come apart.

Her lips were warm, sure. The kind of kiss that tasted like caffeine and quiet danger. You tugged her closer by the hoodie, fingers tangled in the fur-lined hood, her body flush against yours.

She was strong. Stronger than you expected. Her knee nudged between your thighs as her hands gripped your waist, pulling a breathless sound from your throat that you hated and wanted more of all at once.

When she kissed down your jaw to the shell of your ear, she whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

Your fingers slipped under the hem of her hoodie, the skin beneath burning hot. She growled—growled—into your neck, and your legs damn near gave out.

Her hands cupped your jaw next, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You’re gonna wreck me,” she murmured, eyes flicking between your gaze and your mouth.

And then her mouth was on yours again—hungrier this time, deeper. Her tongue slid against yours with a confidence that made your knees shake. You whimpered into her kiss, and she groaned into yours, one hand sliding behind your head to keep you right where she wanted you.

God, she kissed like she knew what you’d dream about later. What you'd replay in your head long after she left.

Your hand found the back of her neck, pulling her closer, tighter, like you could kiss her hard enough to erase every lonely second you’d lived before now.

When she finally pulled back, both of you panting, she rested her forehead against yours.

“Same time next week?” she asked, voice hoarse.

You smiled, breathless. “Only if you don’t run off with your circus.”

She grinned again, wicked and beautiful. “You could always come with me.”

Toby didn’t answer. He just gave you the same withering side-eye he always did before a mission, the lower half of his face hidden behind his mask. His axe was slung lazily over one shoulder, but you knew him well enough to spot the tension in his stance.

You grinned wide anyway, adjusting your oversized pink hoodie (with your custom-stitched proxy symbol, of course — glittery thread and all). “C’mon, Grumpy Bumpkin. Don’t pretend you’re not having fun.”

He gave a single, tic-driven jerk of his head and muttered through his teeth, “Focus.”

You giggled and did a sarcastic salute. “Aye aye, Captain Twitchy.”

Toby stopped walking. Turned toward you. One brow ticked upward.

You mimed zipping your mouth shut, holding the invisible key above your head and tossing it with a flourish.

Silence. Blessed, golden silence.

For seven whole seconds.

Then: “Heyyy, what if we gave the target cupcakes before killing them? I brought some, they’re in my backpack. The pink ones are strawberry-blood swirl!”

Toby let out a groan so guttural it could’ve summoned something from the depths of Hell. You beamed up at him, skipping a few paces ahead as the two of you crept through the husk of the plaza’s shattered front entrance.

The air inside stank like mold and rot. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Water dripped from exposed beams. Somewhere in the distance, a rat scurried past a knocked-over gumball machine.

You leaned close to him and whispered, “Okay but like—real question—how come the gumballs survive the apocalypse?”

He didn’t respond. But you swore his shoulders shook just a little, like he was holding in a laugh.

━⊱🩷⊰━

You followed behind Toby, boots crunching over broken tile, humming an upbeat tune under your breath to settle your nerves.

He paused at a corner, raised a hand to motion you back.

You crouched beside him, wide-eyed and suddenly serious — the hyperactiveness pulled taut into anticipation.

Your target — an ex-contractor turned liability — paced in the flickering light of the old photo studio. Alone. Muttering to himself. His pistol was tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

You licked your lips. "Ooooh, can I distract him? Pleasepleaseplease?"

Toby side-eyed you again. "If you get shot, I’m not carrying you back."

"That’s fair."

And then you skipped forward — actually skipped — into the studio’s doorway with both hands up, smile blinding.

“Hi there, buddy!” you chirped. “Did you book a family photo session or—oh wait, you don’t have a family anymore, huh? That’s awkward.”

The man spun, gun out in seconds, eyes wide with panic.

Behind him, you saw Toby move. Fast. Silent. An axe-blade catching the light as it arced.

You dove sideways, laughing as the shot rang out — grazing the wall where your head had been. You popped back up beside a dusty stool and shouted, “Missed me, missed me—now you gotta—”

CRUNCH.

Toby’s axe split through the man’s shoulder and buried into his chest, cutting your sing-song short.

Blood sprayed. The man gurgled. Dropped.

Toby yanked the blade free, twitching slightly as he exhaled. His breaths came heavy, fogging up the lenses of his goggles.

You emerged from the shadows like a game show host, hands in the air.

“Annnnnnd we have a WINNER! For Most Efficient Axecution, the prize goes to— Tobias Rogers!”

Toby turned to glare at you. “Don’t—”

Too late.

You pulled a cupcake from your backpack, pink frosting swirled high with a plastic eyeball topper.

“Victory snack!”

He stared. Then glanced at the corpse still twitching behind him.

"...I can’t believe you actually brought cupcakes to a kill mission.”

“Of course I did!” you chirped. “What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t sweeten the deal? That’s proxy morale 101, baby.”

Toby reached out and — to your surprise — took the damn cupcake. Peeled the wrapper with slow, almost cautious fingers.

He didn’t say thank you. Of course not.

But he bit into it.

And then, after a pause, his voice low and dry: “…This is strawberry-blood swirl?”

You grinned so wide your cheeks ached. “You do listen to me.”

He didn’t look at you. But you caught the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth — not a tic this time.

A smile.

The hood of his dark sweatshirt is pulled low, but not low enough to hide the bandage stretched over the left side of his face. You know what’s beneath it—a thick, ruined scar that sits at the side of his mouth. Tonight, it makes him look dangerous in the way some girls flirt with just to feel something.

You watch him as the porch lights flicker. His eyes are half-shadowed, twitching slightly, like his skin is buzzing under the surface. He senses you staring.

“What?” he asks flatly.

You shrug. “Just taking in the scenery.”

His lips quirk—not quite a smile, not quite a threat.

“I look like scenery to you?”

“Tonight you do,” you murmur, eyes lingering on the way the bandage highlights the sharp edges of his jaw.

He scoffs softly, shaking his head, but says nothing.

Together, you walk up the steps and into the belly of the house.

Inside, the party is already in full spiral.

Sweat sticks to the ceiling. Lights strobe in violent flashes. The music is loud enough to drown out thought—something fast, with a thudding beat that vibrates through your ribcage. You’re jostled almost immediately by a pair of guys arguing about beer pong and a girl shrieking with laughter as she pours vodka into her soda.

Toby walks a half step behind you. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his presence like static.

You scan the room. Melissa’s easy to spot. Slumped on the edge of a busted couch, a half-finished drink in one hand and smudged eyeliner clinging to her lower lashes. She’s laughing at something some frat guy is saying, her legs crossed, her fingers twitching around the red Solo cup.

You and Toby don’t approach her.

The plan is to blend in. Monitor. If she slips up, if she starts telling people where to find the mansion, then you’ll intervene. But for now? Just play it cool.

Apparently, "playing it cool" means getting pulled into a circle of drunk students forming on the living room floor.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven!” someone yells, hoisting an empty bottle over their head like a sword.

“Yesss,” Melissa slurs as she stumbles into the circle. “Oh my god, I haven’t played this since like, high school!”

Someone tugs on your jacket. “You’re in.”

Toby appears beside you, like a shadow drawn to the noise.

The bottle is set in the center of the circle. You glance at him.

He meets your eyes for a beat. His fingers twitch once, then stop.

You both sit.

The bottle spins.

Once. Twice. Around and around until it slows... and points to you.

The room erupts into teasing cheers and whooping laughter.

Your stomach flips.

They spin again.

It points to him.

“Holy shit,” someone says. “Her and him? Put ‘em in the damn closet!”

You rise slowly. Toby stands too, every movement deliberate.

You try not to look too hard at his face. At the flex of his jaw. At the muscle twitching beneath the edge of the bandage.

The door shuts with a dull thud behind you, sealing you both inside.

For a moment, all you can hear is your own breath. The closet is barely wide enough for the two of you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and the heat from his body hits you like a wave. Toby doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

But he’s close.

Close enough for the fabric of his hoodie to brush your jacket. Close enough that the quiet rise and fall of his chest grazes yours each time you breathe.

The air is heavy. Stale with dust and perfume and sweat. And yet, it’s not that which makes your lungs feel tight.

It’s him.

The silence stretches between you, thick and buzzing, until you can't stand it anymore.

“So,” you say, your voice thinner than you meant. “This how you imagined the mission going?”

Toby shifts just enough to let his head tilt toward you. Even in the dark, you can feel his gaze. It rakes over you like static.

You open your mouth to make another snarky remark , but you never get the chance.

Because he kisses you.

Hard.

His hand grips your jaw, angling your face up to his. The contact is rough, unfiltered, all tongue and teeth and frustration, and it makes your knees go weak. You gasp into his mouth, but he swallows the sound like he’s starving for it.

Your back hits the wall of the closet with a soft thud.

He follows, pressing his body flush against yours—his hips locking to yours like two pieces clicking into place.

You whimper.

God, you actually whimper.

One of his hands finds the hem of your shirt, yanking it upward. Cool air ghosts across your stomach just before his palm follows—skin on skin. He groans into your mouth when he feels the warmth of you under his fingers.

“Toby—”

You try to say his name like a warning, but it comes out like a plea.

His hand spans your ribs, fingers spread wide. He drags his thumb just under the swell of your chest. You shudder, back arching to chase the contact.

You grind against him without even meaning to—hips rolling forward on instinct. The hardness you feel between you is unmistakable.

His breath stutters.

“Keep doing that,” he growls.

You do.

Because you’ve forgotten everything else. The mission. The party. Melissa. The rest of the damn world. It all vanishes, swallowed by the heat blooming between your legs and the pressure of his mouth crashing back to yours.

Your hands aren't still either.

You fist the front of his hoodie and yank it upward. Your fingers skim over his stomach—hard muscle and old scars—and he jerks, biting your lip. It sends a jolt straight down your spine.

You kiss like you’re trying to crawl inside each other.

There’s nothing soft about it. Nothing careful.

Your teeth knock. Your lips bruise. His hand is in your hair now, tugging just hard enough to make your breath catch.

You moan, and he answers with a rough sound that sounds almost broken.

His other hand slips between your thighs. Presses against the seam of your jeans.

You gasp.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re soaked.”

You nod because you can’t speak.

His palm rolls slow circles against you, even through the fabric. You squirm, clutching at his shoulders, rocking into his hand shamelessly.

You feel wild.

Desperate.

Seven minutes in heaven is all that you need.

Your thighs tremble.

He kisses down your jaw, teeth dragging against the skin there, then sucking hard—leaving a mark that’ll scream his tomorrow morning.

You're grinding against his thigh now, completely lost in the motion, in the sound of his breath growing ragged, in the way your bodies are rutting together like you might actually—

You don’t finish the thought.

But you feel it.

The edge.

The heat.

The burn in your core that makes your toes curl and your vision blur.

Toby groans against your throat. “You’re gonna come just like this, huh? Just from rubbing against me?”

You nod again, eyes squeezing shut. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

His lips brush your ear. “Let go. Come on, baby. You want it.”

You do. God, you do.

And you do.

It hits like a wave—your thighs locking, your body going tight as stars spark behind your eyes. You bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out too loud, but Toby’s there, kissing you through it, holding you up when your legs start to shake.

His hands are everywhere. On your back. In your hair. Gripping your hips like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

And you realize that this was the moment you were afraid of.

Not being caught. Not being found out.

You were afraid of how much you wanted this.

How much you want him.

The closet is silent now, save for the sound of both of you breathing hard and the faint throb of music bleeding in from the party.

Toby presses his forehead to yours, still holding you close.

“You good?” he whispers.

You nod.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze in the low light.

The tension hasn’t left his body. He’s still hard against your hip. Still breathing like he’s one wrong word away from slamming you back into the wall and making it a night no one could forget.

But the door creaks.

You freeze.

“Seven minutes,” he mutters, like it’s a curse.

You smooth your shirt.

He tugs his hoodie down.

Neither of you say what you're thinking.

That seven minutes nearly ruined you.

If the door hadn't opened, you'd still be in there.

Still learning the taste of him.

Still teetering on the edge of something that scares you more than anything else.

Outside, the crowd whoops.

You both step out, calm on the surface, fire underneath.

Melissa sees you.

Her mouth opens.

Then closes again.

She won’t talk.

Not now.

Because something primal passed between you and Toby behind that door, and she saw it in your eyes.

Your hands slam into his chest. He stumbles but doesn’t fall, and you’re already pulling your arm back for a swing when you recognize him.

Jeff.

Of course it’s Jeff.

The jagged smile is already in place—cut into his face, a horrifying, permanent grin. His hoodie is still stained, a patchwork of old and fresh blood. The way his head tilts when he looks at you, the glint in his eye—it’s all wrong.

"Well, good morning, sweetheart," he drawls, entirely too pleased with himself. “Didn’t know you were the jumpy type. Got a thing for surprise attacks?”

You don’t respond right away—just breathing hard, fists still raised.

His hands go up in mock surrender. “Easy there, tiger. I was just looking for some peroxide. That bathroom’s got better supplies than the main one. Thought you were dead to the world.”

“You were in my room,” you spit, venom lacing every word. “You don’t get to just—walk in and—go through my things—”

He interrupts with a snort, his grin widening unnaturally. “Your room?”

Your stomach twists.

“You don’t own shit,” he continues, voice low now. “That bed, that bathroom… you’re borrowing all of it. You think you matter more than the rest of us just because you got handed a shiny scythe?”

You don’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you breathe in deeply—once, then twice—just enough to pull yourself back from the edge. From the overwhelming urge to lunge.

You lower your fists. Just slightly.

Jeff watches you with a kind of fascination, like you're a particularly interesting bug he hasn't decided whether to kill or keep. “You’ve got fight in you. I like that.”

You don’t.

Not from him.

“Get the hell out of my way,” you growl.

For a second, you think he’ll resist, but then he shrugs and steps aside, still smiling. “Sure. I’ll let you cool off. We’ll have more fun later.”

You shoot him a look that could freeze fire before pushing past him and disappearing down the hallway, your pulse hammering in your ears.

He chuckles behind you.

You don’t stop until you’ve put at least three turns of hallway between you and your room.

And even then… you don’t let your guard down.

You don’t even realize you’ve made a full loop of the hallway until your door appears in front of you again—shut, undisturbed, like nothing happened.

Your stomach clenches as you rest your hand on the knob. You half-expect Jeff to be waiting behind it again, but when you crack it open and peek inside, it’s empty. Still. Silent.

You slip inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Your eyes scan the room, and that’s when you notice it—your stuff. Little things. The overnight bag you kept under your bed at your apartment. Your hoodie—the one with the bleach stain on the cuff—folded neatly on the chair in the corner. A familiar bottle of your shampoo sitting on the bathroom counter. Your toothbrush. Even your damn phone charger.

The air in your lungs leaves in a slow, tight breath.

Someone was in your apartment.

Someone went through your belongings. Touched your things. Chose what you needed to survive for a night or two and brought it here. And they did it all… without your roommate noticing.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, gripping the blanket between your fingers as the weight of it settles in. You feel exposed. Like there’s nowhere they won’t reach, no part of your life they haven’t already wormed their way into. You think about your roommate again, the text you sent her last night. That stupid, vague excuse about being gone for the night. The guilt sinks in heavier now.

You sit there for a long minute, breathing in slow, shallow pulls, trying to force the nausea down. There’s no way in hell you’re going to the kitchen. Not with Jeff lurking around like some smug parasite and the others still unsettled from last night’s meeting.

So you get up, pull on your hoodie, and grab the new phone from the nightstand. Then you open the door and slip back into the hallway.

You need stability. Logic. Answers.

And if anyone in this place has it, it’s probably EJ.

You make your way through the mansion, sticking close to the wall. No one’s out—not yet, at least. Most of them are probably still asleep or pretending to be. The halls are quieter than you expect, almost eerily so, but you don’t question it. It makes it easier to move.

You remember the infirmary from the quick house rundown—two floors down, west wing. Tucked behind an old set of steel double doors that look more like something out of a fallout shelter than a mansion.

You don’t knock when you get there. You just push the door open and step inside.

It’s cold, sterile in a way nothing else here is. The lighting is harsh fluorescent, buzzing faintly overhead. The room smells of antiseptic and iron.

And there he is.

EJ stands hunched over a metal table, gloves on, sleeves rolled up, working intently at something you can’t quite see—his frame calm, methodical, like everything he does is exactly as he intended.

You hesitate in the doorway.

Without even looking up, he speaks—his voice even, low. “I figured you’d come here.”

You swallow thickly. “I didn’t feel like… facing anyone.”

He finally glances up. That dark void of a gaze meets yours behind the smooth bone of his mask. “I don’t blame you.”

You take a tentative step forward. “Did you… take my stuff from my apartment?”

“No,” he replies instantly. “I didn’t enter your space. Cody did.”

That somehow doesn’t make it feel any less violating.

EJ’s tone softens slightly. “It was already decided before you woke up. You needed your essentials. Cody was careful. He didn’t linger.”

You nod, though it does little to soothe the sick twist in your gut. “Still feels wrong.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But it was necessary.”

You finally let yourself breathe, just a little. It’s not an apology, but at least it’s not gaslighting either.

EJ steps back from the table and gestures toward one of the clean chairs against the wall. “Sit. You’re pale.”

You sit.

Not because he told you to, but because he’s right. The adrenaline is gone. The fire from earlier has burned out, leaving behind only ash and nerves.

He begins gathering a few supplies in silence.

You frown. “I’m not hurt.”

“You threw up a lot last night,” he says simply. “I’m making sure you didn’t get dehydrated.”

You blink.

He noticed. Of course he did.

And for some reason… that makes your chest ache in a different way.

You let him work in silence, the sterile calm of the infirmary wrapping around you like a thin, cold blanket.

And for the first time since arriving here, you don’t feel like you’re drowning. Not entirely.

You accept the cup without a word—fingers curling around it, the plastic crinkling faintly beneath your grip. The water’s slightly cloudy, which confirms what you already guessed: EJ dosed it with something. Electrolytes, maybe glucose. Nothing dangerous, not from him. If he wanted to hurt you, he’d have already done it.

You sip it slowly.

The coolness helps settle your stomach, though it doesn’t do much for the unease crawling up your spine when your eyes flick toward the metal table.

You hadn’t looked before—not directly—but now, the moment you glance over, you see it.

A body.

Most of it’s obscured under a sheet, but the arm is exposed. Pale. Stiff. Blood dried beneath a deep incision where EJ had been focused just moments ago. The surgical tools nearby are neatly arranged, shining coldly under the fluorescents. There’s no blood spray, no chaos—just methodical, practiced precision.

Your stomach tightens. You swallow the rising nerves, forcing yourself to keep your face neutral.

EJ doesn’t look up from rinsing his hands in the small steel sink in the corner. But somehow, he still knows.

“She wasn’t one of ours,” he says evenly. “One of theirs.”

You don’t ask who they are. You’re not sure you want to know. Not yet.

You nod once, slowly, like it’s something you understand. Like it’s something you’ve already decided not to question out loud. Because this—whatever this is—is now your world. And you’re learning the rules by immersion.

He dries his hands with surgical precision, then turns back toward you.

“I’ll be driving you back to your apartment tonight.”

The shift in your posture is immediate—like a string pulling taut in your chest. You sit up straighter, the cup still half full in your hands. “Really?”

“You’ll return with whatever cover story you told your roommate. Tomorrow night, you’ll come back here.”

You nod slowly. “Okay… and between now and then?”

“We’ll be going over the details of your assignment,” he answers. “Your first mission is in three weeks. On Halloween.”

The words settle like a stone in your chest.

You already knew it. They said it last night. But hearing it again—alone, here, in this sterile, quiet place—makes it feel real in a way it didn’t before.

“Today,” he continues, stepping closer, “you’ll learn exactly what you’re expected to do.”

You meet his gaze—or where his eyes should be behind the dark mask—and nod again. There’s no use pretending you’re not scared. You are.

But you’re listening now. You’re in this.

And the more you understand, the less power they have over you.

You down the rest of the water and set the cup aside.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Let’s do this.”

EJ steps past you to a locked cabinet near the wall. You watch as he inputs a code—quick, practiced movements of gloved fingers—and the lock clicks open. Inside are rows of files, thick manila folders lined up like teeth.

He pulls one out without hesitation and brings it to the table beside you, laying it open with that same clinical efficiency. A photo paperclipped to the first page stares up at you: a man, maybe in his late forties. Clean-cut. Professional-looking. Friendly smile. The kind of face that wouldn’t turn heads at the grocery store.

But you already know better than to trust that.

“His name is Calvin Reddick,” EJ begins, his voice even, factual. “Lives on the outskirts of town. Big house. Secluded, but not so much that he draws attention. He’s in his late forties, works from home. Claims he’s a security consultant.”

You lean over the file, eyes scanning the information. Something about the name… tugs at you. Familiar, but not entirely.

“He's not innocent,” EJ continues, answering the question before you can ask it. “None of them are. The boss doesn’t send people after civilians. Not unless they're a threat.”

“A threat to who?” you ask quietly, eyes flicking back to him.

“To us. To the system we operate in. Calvin’s both.”

He taps the next page. Newspaper clippings, blurred photographs, a scanned police report. Then another page—a photo from a crime scene, the edges redacted, but still brutal. You can see just enough.

“He’s killed before,” EJ says. “Multiple times. Patterns that don’t match your average spree. Surgical removals. Ritualistic behavior. He’s a collector—sick, even by our standards. Slipped through the cracks for years.”

You glance at the evidence again.

“Recently,” EJ adds, “he’s started digging. Got wind of this place—sightings, rumors, activity around the outskirts. Cameras went up. Some of ours barely made it out undetected. He’s smart. But paranoid.”

“And now he’s on your radar.”

“He was already being watched. Your mission just… bumped him to the top of the list.”

You let that settle. It makes sense, in a disturbing kind of way. You’re not being sent after some clueless civilian—this is a test, yes, but it’s also a cleanup.

“Is this… a message?” you ask finally.

EJ shrugs one shoulder. “You could say that. It tells others no one’s safe. And it tells us something else too.”

“What?”

“If you’re ready.”

You stare at the file for another beat, then nod, more to yourself than to him. It doesn’t make you feel better, but it does make it feel real. Like you’re not just some plaything or pawn being thrown to the wolves. You have a reason now, a purpose.

“I’ll get you there and back,” EJ says, snapping the folder shut. “We’ll start prep tomorrow. Right now, just focus on surviving today.”

You almost smile.

But instead, you glance back at the covered body on the slab, that single exposed patch of skin a dull, waxy gray—like candlewax left in the cold. The skin has an unnatural stillness to it, and the veins beneath shimmer faintly, almost violet in the harsh lighting.

You open your mouth to ask, but EJ is already ahead of you.

“They’ve been showing up for the past month,” he says, not looking up from where he’s jotting something on a clipboard. “Always in the woods just outside the estate—far enough from the freeway to stay hidden from cars. We wouldn’t even have known about the first one if Toby hadn’t caught the smell.”

You frown, eyes narrowing. “Who are they?”

EJ finally meets your gaze, his expression unreadable behind the mask. “That’s the problem. They’re no one.”

You tilt your head slightly. “No one?”

He sets the clipboard down and peels the sheet off the corpse’s chest, revealing a patch of bruised, purpling skin over a ribcage that looks too hollow.

“No criminal records. No connections to us. Some local, some from completely different towns. A couple didn’t even live in this state. Random people. Different backgrounds. Different lives. And yet…”

“All showing up here,” you finish, stomach tightening.

He nods.

“Completely exsanguinated. No wounds. No signs of restraint. Whatever’s doing this… it’s clean. Too clean.”

Your mouth goes dry as your thoughts scramble toward explanations—none of them good. “So you’re saying something is killing civilians… and dropping them on your doorstep?”

“More like just outside the gates,” he corrects. “Every time. Close enough to be a message. But we don’t know from who.”

You glance toward the cameras perched in the corners, then at the cold body.

“And nothing’s been caught on footage?”

“Not a thing,” EJ says. “Cameras glitch for exactly twenty seconds. Each time. Then it’s back, and there’s a body.”

A cold chill runs up your spine.

“And the boss?” you ask. “What does he think it is?”

EJ’s voice is low. “He thinks it’s something new. Or something old—that’s woken up.”

You sit with that for a moment, trying not to let your hands tremble as you shift the cup of water between your palms.

“Just one more thing to worry about,” you murmur.

He hums softly. “Welcome to the job.”

You look at him, and there’s a strange gravity to his words. Like he’s not trying to scare you—but trying to make sure you really understand. Whatever this is, it’s not a ghost story or side quest. It’s something real, and it’s just outside the walls. Watching.

Waiting.

You try to stay focused on the file in your hands—the one with your target’s photo paperclipped to the front, a mugshot-like print from a DMV database. But as soon as the infirmary door creaks open, your attention wavers. You can’t help it.

Cody walks in first, casual as ever, his blue hoodie dampened with dark patches that look far too red under the fluorescent lights. His satchel is heavier than usual, and his dark curls are ruffled like he just came from something rough. Probably did. He holds up a keycard lazily in one hand.

“Freezer’s restocked,” he says to EJ like he's commenting on the weather. Then, glancing over at you, he adds with a smirk, “Caught you staring again, sweetheart.”

You don’t rise to the bait. You just level your stare at him, cold and flat. “Maybe I was trying to guess if that’s someone’s blood or yours.”

He grins wider, teeth white and sharp in a way that feels practiced. “That’s the fun part—sometimes it’s both.”

But before you can toss something biting back, the door swings wider and the room seems to tilt.

She steps in without a sound.

The woman moves like a shadow that forgot how to be human. Her nurse’s uniform looks too perfect, like something pulled from a wax museum—pristine and dated, with a stiff white cap and a dress hem that flutters even when she doesn't move. Rust-colored stains darken the edges, permanent in a way that bleach could never touch. She’s tall, rigid, her steps eerily graceful and mechanical, like someone trying to remember the choreography of being alive.

You read her tag as she glides past without a word: Ann.

Her skin is waxy and pale, and beneath it you can see veins like spiderwebs made of ink—black, branching in unnatural patterns. Her face is too still, eyes a washed-out blue-gray that don't blink once, just stare. Past you. Through you.

When she tilts her head, it's with a snap too fast, too birdlike. Her hair, bright red and coiled into a perfect bun, doesn’t move at all. And as she steps behind the desk, you catch the stitching.

Fine, surgical, running up the sides of her neck, along her wrists, elbows, even her collarbone like she was sewn together after being pulled apart.

She doesn’t say anything. She just starts typing on a small terminal, robotic and efficient, like she was programmed to ignore everything else.

You realize you’re holding your breath.

Cody breaks the tension. “You should ask her to do your bloodwork sometime,” he says with a teasing tone. “She’s got a hand steadier than a corpse.”

EJ glances up, unamused. “Don’t flirt near the cadavers.”

Cody shrugs, then turns his attention back to you with that same infuriating twinkle in his eye. “Speaking of bodies, did you know we’ve got a file on you too?”

You freeze.

EJ reacts before you can. A sharp smack to Cody’s shoulder, more warning than pain, but enough to signal shut it.

Cody laughs, rubbing the spot. “What? It’s not a secret.”

But you’re no longer looking at either of them. You’re staring at the manila folder in your own hands, the target’s face now blurred in your periphery.

They have a file on you.

Your fingers curl slowly around the edge of the file. Cold sweat prickles at the back of your neck. The weight of being watched, known—before you even stepped into this house—settles into your bones.

Cody leans against a counter, trying to downplay it. “Don’t look so shocked, newbie. You wouldn’t be here if someone wasn’t already curious.”

EJ doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at you now, carefully.

Measured.

And that silence says everything.

You stare Cody down, jaw clenched, then shift your gaze to EJ, voice low but steady.

“I want to see it.”

EJ doesn’t argue. Doesn’t sigh. He simply nods once, pivots on his heel, and walks to the tall metal filing cabinet. You hear the quiet screech of the drawer pulling out, the soft shuffle of folders being pushed aside. Then he returns and holds the file out.

You take it.

It’s heavier than you expect.

Thick.

You feel a tightness coil around your throat before you even flip it open. There’s something deeply wrong about holding your own life documented like this. Not just the government-paper kind of file, either—this one feels personal. Intimate. Violated.

You open it.

Your eyes scan the first page, and then your stomach drops.

Date: August 28, 20xx. Age 17.

You freeze.

And then your gaze falls lower, right to the stapled photo printed on glossy paper.

You recognize the porch immediately. The dim morning light, the sagging wood. But more than that—you remember that moment.

Your own face, caught mid-sob, makeup smeared, hoodie sleeves yanked over your hands. You’re sitting on the porch steps of your childhood home, curled in on yourself like you were trying to disappear.

You remember the party the night before. You remember waking up in a stranger’s bed, heart pounding, head aching. You hadn’t even remembered getting there. You grabbed your clothes and fled, disgusted with yourself, clutching your phone like it might give you some excuse to undo it all.

When you got home, your mom had scolded you. The typical argument—words thrown like knives, the kind that don’t need to be loud to wound. You remember raising your voice, and how the vase on the windowsill had shattered. Your mom went to clean it up.

And you went outside.

To cry.

To get away. To breathe.

And someone watched.

Photographed you.

That image—you, broken open on the steps, without knowing it—had been taken and filed away like a specimen.

They’ve been following you since then.

You feel bile rise in your throat.

All those years. All those moments you thought were yours alone—dark nights, shaky hands, screaming into your pillow after too many wrong turns.

Not alone.

Someone saw.

Someone wrote it down.

Someone decided you were interesting enough to keep tabs on.

You close the file slowly, fingers trembling just slightly.

Cody, who had been watching from a distance now looks almost sheepish—like he realizes the joke didn’t land the way he’d hoped. Or maybe he did know, and just didn’t care.

EJ doesn’t speak. His hands are tucked neatly behind his back, gaze fixed on the wall like he’s giving you the space to fall apart.

But you don’t.

You just sit there with the file still in your lap, your face blank but your insides roaring.

Because whatever line you thought they hadn’t crossed—they had.

And years ago.

You don’t look up when you ask it.

Your voice is low—tight in your throat like a wire pulled too taut.

“Why?”

The file still rests in your lap. Heavy. Dirty. Full of pieces of your life you thought belonged to you alone.

“Why was I worth watching? Why follow me since I was seventeen?”

There’s a long silence. The kind that stretches until it starts to feel personal.

EJ doesn't answer right away. You watch his jaw flex slightly behind the mask, the lines of his shoulders stiffen. He glances once at Cody, who’s unusually quiet now, fidgeting with something in his satchel, gaze averted.

Then EJ turns fully to you and sighs.

You’re not sure if it’s tired or reluctant.

“I wasn’t sure if this was the time to tell you,” he says, voice level and calm as always, but a little quieter now. “But I suppose it is.”

You lift your head. You can feel the burn behind your eyes again, but you blink it back. You’re done crying. Now you want answers.

EJ folds his arms behind his back again, shifting into that unnerving, surgical stillness he wears like second skin.

“There are things in this world that don’t follow the rules of nature,” he begins. “Monsters. Creatures. Abnormalities. Magic—whatever word you want to use.”

Your brow furrows. “Like… you?”

He nods once. “Like me. Like a lot of the people in this house. You’ve already met several. And there are hundreds more—some hiding, some feeding, some watching.”

Your grip tightens on the folder.

“And me?” you ask. “Where do I fit in?”

EJ tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re one of his case files now. A specimen on a table.

“You’re not exactly like us,” he says slowly. “But you’re not normal either. Not in the way you’ve been told.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you remember the mall?”

The question catches you off guard. Of course you remember the mall. The fight. The screams. The blood.

He sees it in your eyes. That flash of memory. But he narrows it down.

“No. Not the fighting. The moment before you blacked out. When you screamed.”

You swallow.

You do remember.

Not just the scream—but the feeling behind it.

It wasn’t panic. It was something deeper, raw and unnatural. Like something inside you had cracked and poured out.

The world tilted. People dropped. Things—creatures—flinched like they’d been burned. And then the darkness took you.

“That scream,” EJ continues, watching you carefully, “wasn’t just adrenaline or fear. It wasn’t even human. Not entirely.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“You don’t just walk into this world,” he says. “You’re drawn to it. Or it to you.”

You’re shaking your head now, but only because the truth is starting to unravel inside you, thread by thread.

“No,” you whisper. “I’m just—”

“—A girl who’s been waking up different her whole life,” he finishes for you. “Who feels when things aren’t right. Who dreams about people before she meets them. Who knows when she’s being watched, even when she’s asleep.”

The air feels heavier suddenly.

“I thought I was just paranoid,” you murmur.

“You’re not paranoid,” he says softly. “You’re sensitive. Like a pressure valve left half open. That’s why you’ve been watched. That’s why you’re useful.”

You don’t know what to say. The weight of the folder on your lap feels different now. Not just invasive, but inevitable.

EJ steps closer, lowering his voice.

“You’re not one of the monsters, Y/N.”

“But you’re close.”

Your eyes flicked to the speaker, and for a second, your brain stuttered. The man—no, the presence—looked like Toby. Same height. Same frame. But that was where the similarities ended.

A dark gas mask obscured the lower half of his face, worn and scratched but well-kept. His goggles, unlike Toby’s blinding orange ones, were the classic clear kind—pushed up onto his head, revealing sharp, inhumanly bright eyes that practically glowed atomic green. His hoodie was a deep, dusty blue, faded with time but clean, with the hood slouched against his back. A tan satchel hung from his side, heavy with unseen contents.

But what truly caught your attention was the symbol.

Stamped into the sleeve of his hoodie near his shoulder, barely faded, was a circle with an X drawn through it.

You froze.

You’d seen that before. Everywhere. Spray-painted on alley walls, carved into benches, scratched into metal poles near the outskirts of town. You always thought it was some weird graffiti tag, maybe from a rebellious art kid or a gang without imagination.

But now you knew better.

That symbol had meaning here.

The man in the mask turned as the group entered, his gaze snapping to yours the second you stepped through the doorway. And those green eyes—unnatural, sharp, electric—locked with yours in a way that made your breath hitch.

Jeff, for once, had gone silent. He didn’t meet your gaze. He didn’t smile. Not now.

“Eyes up here, princess,” the masked man said—this time to Jeff, who shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

The room was vast—an enormous library that seemed to stretch both up and outward forever. Towering shelves lined the walls, heavy with old books, ancient tomes, and strange objects you couldn’t begin to name. But in the center of the room was something unexpected: a massive sunken conversation pit, circular, with deep couches and mismatched cushions scattered about. A fire roared quietly in the center, the light licking up.

It felt like a strange blend of eerie and… lived-in.

You felt EJ stop beside you, and you mirrored him instinctively.

“Library,” he said plainly. “Most meetings happen here. Most arguments too.”

Toby muttered a quiet “he’s not wrong” under his breath, his eyes darting between you and the masked figure.

You turned to EJ, voice low. “…Who’s that?”

EJ didn’t even blink.

“That’s Cody.”

Cody.

You filed the name away immediately.

Just like all the others.

Toby was already halfway down the steps into the sunken pit by the time you'd processed the room. He practically threw himself onto one of the couches, limbs flopping every which way like a scarecrow with too much caffeine.

"I call this one!" he announced, laying dramatically across the cushions with his arms behind his head. "Couch privileges. Seniority, baby."

You lingered near the edge of the conversation pit, arms still stiff at your sides. Despite the soft flicker of the fire, the room didn’t feel warm—not to you. Maybe it was the pressure of too many unknowns, too many killers sitting in a room like it was some twisted little family reunion.

Then, from behind, a gentle but firm tap between your shoulder blades. EJ’s gloved finger.

A nonverbal, "Move."

You scowled slightly but obeyed, your boots thudding softly down the stairs. You headed toward the couch without letting your eyes drift too long on anyone—especially not Jeff, who was now sprawled in a different corner with that smug grin starting to reappear. He hadn’t said anything since Cody stepped in, but you could feel the weight of his stare like a mosquito whining too close to your ear.

Just as you were about to sit, the hairs on your neck stood up.

Footsteps.

Two sets. Heavy and unhurried.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was—you felt it.

Cold, sharp, dangerous.

They stepped into the room with the kind of silence that made your fight-or-flight reflex scream. Your gut twisted.

The man in the porcelain mask came first, dressed in the same Carhartt jacket from the mall—the one that had barely rippled when a hatchet was thrown. His mask was unnerving: completely featureless save for its empty eyes, like staring into a void.

Beside him was the one in the mustard hoodie, the ski mask stretched over his face like an insult. Two glowing red dots where his eyes should be, and a red downturned mouth painted in the shape of a permanent, cartoonish frown.

You could handle Toby.

These two? You didn’t even know their names, and yet your body already cataloged every muscle twitch, every inch of distance between you and them.

You clenched your fist so tightly you felt your nails press crescents into your palm, the ache keeping you grounded. For half a second, your body wanted to move. Kick. Strike. Put both these guys down hard.

Instead… you sat. Directly between EJ and Cody.

Cody barely looked at you as you settled, but you could feel his presence nonetheless—calm, silent, calculating. Unlike Toby, who radiated chaotic energy, Cody was stone. Still. The kind of still that made people nervous.

Your eyes flicked toward EJ. He sat closest to the steps that led out of the pit, arms crossed as if this whole thing was routine.

Good, you thought. If things go bad, that’s the exit. He’s my way out.

Then, without fully turning your head, you scoped the windows to your left. Tall. Thin. But they lined the wall directly behind you, opposite the door. Sunlight streamed in just enough to let you imagine it—grabbing a chair, a bookend, hell, even the scythe if you had to, and smashing your way out. Running through the woods barefoot if it came to it.

You were already planning.

Always planning.

And while your cereal still sat untouched somewhere in the kitchen, cold and soggy by now… this? This felt like survival again.

And you were good at survival.

The two masked men sat across from you in unison, like synchronized predators watching their prey from across the flame. The fire between you danced lazily, crackling with a low pop every now and then, casting deep shadows across their faceless visages. Despite how out of place it felt, the fire somehow didn’t fill the room with smoke. Just warmth. Controlled. Engineered.

You blinked at the flames, then up.

How the hell was there a fire pit in the middle of a damn library?

Your eyes scanned the towering shelves that surrounded the sunken pit like the ribs of some great beast, and eventually caught sight of an open skylight far above. A soft beam of late afternoon light trickled in through it. You almost relaxed—

Until you noticed eyes staring back.

Not just any eyes.

One was stark white with a pinprick of black in the center. The other? Pitch black with a swirling white spiral. No lids. No blinking. Just… watching.

"What the fu—"

You barely had time to gasp before a figure began descending—gracefully, almost theatrically—on a pair of thick, black-and-white acrobatic silks. If the situation hadn’t been straight out of a nightmare, you might have laughed at how absurd it was. But your heart was in your throat.

He dropped lower.

Slow, deliberate, inhuman.

And then he landed lightly just beside the fire pit. Not with a thud. With a whisper.

Your breath hitched.

He was completely monochrome. Like someone had dragged him from an old film reel and dumped him into reality. His skin was so pale it bordered on translucent, stretched thin over a tall, almost skeletal frame. His hair was wild, jet black, and shot in every direction like he’d electrocuted himself and liked it. A grotesque grin split his face unnaturally wide, exposing rows of jagged, yellowed teeth that didn’t belong in a human mouth.

His smile extended too far, impossibly so, as if the corners of his mouth had been pulled by invisible strings.

You froze, caught in the predator's gaze.

He wore a Victorian-style clown outfit, striped black and white from the puffy shoulders down to the oversized, pointed shoes. The ruffled collar bobbed slightly as he tilted his head, and even the gloves on his long fingers followed that antique harlequin pattern.

You stared.

He stared back.

Unblinking.

The fire between you popped, and you flinched.

“You got a name, pretty thing?” the creature asked, his voice a strange mix of melodic and grating. It scratched at your ears like a record just out of tune but still trying to hum a lullaby.

No one moved.

Toby leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, great. Now he’s here.” His voice was flat. Almost tired.

EJ didn’t react at all. Cody shifted subtly beside you, not out of fear, but readiness. You could feel it, like static coiling under his skin.

“Y/N,” you answered finally, your voice steadier than you expected.

The monochrome figure placed a hand over his heart and gave a bow so deep and formal it seemed mocking.

“Pleasure.”

Then his smile widened somehow—impossibly.

“You can call me Jack.”

Jeff burst into uncontrollable laughter, nearly doubling over in his seat across the fire pit.

“Are you serious?” he wheezed, slapping his knee. “No one told her about Jack? Oh, this is gonna be good—”

You tuned him out.

It was easier that way. His voice felt like nails on a chalkboard dragging through your spine at this point. Instead, you focused on the others. The ones who hadn't made a show of themselves yet. You needed to start piecing things together—how they moved, who they watched, who they didn't. Their power dynamics.

And then you felt it—just the faintest pressure on your thigh.

You flinched and looked down.

EJ, silent as ever beside you, was dragging the edge of his index finger along the fabric of your pants. His movements were small and methodical, letters forming with precision, the tiniest indent pressing against your skin as he wrote:

S-A-L-L-Y

You furrowed your brow and looked up.

And there she was.

You hadn't even seen her enter.

She was sitting on the floor just a few feet away from Jack, her tiny frame partially obscured by a low shelf. Pale—deathly pale, almost grey—her skin looked like porcelain pulled too tight over bones. Her wide, dark brown eyes were glossy and too big for her face, staring blankly at the fire as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Her hair was long and brown, straight but messily tangled at the ends, falling past her shoulders in jagged strands. She wore a faded pink dress that looked like it belonged to another decade, tattered at the hem and smeared with something too dark to be dirt.

Blood.

Her bare feet were tucked underneath her, toes curling against the plush rug, and in her small arms she held a teddy bear—worn, but oddly pristine. No blood. No dirt. Just a soft, faded brown bear clutched so tightly to her chest you wondered if it had grown there.

Around her, a faint glow pulsed—soft and cold. Like moonlight after a snowstorm.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Your stomach twisted at the sight of her. She was beautiful and broken and terrifying all at once. A child frozen in time—maybe literally—and the kind of quiet that carried weight. Not innocence. Not anymore.

Jack gave a little flourish with his arms as if presenting her on a game show.

“And that would be our darling little Sally.” His voice dripped with mock affection, but his eyes flicked to her with something else. Caution.

Jeff had stopped laughing.

Toby let out a soft hum, rocking back and forth in his seat like he was trying to match the rhythm of the flames.

You leaned toward EJ slightly, your voice low.

“What’s her deal?”

He traced out a single word against your thigh: D-E-A-D

You swallowed hard.

Sally blinked slowly and, as if sensing your question, turned to look directly at you. No smile. No frown. Just… eyes.

She raised her bear a little higher, nuzzled her face into it, then whispered something. You couldn’t hear it. But whatever it was, the air around her shifted.

You looked away.

And caught Jack’s eyes again—still fixed on you. Still smiling.

God, always smiling.

You’re still reeling from the last five minutes when you feel a subtle shift beside you.

Ben is there now—how he got in without you noticing, you have no idea. He’s perched on the ledge of the sunken conversation pit, legs casually dangling over the edge, resting against the back of the couch you’re sitting on. He’s slouched like he doesn’t have a care in the world, the sharp glow of his Nintendo Switch casting little colored flickers across his blank, pale face. The shell gleaming like it had been bought yesterday. Stickers covered the back—some cute, some chaotic. One was a low-res pixelated skull, another was a suspiciously realistic eyeball, and the rest… were better not stared at for too long.

He didn’t even look up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he pressed furiously at the buttons. A faint 8-bit melody leaked from the speakers—something unnervingly cheerful.

He doesn’t look at you. Just chews his bottom lip and keeps tapping buttons like the world around him is a game he already beat.

You’re about to shift away—just a little—when you feel it again.

EJ’s glove.

Slow. Controlled. Tracing a name into your thigh.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s higher now. Closer to your hip. The butterflies that had settled start clawing their way back up, but they’re tangled with something worse this time. Your stomach flips, cold sweat prickling the back of your neck.

You glance down.

C-L-O-C-K-W-O-R-K.

Longer name. More space. His finger trails the last curve of the "K" with a subtle press before he pulls his hand away like nothing happened.

You swallow hard.

And then you see her.

She’s leaning against the far shelf of the library like she’s been there the whole time, half in shadow, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded across a flannel-clad chest.

Clockwork.

The name sticks in your head like gum on concrete.

There’s a literal clock embedded in her right eye socket—real, ticking, alive. Its hands twitch subtly, gears clicking just loud enough to be heard under the crackle of the fire. The skin around it is torn and tight, a patchwork of bruises, faded blood, and stitches that look like they were sewn by someone angry and impatient.

Her other eye—still intact—is sharp. Bright green, or maybe hazel, depending on how the firelight hits it. And it’s locked directly on you.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just… studies you.

You feel like a bug under glass.

Scars lace her face—across her mouth, down her chin, jagged and ugly in that "don't ask what happened" kind of way. Her hair’s pulled into a messy ponytail, but strands stick out in every direction like they’ve given up fighting gravity. She wears a dark green flannel, black tee underneath, ripped jeans, and beat-up combat boots.

If Frankenstein built a soldier, she’d be it.

Her expression doesn’t shift when you meet her eyes. There’s no friendliness there—but no hate, either. Just a quiet, burning awareness. Like she’s thinking: How fast can you run? How hard can you hit? And how long before I have to find out for myself?

You don’t look away.

And for a moment, just a flicker, one side of her stitched-up mouth quirks upward.

Not a smile. Not quite. But close enough to make your spine tighten.

Ben, without glancing up, lets out a low, bored snort.

"You're gonna die playing staring contests like that. Clock's never lost one."

You keep your gaze forward, pulse thudding as the tension in the room grows thick and crackling. You don’t even realize you’ve leaned slightly toward EJ until you feel the edge of his coat brush your arm.

Before you can say a word, Jack explodes with theatrical flair from where he’s now hanging half-over the back of the couch:

“WELL THEN!” he drawls, all manic energy and glee.

“Now that the gang’s all here… shall we begin our adorable little house meeting?”

Jeff groans somewhere behind you, his voice sharp and too loud.

“Ughhh, not this again. Who even made this a thing?”

“Probably Cody,” Toby chirps from the other side of the pit, flopped upside down on one of the seats like it’s a trampoline.

“He loves boring serious people shit.”

You barely hear them.

Because you can feel the presence again.

Them.

You stiffen slightly. Turn your head.

The two men from the mall—porcelain mask, and mustard hoodie with the ski mask and red markings. They still sit across from you, flames dancing between you and them, flickering light bouncing off their unnatural stillness.

There’s something about them that makes your instincts scream. Not loud like Toby. Not unsettling like Jack. Not clinical like EJ.

They’re deadly.

Even sitting still, saying nothing, they radiate a cold finality. Like if you breathed wrong, they’d put you down without a second thought.

Your hands tighten into fists.

Your knee bounces once, ready to launch toward the massive windows on your left. Easy escape, you think. One good kick, you could be through the glass. Maybe not clean—but free.

You flick your eyes to the stairs, to EJ’s shoulder beside you.

You’re not stuck. Not really.

But you are, for now, trapped in a den of monsters.

And every single one of them just started watching you like you're part of the collection now.

As soon as EJ prepares to speak, the room goes unnervingly silent. The tension thickens, like the air’s been sucked out of the room, and all eyes shift toward you. You feel it—the change. You’re no longer just an observer, a bystander to their madness. You’re one of them now, in some twisted way.

EJ clears his throat, breaking the silence with his usual, monotone voice.

“Obviously, not everyone’s here, but you all should spread the word just fine. Y/N is joining us. She won’t be living here full-time, but she’ll definitely be sleeping in her room tonight. Her first mission is on Halloween, in a couple of weeks. Before then, she’ll come around occasionally for details and training.”

The room seems to stir at this, mutters spreading like wildfire. You feel the weight of their judgment in every quiet exchange, the whispers skittering through the room like cold wind.

Then Toby, always with his tic, speaks up. His stutter barely masks the excitement in his voice.

“She g-got Pestilence.”

For a second, everything stops. Then, the room erupts.

Ben’s face lights up with a twisted kind of amusement. His fingers stop twitching on the buttons of his Nintendo Switch, eyes wide in something that looks like respect—or maybe a little fear. Jack, leaning forward from his seat, grins so wide you can see every sharp, jagged tooth in his mouth. His eyes gleam with curiosity. Cody, his expression always neutral, allows himself a small, approving nod.

But the rest of them? They don’t seem as pleased.

The room fills with shouting, voices cutting through the air with anger and disbelief. Sally’s small figure barely moves, but her eyes, dark and deep as an ocean, never leave you. Porcelain Mask, one of the men you saw at the mall, snarls under his breath.

“Pestilence? That’s who we’re taking in?”

You don’t catch the rest of his words, but you can feel the mockery in his tone. They’re questioning you, judging you already.

Before the argument can go any further, there's a sudden pop behind Ben. It’s so sudden, it almost makes you jump, but you’re quick to spin around. There, standing just between the shelves, is Nina. She steps forward with a casual, almost careless grace, her eyes studying you with mild interest.

“Woah, that’s impressive, newbie,” she says, her voice a mix of disbelief and casual curiosity.

The way she says it—half-sarcastic, half-amused—makes you feel like you’re still on some kind of test, something she’s been watching unfold for a while. She gives a small chuckle, but her eyes remain sharp, calculating.

The room, once buzzing with confusion, quiets again, and the conversation shifts toward you, like everyone’s just waiting for your reaction. You can feel the pressure of their gazes on you, each of them sizing you up, dissecting you from the inside out.

EJ’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Enough,” he says firmly. “The fact that she got Pestilence means she’s got potential. Whether you like it or not, she’s part of this now.”

His words land heavy, like a stamp of finality. No more arguments. This is happening. And you're caught in the middle of it, tangled up in something far darker than you can understand.

The others shift in their seats, still grumbling under their breath, but it's clear that whatever protests were brewing are now muted.

Clockwork, eyes never leaving you, doesn't speak. But you can feel the weight of her gaze, intense, as if she’s dissecting every part of you. The same goes for Ben, still too focused on his Switch but giving you the occasional glance, the look of someone trying to gauge if you're an ally or a threat.

You’re part of this now.

Whether you want to be or not.

And as much as you’d like to bolt, escape from this twisted house of horrors, you know one thing—you’re trapped. With no clear way out, no answers, and no idea what the hell you’re supposed to do next.

And just when you think you can breathe, Nina tosses out her last line, casually but pointedly,

“Guess we’ll see how well you handle your first Halloween.”

Her words echo in the space between you and the others, another cold reminder of what you’ve signed up for.

The tension in the room is palpable, suffocating. You feel it rising within you, a pit of raw frustration threatening to break free. You can’t help it—every single person here, their faces, their voices, the way they look at you like they own you, like you're nothing more than an experiment or a tool—it makes something inside of you snap.

EJ senses it too. He moves quickly, his hand pressing against your arm, a subtle reminder to ground yourself. But the touch does little to calm you. Instead, it ignites something darker within you, and as you try to swallow the words building up in your throat, they spill out before you can stop them.

“You think you're all so special, don't you?” You hear yourself say, the words sharp and venomous. “You, Toby, with your stupid stutter and your incessant tics. You think you’re funny, but really, you’re just pathetic.”

Toby’s face flickers with shock. His eyes dart nervously, a quick flash of hurt before the usual mask of arrogance falls back into place.

“And you, Ben? You think your little video games and your sad attempts at normalcy make you any less twisted? You’re not ‘innocent,’ you’re just a child hiding behind a screen, pretending this is all a game.”

Ben flinches, but doesn’t respond. He turns back to his Nintendo Switch, fingers stiffening on the buttons, but you can see the way his shoulders tense. He’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be.

Your gaze lands on Jack next, and the sneer that curls your lips surprises even you.

“You? Jack? What are you, the resident clown?” Your voice drips with disgust. You hide behind that freaky smile, but we all know you’re just as messed up as the rest of them.”

Jack’s grin widens, but there’s a flicker of something—guilt? Shame? You can’t be sure, but it makes him hesitate for just a moment.

“And you, Jeff...” You finally turn to the man who stands farthest to you now, his imposing presence shifting as you glare at him. “Don’t even get me started on you. You’re all high and mighty, wearing that ridiculous hoodie like you’re some kind of god. What’s under there, huh?” You take a step forward. “Scared of what you really look like?”

Jeff’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow, the gaze sharp enough to pierce through you. He opens his mouth, but you don’t wait for him to speak.

With every word, your heart races faster, your breaths becoming more erratic, your fists clenched so tight your knuckles turn white. It feels like all of the rage, the confusion, the helplessness you’ve been holding inside for so long is coming out all at once. You don’t even care anymore. You just want them to feel it, to know how much they’ve pushed you, how much they’ve hurt you.

“You’re all monsters.” The words slip out like acid, burning with the truth you don’t want to face. “And I don’t know why the hell I’m even here, why you thought I could ever be part of this.”

EJ’s hand tightens on your arm, trying to anchor you, but your emotions have taken over. You stand abruptly, the movement sharp, as if your legs have a mind of their own. Without even thinking, you start to walk toward Porcelain Mask and Ski Mask, the two men from the mall, the ones who wanted to kill you then.

Your vision blurs with fury as you march toward them, ready to do whatever it takes to make them feel something—anything. But before you can reach them, you feel a strong pull on your arm. Cody is standing, his grip tight on your shoulder, forcing you to stop.

“That’s enough.” His voice is low, but there’s an undeniable authority in it. The words cut through your hysteria, and for a second, your vision sharpens, and you realize where you are.

You try to jerk away from his grasp, but Cody doesn’t let go. He pulls you back gently, but firmly, keeping you at a distance from the others, and his eyes are locked on yours, intense, unwavering.

“Calm down.” His voice is colder now, like steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not going to get anything by provoking them like this. It won’t help you. It’s not your fight. Not yet.”

You look at him, chest heaving, body still on edge, but the words start to settle in. The anger, while still burning inside you, loses some of its power. You're still trembling, but now you’re more aware of the situation. You’re not alone in this mess, and maybe—just maybe—this is the moment you need to choose your next move wisely.

Cody doesn’t release his hold right away. He keeps his hand on your shoulder, steady and unwavering, as the rest of the group looks on, some with curiosity, some with confusion. You’re all silent for a beat, the room frozen in an awkward stillness.

EJ’s voice cuts through again, more composed than before, though the edge of his authority still lingers.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s continue. Halloween’s coming up, and you all know what that means.” He pauses, glancing at you briefly, his fingers still gently pressed to your thigh. “Y/N’s mission starts then. Get ready.”

The rest of the group falls quiet again, but the weight of the moment isn’t lost on anyone. You’re no longer just the new girl—you’re one of them now, and that means learning to walk their dangerous line.

The room slowly empties, the buzz of conversation fading into the distant echoes of the mansion. It feels like a weight lifts off your shoulders, but the tension in your chest remains, taut and ready to snap again at any moment. EJ gives a final nod, his voice cool as he calls out, “Get some rest, everyone. We’ll reconvene later.”

No one dares argue. They all shuffle out, some lingering to give you strange looks, but the majority seem eager to retreat to whatever dark corners they call home in this place. You watch them go, feeling the burn of their glares lingering like a heavy cloud, then turn back to EJ, who’s already stepping toward the door. Cody follows, his gait slow and deliberate as he waits for you to catch up.

“Let’s go,” EJ mutters, his hand gesturing toward the hallway. You follow them silently, not saying a word. Every footstep echoes in the vast, unsettling quiet of the mansion.

Cody doesn’t say anything for a while, until you reach a door at the end of another long hallway, the sound of your shoes tapping against the cold floor loud in the stillness. When you stop at the threshold, he reaches into his tan satchel, pulling out a small, sleek cellphone. He glances at it for a second before handing it to you.

“Here. Boss man wanted me to swap out your sim card.” He then gestures toward the small, vibrant keychain attached to your keys that’s now dangling in his hand. It’s clear from the look in his eyes that he’s a little amused, but there’s no denying the slightly strange mix of something almost sentimental about the charms attached to it.

Your fingers curl around your keys instinctively, but a bitter taste rises in your mouth. You barely stop yourself from snapping at him. “You damaged my phone? Took my stuff?” Your voice cracks slightly. “You didn’t have the right to mess with it.”

Cody shrugs, his expression unbothered. “ He said to make sure you didn’t have anything traceable on it. If it helps, I got you a new one, so you can stop whining.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look, but as you take the new phone, your eyes flick over the screen. The moment you unlock it, a flood of names and numbers start to populate the contact list. You don’t even need to check to know what it is—it’s a list of residents.

You immediately scroll through it, seeing names that make your stomach tighten. They’re all here—people you’ve seen, people you haven’t fully met, the people who are part of this mansion, this life you’re unwillingly caught up in. But there’s something about it all that gnaws at your mind. How long have they all been watching you?

Cody leans against the wall casually, watching you as you scroll through the list, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s the matter, huh? You’re starting to realize the weight of all this?”

You look up at him, biting back a retort. You don't need to explain yourself to him. Instead, you focus on the strange flood of feelings running through you. This new phone, a fresh start but with an unsettling layer of control behind it. The numbers, the faces, all linked to a life that you don’t know if you can ever escape.

Cody’s eyes flick to the phone again, his voice breaking the silence. “Don't worry, the list will make things a bit easier for you. You’ll want to know who’s who in this place sooner or later.”

His tone shifts, a little darker. “And if you’re smart, you’ll learn to rely on your resources.”

The implication is obvious. It’s not just about survival. It’s about playing the game. But you know that already. You feel it—the instinct to protect yourself, to build some kind of power where you can. And with this phone, these numbers, you're one step closer to gaining some control.

“Right.” You mutter under your breath, your fingers tightening around the new phone, a cold feeling settling in your gut. There’s nothing left for you to do but accept the situation, at least for now.

Cody gives you a brief, almost careless nod as he steps aside, gesturing toward the door. “Your room’s in there. Boss said you’ll sleep here tonight. But don’t get used to it. We’re all going to be moving around soon enough.”

You look at the door for a moment, the weight of everything pressing down on you. You don’t feel like you belong here. Not yet. But you have to. For now, this place is your reality. You can either accept it and survive, or rebel and risk everything. Neither option is comfortable.

With one last glance at Cody and EJ, you step through the door, the weight of the situation bearing down on you. The phone feels heavy in your hand, the names and numbers blurring together as your mind spins.

The mansion is silent behind you. But you know it's far from peaceful. It’s a cage, and you’re its newest occupant.

And now you have to figure out how to break out—without getting broken first.

You step into the room, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft, hollow sound. It’s a surprisingly large space, especially considering where you are. The bed is neatly made, a thick, plush blanket covering it, but it’s the attached bathroom that catches your attention first. You let out a small, involuntary sigh of relief.

"At least I won't have to share," you mutter under your breath, feeling a slight sense of comfort that’s quickly overshadowed by the unease gnawing at the back of your mind.

You glance around, the feeling of being watched creeping over you. You swallow hard, nerves on edge. The furniture in the room is simple but functional—nothing too fancy, nothing out of the ordinary. But that’s the problem. Everything about this place feels like it’s been designed to keep you off-balance, to keep you questioning what’s real, what’s normal.

The room feels too clean, too quiet, and the silence presses against your ears like an invisible weight.

With slow, deliberate steps, you start another walkthrough of the space. Your eyes scan every corner, every shadow, looking for anything that might give you a sense of control in this claustrophobic space. You tug open the closet, inspecting it for anything out of place. It’s barren. Just clothes—simple, almost plain, hanging from hangers.

But then your gaze shifts, scanning the walls, the shelves, the light fixtures. You press your fingertips to the corners of the ceiling, searching for hidden cameras, hidden microphones—anything that could be lurking just out of sight. The paranoia builds, tightening around your chest, but there’s nothing.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re just being paranoid. You have to be. But still, the feeling of being trapped, of being watched, won’t leave. It feels like the walls are closing in on you.

Your phone pings, breaking the tension in the room.

You pull it from your pocket, almost relieved to have something to focus on. The message is from your roommate.

Hey, where are you? 4:32pm

Are you okay? 7:05pm

You stare at the message for a moment. You’re supposed to be with her. You’re supposed to be back home, in your apartment, far away from this nightmare.

But you can’t go back. Not yet. Not until you figure out what’s going on here—why they’re keeping you, what they want from you.

You sit down heavily on the bed, fingers trembling as you type a response, the words feeling hollow and fake even as you send them.

I’m fine.

I’ll be back tomorrow night. Don’t worry. 7:06pm

But as soon as the message is sent, a wave of dread washes over you. The weight of the situation finally hits you, crushing down on your chest. Your heart begins to race, the blood in your veins turning to ice.

You try to take a deep breath, but your lungs betray you. It’s like there’s not enough air. The walls feel like they’re getting smaller, closer, pressing in until you can’t breathe, can’t think.

You tear at the bedding, throwing the blanket off the bed in frustration. The soft fabric tangles around your fingers as you claw at your skin, trying to escape the feeling of suffocation. You can feel the panic rising—its sharp claws digging into your throat, making it harder and harder to stay calm.

Your mind races. There’s no escape. There’s no way out of this. You’re stuck here, and no one can help you.

The tears start to fall then, hot and fast. You can’t stop them. You feel them running down your face, your chest shaking with the force of it.

But somehow, you don’t scream. Instead, you stand, feeling the weight of your own body. Your legs are weak, and everything feels like it’s spinning around you.

Without thinking, you turn and rush to the bathroom, your stomach churning as the panic takes over. You barely make it before you’re retching, bile burning in your throat, and everything comes up in a messy, violent rush.

You clutch the edge of the sink, gasping for breath, the cold porcelain grounding you, but it doesn’t make the feeling go away. It doesn’t make the anxiety stop gnawing at your insides.

Slowly, shakily, you pull yourself away from the sink. You turn the shower on, running the water as hot as it’ll go, steam billowing up around you. You step into the stream of water, letting it hit your skin, letting the heat sear through you.

You stand there for what feels like an eternity, the water scalding against your skin, and yet it doesn’t seem to be enough. Nothing feels enough.

Eventually, the panic fades, the adrenaline seeping out of your bones. The shaking doesn’t stop, but the worst of it passes.

After a long while, you turn off the water. You wrap yourself in a towel, thanking the heavens above you found one in the cabinet below the sink, but the exhaustion is undeniable. Your limbs feel heavy, like lead. You stand there for a moment, staring at your reflection in the fogged mirror, before you gather enough energy to make your way back to the bed.

The bedding is still tossed aside, but you pull it back over yourself, curling into the warmth, the weight of it heavy and comforting.

You close your eyes, not able to fight the exhaustion any longer. You don’t even care that the bed is still cold, or that you’re wrapped up in a mess of blankets.

For once, you don’t care.

You just need to sleep.

The voice, cocky and smug, practically dripping with amusement.

Then another, more energetic but sharper than you expected.

“Jeff, don’t be a creep. You’re gonna scare her off before she even gets a proper introduction.”

You barely had time to react before you stepped into view of the two figures lounging in the dimly lit living area.

You quickly put a face to the name—Jeff. His shaggy black hair hung messily over his face, and this unsettling grin—permanently carved into his skin—stretched wide. His hoodie, which was once white, was now stained and splattered with old blood, some fresher than others. He sprawled lazily across the couch, his arms stretched along the backrest as he eyed you like a cat that had just spotted something fun to toy with.

Beside him, a striking girl perched on the arm of the couch. Her long black hair was styled in thick, sleek layers, a straight-cut fringe framing her sharp features. Multicolored strands—streaks of purple, blue, and pink—ran through her hair, blending in chaotic contrast. She wore dark eyeliner, bold makeup, and a ripped-up outfit that only made her stand out more.

And then there was her smile—or rather, the jagged scars that mirrored Jeff’s. The edges of her lips were carved into a matching grin, though unlike Jeff’s unsettling, predator-like smirk, hers was full of life, teasing and expressive.

“She’s cute,” she noted, resting her chin in her palm as she studied you. “Didn’t think you were into bringing home strays, EJ.”

Jeff chuckled, dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Stray’s got a hell of a body, I’ll give her that. You should’ve seen her earlier, Nina—damn near walked into a hatchet. But hey, might’ve been a waste, considering…” His smirk widened as his gaze raked over you. “Would’ve been fun to break her in first.”

Disgust curled in your stomach.

Your hands clenched at your sides, every muscle in your body tensing at the implication.

Before you could snap back, Nina rolled her eyes, shoving Jeff’s shoulder hard enough to make him jolt upright.

“Ugh, Jeff, you’re such a sleaze.” She sighed dramatically, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “You ever stop being gross for, like, five seconds?”

Jeff only snickered, unbothered, but you caught the way he briefly adjusted his posture—almost like he was reminded that he wasn’t the only one capable of getting under people’s skin.

EJ, on the other hand, didn’t react at all.

But the moment the words had left Jeff’s mouth, a shift had settled over him—small, almost imperceptible. The kind of shift that wasn’t loud or aggressive, but something deeper, something unspoken.

Jeff, despite his cocky attitude, seemed to sense it, too.

Nina picked up on it instantly, her expression flickering with amusement as she nudged Jeff again.

“Alright, loverboy, quit being an idiot before you actually piss off Mr. Tall, Dark, and Murdery over there.” She leaned in with a smirk. “You know how he gets when you overstep.”

Jeff clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “Tch. Whatever.” His grin stayed in place, but the way he leaned back again—less relaxed now, more calculating—was telling.

Nina, apparently satisfied, turned her attention back to you, and her sharp eyes softened just a fraction.

“Don’t let him get to you, sweetheart,” she said, her voice still teasing but notably less malicious. “Jeff’s an ass, but I promise, he’s mostly all bark.”

Mostly.

The way she said it didn’t exactly ease your nerves.

EJ gave no reaction to the exchange, simply resuming his walk without a glance in Jeff’s direction.

You took the opportunity to move, stepping past Jeff’s scrutinizing gaze and Nina’s amused smirk. But even as you walked away, you could still feel their eyes on you, lingering, assessing.

It was only when you turned the corner, Jeff and Nina disappearing from view, that you finally let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

One thing was crystal clear now.

You weren’t just being recruited.

You were being thrown into a pit of monsters.

⋆˙♱˙⋆

The spoon in your hand made slow, absentminded circles in your cereal, the milk now lukewarm from neglect. Across the table, EJ sat with his usual quiet intensity, methodically laying out the house rules in a tone that left no room for argument.

“You’ll be given a room. Use it whenever. There are doors in this house that are off-limits—don’t test that rule. You’ll be required to check in here at least once a week. If you don’t, we’ll find you, and I promise you won’t like how that ends.”

You nodded, doing your best to absorb every piece of information, filing it all away alongside the names and faces you were quickly accumulating.

EJ continued, his voice even. “You’ll also need to pick a weapon.”

Before he could elaborate, a sharp, erratic whistling noise filled the room, followed by the sound of boots scuffing the tile.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up!”

You recognized him instantly.

The guy from the mall. The one who had thrown the hatchet at your head.

Now that you got a better look, you noticed the deep, healing gash running across one of his cheeks—a wound that looked both fresh and old, like it had been reopened too many times. His hoodie was baggy, his movements jittery, and that constant ticking never stopped, like a broken clock wired directly into his bloodstream.

“You’re picking a weapon?” He grinned under his mask, eyes practically alight with excitement. “Oh, this is a big moment! D-d-don’t screw it up, newbie. I swear to god, if you pick something stupid like—like, I dunno, a taser or some dull-ass knife, I’ll actually be offended.”

You blinked, caught between processing his words and the fact that he was acting like he hadn’t nearly split your skull open with a hatchet.

He kept going, talking fast, like his brain was moving faster than his mouth.

“Listen, listen. You want something that feels right in your h-hands. Something that isn’t gonna betray you mid-fight. Something—” he gestured wildly, the ticking speeding up “—that says ‘I am a force to be f-feared and also I will absolutely rip you apart if I feel like it.’”

EJ exhaled, long-suffering, before finally cutting in with a single, deadpan word.

“Toby.”

Toby immediately snapped his mouth shut, glancing over at EJ with a sheepish sort of energy, like a dog caught digging in the trash.

“…Right. Sorry.” He barely looked sorry, though, his eyes darting back to you with barely restrained enthusiasm. “But seriously, don't screw this up.”

You made a mental note of his name, adding it to the ever-growing list of people you now had to remember.

Toby. Another unpredictable presence in a house full of them.

⋆˙♱˙⋆

The weapon room was a disaster.

There was no real system to it—racks of blades shoved haphazardly into stands, guns piled on tables like forgotten toys, axes leaning against the walls, their edges dulled from years of use. The scent of oiled metal and gunpowder filled the air, thick and suffocating, and somewhere in the mess, you swore you could hear the faint creak of unstable shelving.

Toby, of course, was eating it up.

“Man, I love this place,” he said, running his hands over a row of throwing knives. “So much untapped p-p-potential. So many ways to creatively end someone’s life.”

You barely heard him.

Your gut was screaming at you.

Something pulled at you, an invisible string leading you forward, past the daggers, the hatchets, the firearms. Your feet moved before you could think, carrying you straight to a tall, dusty bookshelf shoved against the farthest wall. It was an absolute joke of organization—random weapons tossed onto its shelves, as if someone had given up on sorting them properly.

But you didn’t look at the shelves.

You knelt down instead, eyes locking onto the small, dark gap between the wood and the floor. Something was there. Hidden. Waiting.

Your fingers slid beneath the lip of the bookshelf, brushing against cool metal. You curled your hand around it and pulled.

A necklace.

A tiny metal ankh dangled from a thin chain, delicate yet oddly warm in your grasp. The moment your fingers closed around it, something shifted—a weight pressing down on your chest, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Before you could even process what you were feeling, Toby’s voice rang out, sharp with recognition.

“Oh, m-man. She got Pestilence.”

You snapped your head toward him, confusion evident on your face. But it wasn’t Toby you locked eyes with.

It was EJ.

He didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked… expectant. Like he knew. Like this was supposed to happen.

He nodded once.

A silent confirmation.

You took that as permission.

Without hesitation, you yanked the ankh off its chain.

A burst of black dust exploded from your hand, spiraling outward like ink in water. Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you felt it—something heavy, solid, forming in your grip, the weight of it grounding you in the moment.

And then, as the dust settled, you saw it.

A scythe.

Its blade was long and curved, shimmering with Egyptian runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The handle stretched taller than you, dark and smooth, perfectly balanced. At the very end of it, another ankh symbol hung, mirroring the one that had been on the necklace.

You barely had time to process it before Toby muttered under his breath.

“…Holy shit.”

You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on the scythe.

Instinctively, you reached for the ankh at the end of the handle and yanked it free.

Another burst of black dust, and just like that, the scythe was gone. The weight in your hands disappeared, replaced once again by the small, unassuming necklace.

The room was silent.

Then, EJ sighed.

“Now let’s have our stupid house meeting.”

He didn’t even acknowledge the question. His focus was entirely on the task at hand, his movements clinical, precise. He approached you, kneeling in front of you with the same level of calm he had carried the entire time you’d been in the room. You couldn’t help but wince as he gently cleaned the gash on your head with antiseptic. The sting made your skin crawl, but you said nothing, biting back a hiss of pain. You weren't sure if you could trust your voice right now, so you simply let him do his work.

The tension between you two hung thick in the air. The only sound now was the faint tap of his gloved fingers as he applied a fresh bandage to your wounds, moving quickly but with careful precision. He didn’t speak, didn’t even look up from his task, as if your presence didn’t affect him in the slightest.

And that silence, that lack of any response to your question, made you feel more isolated than ever. You tried to ignore the rising fear in your chest, the desperate need for any hint of comfort or clarity.

He finished his work in silence, his movements graceful, almost too practiced to be human. When he was done, he stood up, his eyes (or rather the black smudged holes in the mask) locked onto yours once more. He didn't say a word, but the way his gaze lingered on you, cold and unblinking, made your heart race.

The door behind you creaked open, and you instinctively stiffened. Your eyes darted toward it, and you saw the faintest hint of motion—EJ was heading toward it, his figure smooth and fluid, just like before. He paused by the door, his hand resting lightly on the handle.

He turned back to you.

The silence hung like a suffocating blanket in the room.

Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, EJ motioned for you to follow.

His voice—if it could even be called that—didn't reach you. There were no words. Just the weight of his presence and the silent demand. He didn't need to say anything for you to understand what he wanted.

Your stomach twisted with uncertainty, but you had no choice. You had no idea what lay beyond that door, but you did know this: staying here, in this room, wasn't an option. You stood, legs shaky as you slowly walked toward him, your feet dragging with each step.

As you passed him, you couldn't help but notice how effortlessly he towered over you, his gaze still cold, unfeeling. He didn’t move until you were right beside him, then, without a word, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The hallway beyond was dark, the air thick with the weight of forgotten dust and decay. The lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows along the cracked tile floor. You could hear nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat, thudding in your ears, as you followed him down the narrow corridor.

EJ didn’t glance back at you, his footsteps steady and sure as he led the way. You walked in silence, unsure of what to expect, the anxiety building with each step. Your thoughts were a tangled mess—what were they going to do to you? What were they even after?

You risked another glance at him. His back was straight, rigid, like a soldier on duty. He didn’t seem bothered by the silence at all, almost as if he preferred it.

The door at the end of the hallway came into view. EJ stopped, pausing just before it. With a small, deliberate motion, he pushed the door open, revealing a dimly lit room beyond.

You didn't dare step inside yet. You hesitated, feeling a knot in your stomach tightening. What now?

EJ turned slightly, his hand still on the door. He didn’t look at you, but his posture was enough of a signal.

It was time to move.

Your body moved of its own accord, following his lead as you entered the room. The air was different here—heavy, suffocating, thick with the smell of machinery and something else, something faintly metallic, like blood.

As you step into the room, your mind takes a few moments to register the surroundings. It's an office—large, almost clinical in its stark simplicity. One massive wooden desk dominates the center of the room, its surface neat and orderly, papers stacked with meticulous precision. A few filing cabinets line the walls, all bathed in the cold, harsh light that seems to come from nowhere in particular, only illuminating the essentials. The floor is smooth, polished, with dark tiles that reflect the dim light above.

But it’s the window beyond the desk that catches your attention. You can see almost nothing through it—just faint outlines of a thick wooded forest. The lack of anything outside makes your stomach churn. It feels wrong. The window could have been nothing more than a black void.

Before you can fully comprehend the emptiness of the room, your eyes lock onto something—or rather, someone—seated in the chair in front of the desk.

A man. Or at least, you think it’s a man. His skin is unnaturally pale, almost chalky, and the way it seems to glow in the dim light is unnatural, like he doesn’t belong in this space. But what truly sends a wave of panic through you is his face—or the lack of it. There is no face. Just smooth, featureless skin, as if the very concept of a face has been erased from existence. The man is staring directly at you, but it doesn’t seem like he’s looking at all. The absence of eyes, of expression, makes him seem more like a void than a person. This is the same thing you saw outside of the mall.

A surge of panic grips your chest as your breath catches. You take an involuntary step back, your eyes darting to the door behind you. You need to get out, now. The air feels thick, suffocating, and that oppressive buzzing you heard earlier returns—louder this time. It claws at your mind, dragging you into a spiraling vortex of disorientation and terror.

Without thinking, you rush toward the door, desperately yanking on the handle, your hands shaking. It won’t budge. Locked. You feel the walls closing in around you, the buzzing becoming an almost physical presence in your ears, louder and more insistent. You pound against the door, your heart racing in your chest as you feel the cold metal beneath your hands.

“Please, please stop!” you whisper, panic bubbling in your throat. “I need to get out of here. Please!”

But the buzzing only intensifies, like a swarm of insects in your head, buzzing in rhythm with the frantic thumping of your heart. The sound becomes deafening, relentless, a sickening sensation that makes your vision blur and your knees buckle beneath you.

You slide down the door, your back pressing against the cool metal as you collapse to the floor in terror. Your hands tremble at your sides, and you rock back and forth slightly, trying to make sense of it all. Why is this happening?

“Stop. Please—stop!” you beg, your voice a raw whisper, but it does nothing. It only makes the buzzing worse, suffocating you.

And then, without warning, everything goes quiet.

The oppressive buzzing halts as if someone has turned off a switch, leaving you in the eerie silence of the room. For a brief, almost blissful moment, you can hear only the sound of your own ragged breathing.

But then, a voice—deep, cold, and unwavering—enters your mind.

It's not a voice you hear with your ears. It's a voice that feels like it’s inside your skull, reverberating in the very core of your being, and its presence fills you with dread.

“Sit.”

The command is unmistakable, firm, and unnervingly unnatural, like it has been synthesized or warped by something that is no longer human. You feel a cold shiver run down your spine.

“Sit in the chair. Now.”

Your muscles lock at the demand. The voice doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever heard before—there’s a mechanical quality to it, almost robotic. It doesn't even feel like it's coming from the man with no face in front of you. But as your mind scrambles, a horrifying realization hits you. The voice is coming from him. That featureless, pale man in the chair. He isn’t just sitting there, passive and lifeless. He’s the source of this voice, his silence, his absence of expression, all just a front.

The fear that courses through you is suffocating, but there is no choice. The voice reverberates in your skull, stronger now, its authority unquestionable.

You can feel it—the subtle, almost tangible pressure of the command bearing down on you. Slowly, you lift yourself off the floor, your knees wobbling beneath you as you struggle to get to your feet. You stare at the chair across from the desk, that empty, imposing seat that now feels like a trap.

The chair looms ahead like the inevitable, its seat welcoming you in a way that feels dangerous, like a snare meant to catch the unwary. Every instinct inside you screams to run, to get out of here, but the voice, the overwhelming pull of it, is impossible to ignore.

Without another word, you stagger toward the chair, your legs shaky and uncooperative. Each step is a struggle, your body fighting against itself, but the voice’s command is so much more powerful, like an invisible hand pushing you toward that seat.

When you finally sit, the cold leather of the chair presses against your skin, its discomfort magnified by the weight of the situation. Your body refuses to relax, but you cannot move. Your back is straight, your eyes locked on the faceless man, but you don’t feel like you’re in control anymore.

A silence follows, stretching between you like an unbearable tension. And then, after what feels like an eternity, the voice returns.

“You will not move.”

It isn’t a request. It’s another command, and it sends a ripple of fear through you. What is happening? What is he going to do to you?

But you have no answers. Only silence, only the oppressive weight of the faceless man’s gaze—or perhaps it’s the lack of a gaze that makes the whole thing worse.

And in that silence, you realize one thing: you are completely, utterly trapped.

The silence stretched between you and the faceless man, thick and suffocating. The unnatural pressure of his presence coiled around you like an unseen force, making the very air in the room feel heavier. You sat frozen in the chair, heart hammering, waiting—dreading—what came next.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You don’t belong here.”

The voice slithered through your mind, not spoken aloud, but felt, vibrating through your skull like an alien frequency. Your fingers curled against your thighs, gripping the fabric of your clothes as you tried to keep your breathing steady.

The man tilted his head slightly, his smooth, featureless face betraying nothing, yet you could feel his scrutiny. “Not in the way a trespasser doesn’t belong,” he continued. “You, specifically. You are an anomaly.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, confusion knitting your brows together. “What… what is that supposed to mean?” you forced out, your voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned back in his chair, the subtle motion exuding a sense of control, of calculated patience. “Your presence should have alerted my proxies the moment you stepped foot on my grounds. But it didn’t.”

You swallowed hard. You remembered those nights—sneaking into abandoned buildings, whispering into the camera, excitement and fear crackling between you and your roommate as you hunted for something, anything, that could be considered supernatural.

He didn’t react. “You stepped into my hideouts. Not once, but twice. The first time, I held back. I watched. I let my proxies decide what to do with you.” His voice took on a chilling edge, one that made your skin prickle. “And they would have killed you. Should have killed you. I had every intention of letting them dispose of you.”

Your breath hitched. You thought back to that night—the way shadows had moved just out of sight, the feeling of being watched, hunted.

“But something stopped me,” he continued, his voice a deep, unrelenting hum in your mind. “You.”

Your mouth went dry.

“Your scent. Your aura. It is… wrong.” His head tilted the other way, slow, precise. “You are not like the others. You are not human. Not entirely.”

A chill slithered down your spine.

“That night at the mall,” he went on, “you should have been noticed immediately. My proxies should have torn you apart the second you crossed into my territory. But you didn’t alert them. Not until it was too late.”

You remembered the hatchet—how it had nearly embedded itself in your skull if not for your body being an inch out of the way. You had brushed it off as a close call, a ghost story to tell later. But now…

“You,” he said, voice unwavering, “are an enigma. And I do not like enigmas.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs as you stared at him, every fiber of your being screaming for an answer. “Then what am I?” you whispered, desperate.

He was silent for a moment, then, “That is what I intend to find out.”

Your breath shuddered from your lips, but before you could speak, he shifted slightly, his faceless gaze pressing against you like an invisible weight. “I am giving you a choice.”

You stiffened.

“Work for me.”

The words rang in your skull, hollow and cold.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“I will let you go home,” he said smoothly. “I will let you continue your… little endeavor.” His head turned slightly, as if the concept of a YouTube channel was something beneath him. “And in return, you will work for me. You will assist me in unraveling what you are, where you came from.”

A pit formed in your stomach. “And if I refuse?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then you die.”

A sharp, suffocating silence followed. The weight of his words was unbearable, sinking into you, pressing, suffocating. He wasn’t bluffing. He didn’t need to.

Your hands clenched into fists, your mind racing, scrambling for a way out, an alternative. But you found none.

After a long, agonizing moment, you exhaled shakily. “And what exactly would this… work entail?”

He leaned forward slightly, as if he had been waiting for that question.

“Murder. Among other things.”

The single word dropped like a stone into the pit of your stomach, cold and heavy. Your breath caught as your body tensed instinctively.

Murder.

Not research. Not investigation. Not surveillance.

Murder.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your hands trembling in your lap. You had expected something bad, but this—

“I don’t—” You shook your head, your pulse hammering. “I don’t kill people.”

The faceless man remained motionless. “You will.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a demand.

It was a statement. A fact.

And somehow, that made it even worse.

The elf—if you could even call him that—snorted. “Well, hello to you too. Maybe fix your own mascara before coming for my appearance, bitch.”

A chill crawled up your spine. The casual, almost playful way he spoke didn’t match the way he looked. You swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the way your pulse had picked up.

“What… what are you looking for?” you asked, grasping for something—anything—to pull your attention away from the black sludge seeping down his face. Your voice came out steadier than you expected, but your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing into your skin.

For a moment, he just stared at you, the corner of his mouth quirking up like he knew exactly why you asked. Then, slowly, he turned back to the desk and resumed rifling through the drawers.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

You blinked at him. Wouldn’t you like to know? That was his response? With everything going on—his bizarre outfit, the actual black sludge leaking from his eyes—he was sticking to childish comebacks?

Your lips parted, ready to fire one back, something about his commitment to both cosplay and poor hygiene—

But before you could get a word out, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

A chill pricked at your skin. They were slow, deliberate. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just coming. Whoever it was, they weren’t in a hurry, but they also weren’t stopping.

The elf stilled, his hands still buried in the drawer. His expression twisted, caught between exasperation and mild panic.

Then the figure entered.

Dressed in all black, they moved with a quiet confidence, their boots thudding softly against the floor. A deep blue mask covered their face, sleek and featureless, except for two dark eye holes—holes that, to your horror, were also weeping thick, inky sludge. It slid down the mask like tar, disappearing into the fabric of their collar.

The elf shot him a look, half-guilty, half-defensive. “Okay, before you start—this is not my fault. Jeff hid my remote, and I swear I’m gonna put everything back where it goes.”

The masked figure didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t even bother with words. He strode past, heading straight for a cabinet near the far wall. You couldn’t see what he grabbed—his body blocked your view—but whatever it was, he moved like he knew exactly where it was supposed to be.

You glanced between them, your mind racing to catch up. Jeff? Remote? The absolute casualness of it all was making this worse. Like this was just some weird domestic dispute instead of an objectively horrifying situation.

“What the hell is going on?” you finally asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The elf sighed dramatically, slamming the drawer shut and turning toward you. He leaned against the desk, arms crossing over his chest in a way that was meant to look casual, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“So, missy, you were sneaking around one of our bases,” he drawled, tilting his head with an exaggerated smirk. “Which is, you know, kind of a big deal. Usually, we don’t let trespassers just waltz around all willy-nilly—”

He paused, tapping a gloved finger against his chin as if reconsidering. “Well, actually, I would’ve voted for the ‘willy-nilly’ approach, but the boss took an interest in you, sooo—”

“Ben.”

The voice cut through the air like a blade. Deep, smooth, and commanding, it held an authority that made your breath hitch. There was no anger in it, no raised volume, but the weight behind the single word sent a shiver down your spine.

The elf—Ben—visibly stiffened. His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place, though now it was forced, stretched a little too wide.

“Right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shutting up now.”

Your heart pounded as you turned to the masked figure, whose attention was now fully on you. The inky sludge continued to seep from his eye holes, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He stood still, unreadable, the silence between you stretching too long, pressing in from all sides.

Then, slowly, he took a step forward.

Ben let out an exaggerated sigh, pushing off the desk with a lazy stretch. “Welp, that’s my cue,” he said, rocking back on his heels before flashing you a lopsided grin. “See ya later, EJ. Sorry for the mess.”

The way he said it, though—mocking, insincere—made it clear he wasn’t sorry in the slightest. He didn’t even glance at the scattered papers or the half-open drawers as he strode toward the door.

EJ.

Your brain latched onto the name like a lifeline, but before you could even begin to process it, Ben was gone, slipping through the door with a careless wave.

And then it was just you and him.

EJ took another step forward. You fought the instinct to shrink back, your breath catching as he loomed over you. He didn’t speak, didn’t make any threatening gestures. But then—slowly, deliberately—he lifted a single gloved finger and pressed it against your shoulder.

It wasn’t rough. Barely even forceful. But the message was clear.

Sit down.

A shiver rolled through you. You hesitated for a second too long—just long enough for the pressure of his finger to increase slightly. Not a shove. Just a reminder.

Heart hammering, you stepped back and let yourself sink onto the nearest bed. The mattress dipped beneath you, the old springs creaking softly.

EJ said nothing. He simply stood there, silent and unmoving.

Watching.

He roared, a guttural sound that echoed through the abandoned food court, the hand recoiling violently. You took advantage of the momentary distraction, shoving him away with all your strength. He stumbled back, clutching his injured hand, cursing in a low, guttural voice, his face contorted in a mask of pain and fury.

You didn't hesitate. You spun around and bolted, your feet pounding against the cracked, uneven tiles, each step a desperate prayer for escape. Your breath came in ragged gasps, hot and heavy in your lungs, a desperate struggle against the suffocating air. You didn't look back, didn't dare to see if they were pursuing you. All that mattered was escape, freedom, survival.

You ran, your lungs burning, your legs heavy, each step a monumental effort. You didn't know where you were going, only that you had to keep moving, to put as much distance between yourself and your captors as possible. You burst out of the food court, the sudden influx of air, however stale and thick with the dust of neglect, a brief, almost euphoric reprieve.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

"Hey! Get back here!"

The shouts erupted behind you, the heavy thuds of their footsteps echoing through the empty mall, a relentless pursuit. You didn't dare slow down, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm mirroring the pounding of your feet. You turned a sharp corner, the sudden shift in direction disorienting you, the shadows dancing around you like menacing figures.

The mall stretched out before you, a labyrinth of abandoned stores, the dim light filtering through the shattered windows casting long, eerie shadows that danced and writhed like malevolent creatures. You could hear their shouts growing closer, their voices echoing through the empty corridors, a chilling reminder of the relentless pursuit.

You pushed yourself harder, your breath coming in ragged gasps, each breath a struggle against the suffocating air. You stumbled, your foot catching on a loose tile, the sudden pain a jolt against the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You fell to the ground with a grunt, the impact jarring your whole body. Pain shot through your knee, a searing, debilitating pain, but you ignored it, scrambling back to your feet with a desperate urgency. You had to keep moving.

You reached the escalators, the metal handrails cold and slick beneath your fingers. The escalator creaked with each step you took, slowly, agonizingly slowly, each step an eternity. You could hear their heavy footsteps approaching, their voices growing louder, closer, a chilling reminder of the inevitable.

You reached the top of the escalator, your heart pounding in your chest, a frantic drumbeat against your ribs. You looked forward, ready to run, but the sight that met your eyes made your blood run cold.

Two out of the three men were standing at the top of another escalator on the opposite side, their faces contorted in fury. The one with the axe was grinning, a chilling, predatory grin that made your stomach churn, a chilling premonition of the violence to come.

"Nowhere to run, s-sweetheart," he said, his voice a low growl, a chilling promise of impending doom.

You whirled around, your eyes frantically searching for an escape route. The only way out was left, down the long, deserted corridor that stretched out before you, a seemingly endless tunnel of shadows and despair.

You took off running, the sound of their heavy footsteps echoing behind you, a relentless pursuit. You could hear the axe man laughing, a chilling, guttural sound that sent shivers down your spine, a chilling reminder of the horrors that awaited you.

You ran, your lungs burning, your legs heavy, each step a desperate struggle against the encroaching darkness. You passed rows of abandoned stores, their windows shattered, their interiors shrouded in dust and gloom, eerie monuments to the mall's decline.

Suddenly, you heard a new sound, a high-pitched whine that seemed to come from nowhere. It was faint at first, a barely audible hum, like a distant swarm of angry bees. But it grew louder with each passing second, a terrifying crescendo that filled the empty mall, a cacophony of sound that threatened to drown out the pounding of your own heart.

You ignored it, focusing all your energy on escaping your pursuers. You could hear their heavy breaths behind you, their voices echoing through the empty corridors, a constant reminder of the danger that pursued you.

But the whine was getting louder, more insistent, a deafening chorus of buzzing that filled your ears, vibrating through your bones, threatening to drive you to the brink of madness. You couldn't ignore it anymore.

You turned, your eyes wide with terror, searching for the source of the sound. But it was impossible to pinpoint. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The air around you vibrated with the sound, a cacophony of buzzing that made your ears ring, your vision blur.

Panic seized you, a wave of icy terror washing over you. You screamed, a raw, primal sound that echoed through the empty mall, amplified by the strange buzzing, shattering the silence, shattering the glass in the nearby stores.

The two men stopped, their faces contorted in astonishment. They stared at you, their eyes wide with disbelief, as if they couldn't believe the sound that had just erupted from your lips.

The axe man, his face twisted in a mixture of shock and amusement, exclaimed, "S-s-shit, i-is she a d-d-demon like EJ?" A violent jerk raking it way through his body

You didn't understand what he meant. You were too terrified, too disoriented to comprehend anything. All you knew was that the buzzing was getting louder, more intense, a wave of sound that threatened to engulf you. You were starting to feel dizzy, disoriented, the world tilting precariously on its axis.

Suddenly, a searing pain erupted on the side of your head, a blinding, agonizing sensation that sent you reeling. The world tilted, the buzzing intensifying, then fading into a distant hum. You stumbled, your knees buckling, and then you were falling, falling into an abyss of darkness.

⋆˙♱˙⋆

You woke with a gasp, disoriented and confused. Your head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed through your skull, a constant reminder of the blow that had felled you. You tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washed over you, forcing you back down.

You were lying on a cold, hard surface, your body aching, every muscle protesting the sudden movement. You tried to open your eyes, but the light was too bright, too intense, forcing you to squint against the onslaught. You squeezed your eyes shut, groaning in pain, the world spinning around you.

You tried to sit up again, this time managing to keep your balance and stepping off of what you could now identify as an operation table.You didn't even take in your surroundings before alarm struck you.

You were trapped.

Panic clawed at you, a cold, icy hand gripping your heart once again. You tried to stand, but your legs felt weak, unsteady. You stumbled, falling back onto the cold, hard floor.

You were alone.

The buzzing was gone, replaced by an eerie silence that pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating. You listened intently, but you couldn't hear anything. No footsteps, no voices, no sounds.

Until a clatter outside the door.