Giyuu literally wrote to Urokodaki "i did smth illegal as a demon slayer and as a hashira but i ll send said illegal thing to you so that you can be part of it AND risk your life for it as a demon slayer and as a hashira" and Urokodaki just wrote back "bet"
Like Giyuu had his doubts about himself and all that depressed shit but him and Urokodaki were like this 🤞🏻
shoutout to AO3 authors who write 100k fics for free while juggling mental illness, academic burnout, 3 jobs, and a deep-rooted need to fix fictional people.
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
MAY CONTAIN SENSITIVE TOPICS
✦ . Summary: Stitched up, dragged from dream to nightmare, you struggle to hold on to yourself while Masky’s unraveling around you. New names, new faces, but the same old dread.
✦ . Characters: Masky x Genderneutral Reader, Hoodie, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, Jeff the Killer, Ben Drowned
✦ . Note: A month later… again! Whoops! I am not a medical expert, so don’t take anything written here as literal.
────────────────────────────────────────────
You blinked awake slowly.
The air smelled clean. Warm. Your limbs didn’t ache like they should, you weren’t cold, and you weren’t bleeding. The silence felt gentle—like a heavy blanket laid across your shoulders. A flickering light filtered through your eyelashes, golden and buttery like a slow afternoon sun spilling in through window blinds.
You forced your eyes open all the way.
This wasn’t the forest, nor was it the basement.
You were standing barefoot in grass, the soft moss-green blades cool with dew beneath your feet. Trees rustled lightly above you, swaying in a breeze you couldn’t feel. There was a house ahead—your house. You recognized the porch, the chipped railings, the slight lilt in the shingles from that time a storm nearly ripped them off. Everything about it was familiar. Safe. It looked like a memory.
But you didn’t remember walking here, and surely Masky and his friends hadn’t dropped you off here.
Even looking down, you were wearing soft linens that felt like featherweights.
The sky above was pale blue and hazy, like it had been washed out with too much water. You took a slow, careful step forward, then another. The dreamlike peace of the place settled over you. Whatever this was—whatever your brain had conjured to protect you from the pain—you didn’t want it to end. If this was a dream or…
Were you dead? If this was heaven, you didn’t think it would be so bad.
Inside your house, soft music was playing.
It sounded like a record—faint static over a piano tune you couldn’t name. There was coffee on the counter, steam curled from the mug—your favorite mug—the one you thought you’d lost. It sat exactly where you’d always left it—next to the sink, half on a water ring that had never been cleaned. A folded blanket waited for you on the couch. Everything you enjoyed about your days off from work were here, waiting and ready. A warmth bloomed in your chest.
You wanted to stay.
You didn’t even care how fake it felt.
But then—something shifted.
The song skipped a beat, just for a second, but you caught it anyhow. The music began to distort. Notes slowed, flattened. The warmth in the room dimmed like someone had turned down the saturation, the colors bled to grey at the edges of the walls. The coffee’s steam no longer rose. The clock on the wall ticked too fast, too loud.
Tick. Tick. Ticktickticktickticktick—
You turned your head.
The windows were black now. Not dark—black. As if there was nothing on the other side but pitch. No porch, no sky, no world. And then you heard something.
Behind you, floorboards creaked.
You turned around—
And saw it.
A thin, winding creature that had to duck to enter into your living room, standing just inside the hallway. He wore a black tie suit—well, wore? More like the clothing meshed to the skin underneath.
Skin.
That was another thing.
It has none. It's a pasty, stretched hull wrapping over features that didn’t exist, the indents of eye sockets and a mouth that should be there, but weren’t. The first thing you thought when you saw it was how similar it looked to a tree—a wilting, decaying, sickly thin birch tree.
No face.
No footsteps, no entrance, just… there. Towering, still, a living silhouette against the wallpaper. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You tried to back away, but the floor melted beneath you like wet ink, a stark panic erupting in your gut when your knees wouldn’t bend. The warmth in the room had turned to frost, your breath now visible in front of you, heart hammering in your throat.
Then came the voice.
It wasn’t a voice at all—just a rippling in your mind. Deep, smooth, like silk stretched over rot.
“You are wasting time with fear.”
Your knees nearly buckled. You weren’t speaking. Your lips wouldn’t move.
“You do not belong here. But you are here. Because I allow it. Do not mistake my authority for kindness.”
Images flashed in your head—Tim’s face twisting in pain, Masky’s rage, Hoodie’s cold stare, Toby’s laugh as blood sprayed in the trees. You saw yourself handcuffed, screaming, running, bleeding.
“You search for answers where there are none. That is why you are weak.”
“No—” you finally managed to speak, voice hoarse and muffled, like you were listening to yourself speak from another room. Your voice cracked. “I don’t need your riddles. I want out.”
“I have plans for you yet, Sheriff. You will suffer less if you comply effortlessly.”
“I d-don’t even know what the fuck you are. Neither will I submit to you. To any of them—”
The ground cracked beneath your feet. The walls groaned, bending inward. The couch caught fire silently, blue flames licking up and down its arms.
“You will. Not because you are weak. But because you are already mine. All who belong to me return to the woods, eventually.”
The room tore open like paper. The sky above split down the middle. Long, writhing black tendrils reached down from the tear and closed around your throat—not choking, just… holding. Like a leash being gently tugged.
“Do as the others say. They work in honor of me, as too, will you. Rest yourself, Sheriff. We will meet again.”
You screamed—but no sound came.
Everything collapsed.
── .✦
You woke up with a gasp.
The cold struck you instantly. Your limbs jerked involuntarily against restraints, metal biting into the skin around your wrist. You blinked against the spinning darkness—stone walls, a low-hanging ceiling. Damp. Familiar. The only light from the tiny window casting midday sun into the dusty air.
The basement.
You were back in the fucking basement.
The pipe above your head, the cuffs, the weight of your body slumped against the concrete.
A small, wet sound escaped your lips—half a sob, half a breath.
It was just a dream.
But it wasn’t just a dream.
You could still feel him. In your head. In your lungs. His words curled in the back of your skull like smoke, impossible to wipe clean.
We will meet again.
You looked down at your arm, bruised and scraped. Your shoulder throbbed like it had a pulse of its own. Dried blood painted the side of your shirt. You were real. The pain was real.
But so was he.
And for the first time since being dragged into this nightmare, you weren’t sure what would kill you first—the monsters outside, the people upstairs, or the one waiting for you in your dreams.
A throb of pain again, this time worse.
You shifted slightly, wincing. The metal cuffs clinked quietly above your head, still bolted to the pipe, and your arms burned with the strain of being held in the same position for god knows how long.
Pain pulsed in steady rhythm through your body, dragging your attention downward.
You took a shaky breath, then slowly tilted your head to one side, using your uncuffed hand to tug your shirt back. That’s when you saw it—layers of gauze wrapped carefully around your shoulder and bicep. Fresh, white bandages. The skin underneath ached deeply, but… you weren’t actively bleeding anymore.
You twisted slightly, pressing your spine to the cold wall, and grit your teeth as your back lit up in agony. It felt like something had raked through your skin and left you flayed open.
Claw marks.
Deep, jagged gashes, covered now in another layer of bandaging that wrapped across your lower back and around your ribs. You hadn’t noticed it until now — the careful way the bandage had been tucked and taped in place. Your forehead throbbed too, dull and slow, and as you lifted your hand, you realized there was a smaller bandage there as well.
You swallowed.
Someone had patched you up.
Who?
The guys didn’t like you, that much was obvious. You weren’t one of them. You weren’t even supposed to be alive, by the way they looked at you. Like you were some puzzle they hadn’t decided how to break yet.
Toby might’ve done it—maybe, if ordered to. Brian? Maybe, if it served a larger plan. But Tim? Masky?
You exhaled sharply. No. He wouldn’t have done this. Not unless it served some other purpose towards his internal battles. Even if there’d been something strange in his eyes back in the clearing. Even if, for a moment, you’d thought maybe…
No. You didn’t trust any of them.
The sterile smell was thick in your nose, curling in your stomach now as you noticed something else: your clothes were filthy. Dried blood clung to the fabric like glue. Dirt was ground into every seam. Your body ached in places that had gone numb days ago.
How long had it been since you’d showered?
You blinked slowly. Nine days. Maybe longer. Maybe more. Time didn’t feel real anymore. Your skin felt like it was crawling, every inch coated in grime and old sweat and dried blood. The stiffness of your clothes, the way your scalp itched, you felt like something rotting from the inside out.
You tugged at the cuffs.
Just a little.
The metal scraped and bit at your wrist again, and your shoulder cried out from the movement. You dropped your arm back down with a harsh breath, frustration burning behind your eyes.
Clink.
A soft, unmistakable sound from above.
The latch.
You froze.
Boots. Four distinct pairs. The creak of the basement door, heavy and slow. You watched the shadows grow long and warped against the opposite wall when the light from upstairs shone down into the darkness, then came the thump of descending footsteps. They weren’t rushing, they didn’t have to.
You pressed your back harder to the wall, nausea rising fast in your throat.
Masky. Hoodie. Toby. And… one more.
Someone else was with them.
The air shifted. You didn’t hear voices—just the sound of boots scraping against old wood and cement, getting closer. You kept your eyes fixed on the stairs, heart thudding against your ribcage like it was trying to break free.
The first shape appeared.
Then the next.
You knew the silhouettes now—Toby’s bouncing walk, Hoodie’s stiff stance, Masky’s quiet rage like a storm that hadn’t broken yet.
But behind them—
A figure you didn’t recognize.
Taller than Toby. Slightly leaner than Masky. Their steps were calm, measured. You couldn’t see much—just the shape of them, tucked behind the others like they didn’t want to be seen just yet. They hung back, almost casually, as the others moved forward.
Masky, not Tim, stepped ahead, boots loud against the floor as he reached the base of the stairs. His eyes flicked toward you. Still cold, still unreadable.
Brian followed, arms crossed as if bored, his posture deliberate. Toby kept to the side, glancing at you with a flicker of something softer. But no one spoke yet.
You looked past them.
At the new figure whose boots hit the floor last.
“They up?” came a voice. It was low, gravelled, clinical. And totally uninterested.
“Looks it,” Hoodie replied.
You squinted toward the group as they stepped into the light. Three familiar masks… and one you didn’t recognize.
The figure that stepped forward didn’t move like the others. He was quiet, calm, tense with purpose. His head turned slightly—black sockets, no eyes. Hollow, empty. But you felt them, watching, measuring every move you made.
Was that a fucking tail behind its legs? Jesus Christ-
You scrambled back harder against the wall, breathing fast. “No—who the hell is that? What the hell is that?”
“Don’t start,” Masky snapped. “You want the infection to spread?”
“Wait—no, no! Don’t let that thing touch me!” you cried, pressing your back so hard into the brick it hurt. Your eyes were wide, chest heaving, your whole body screaming at you to run—but you had nowhere to go. Out of all the terrors you had seen in the last two days, at least you had room to move, room to get away. But here? You were absolutely trapped.
Toby leaned over with a shrug. “Told you th-they’d freak.”
“Like clockwork,” Hoodie muttered.
The man—no, the creature—was already pulling on gloves, holding a metal tray full of supplies in one hand. A needle, scissors, a spool of thread, gauze, and forceps. “They’re filthy,” he muttered under his breath, more annoyed than anything else. “Their bandages are soaked, pulse is too fast—they're going to pass out from hyperventilating.”
“Because I’m terrified!” you shouted.
“Clearly,” he deadpanned.
Toby chuckled and cracked his knuckles. “Alright, Jacky, where to?”
“Get them on the table.”
“No—don’t touch me!” you yelled, thrashing against the cuffs as Hoodie approached with the key. “I swear to God, if you let that thing near me—!”
“I said don’t start,” Masky growled, stalking forward. “You want to rot? Be my guest. Otherwise shut your mouth and hold still.”
The cuffs snapped open, and before you could twist away, two pairs of hands gripped your arms and legs—Toby and Hoodie each taking one side, dragging you from the wall as you kicked and fought and screamed.
“Let go! Don’t let him touch me! Please, just—!”
“You’ll live,” Hoodie muttered.
They shoved you face-down onto a long, wooden table in the middle of the room. You jerked against their hold, breath ragged, head pounding.
Then he approached. Jacky? Jack? Learn his name, learn his name—
The air changed when he got close. It wasn’t cold, but you shivered. His presence was intense, sterile—like the awful feeling you get from being in a hospital. You saw the stained claws in his gloves, the broken cracks of his mask, the deathly gray skin color underneath.
Masky moved to the head of the table, placing a large hand on the side of your head to hold it flush to the wood, the other pressed between your shoulder blades to keep you from twisting. Hoodie and Toby held your arms and legs, Toby pinching you if you ever tried to kick free.
Hands were all over you, unfamiliar bodies pressing you down and holding.
You cried out again, twisting as the newcomer cut up the center back of your shirt and let it fall, peeling back the bloody gauze along your back. It tugged on the wound—dried to your skin like glue. You sobbed. You could feel the air hit the gashes like a slap, hissing as tears burned and slipped down your cheek.
“Stop moving,” the newcomer snapped flatly.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”
“Do you want sepsis?”
You whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. You couldn’t see him anymore—you felt him. Felt him clean the wound with something that stung deep, pulling the skin apart and sending fire down your spine.
“Wound is inflamed,” he said. “You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper.”
“Lucky?! I—!”
“If you jackasses hadn’t taken all damn night to run into town and get me more saline, I could’ve gotten to this faster.”
Now Toby spoke up, “Sorry, Jack. Town is sw-swarming with cops right now. Hard to get around.”
Jack gave a huff of annoyance, the sound of clattering and scissors cutting making you jerk your head. But Masky’s palm just pressed harder.
“Hold tighter,” he ordered. The boys obeyed.
A clamp clicked near your shoulder blade.
Then you felt it.
The needle pierced your skin. It dragged the thread through you, over and over, like a hook catching meat. You shrieked, trembling violently, every muscle trying to recoil.
“God—God please stop—!”
“You’re not dying,” he said. “You’re just weak.” His tone wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t kind, either. It was factual. Cold.
Weak—that’s twice now you’ve been called weak by some foreign, horrifying creature who thought they could dictate your role and outcome. Despite the pain, you were boiling with rage.
Another stitch. Then another.
You felt the hot blood dripping down to your ribs, soaking what little remained of your shirt. The table was hard beneath your cheek as you sobbed into the wood, salt and metal on your tongue.
“You people are sick,” you hissed through clenched teeth.
“This could be much worse,” Masky murmured. “I assure you.”
You gathered yourself, despite your situation and how bad it might’ve been if you succeeded, the searing pain of the needle digging through your torn flesh was unbearable, but it was the hands—their hands on you, the cold wooden table beneath you, the monster’s fingers splitting you open further just to stitch you back together like a butcher—that finally broke you.
The pressure on your wrist loosened for just a second.
Hoodie had adjusted his grip.
And that was all you needed.
You twisted sharply and jerked your arm free, slamming your elbow back into Hoodie’s ribs. He grunted, caught off guard, and you pushed yourself halfway up from the table.
“I said get off of me!” you shouted, fury bursting through the pain, through the terror. You were so close to getting upright, to putting space between you and him—the thing with the black sockets and needles.
But you only made it halfway.
Because then Masky grabbed you.
His hand came down hard—fingers tangling into your hair, palm pushing flat at the back of your neck—and slammed you down against the table again with force. Not enough to knock you out, but enough to pin you, your cheek pressed to the wood, spine arching from the deep wounds.
The impact knocked the air from your lungs, leaving a strangled gasp behind.
“Don’t. Move. Again.” His voice was a low, vicious whisper near your ear.
You hissed, squirming beneath him, but he tightened his grip on the back of your neck, like grabbing the scruff of a feral cat. Not hurting—restraining. Reminding you who held the power here.
“I swear to god—” you spat, voice ragged.
“Swear all you want,” he cut you off. “But the next time you pull a stunt like that, I’ll be the one to cut you myself, just so you have to get stitched over and over. Understood?”
You could feel the heat of his breath even through the mask. You could feel the tension in his arm like a coiled spring. The mask gave nothing away, but his eyes—those sharp, hard, furious eyes behind the yellowed plastic—didn’t leave yours. If they were black holes, you were the planet incapable of doing anything but being sucked up inside.
Jack barely looked up. “I said not to move.”
“I’M NOT MOVING NOW, AM I?!” you snapped, voice breaking.
Masky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
He stayed there, hand cemented on your neck, body hovering just close enough to make sure you didn’t twitch again. Watching you, holding you, taming you.
And slowly, you stopped fighting.
Because you could feel it—your pulse beginning to lag, your limbs burning with fatigue. You were outmatched. Overpowered. And even you knew it was pointless to keep struggling.
Is this what the petty thieves who you had chased down felt like when you finally got handcuffs secured on their wrists? Not the victorious, heroic triumph of being the one who kneels on their back, but now, you’re the one whose being kneeled upon.
Your breathing slowed—still trembling, still ragged—but you no longer jerked at every pull of the thread.
Your eyes burned. Not from the pain this time.
But from the shame.
You let your head fall sideways, catching a glimpse of Masky through your wet lashes. He hadn’t looked away once, not even for a second.
Not until the last stitch was tied.
Eyeless Jack finished with a slow exhale and wiped his gloves. “There. Done.”
You didn’t respond.
Neither did Masky.
Only after the tray was set aside and the antiseptic reapplied did his grip finally release. Not gently, but not cruelly either. Just… finished.
You didn’t try to sit up again.
Didn’t move at all.
Just stayed there—quiet, aching, burning with exhaustion and humiliation—your skin stitched and your spirit frayed.
And from the corner of your eye, you could still feel him watching.
It took minutes. It felt like hours. Hoodie and Toby finally let their grips off of you when they realized you wouldn’t try the same stunt twice.
“Well,” Jack muttered, dry and clipped, “glad we wasted half my kit on a cop.”
Your jaw clenched. You didn’t even have the energy to snap back.
Masky’s head turned, still standing at the top of the table near your head.
“They’re not—” he started, his voice low, jaw already tight behind the mask.
“Oh, come on,” Jack drawled, lifting his eyeless face toward the others. “You dragged a badge-wearing, handcuff-carrying, tight-ass little hero into our den, and now I’m supposed to patch them up like one of you?”
Toby let out a too-loud snort. “Technically, they’re not a cop anymore, not without a sta-station to work in. So, like… ex-cop. Honorary badge-burner. Almo-Almost one of us. Kinda. Not really.”
Hoodie didn’t say anything. He just folded his arms across his chest and watched—expression unreadable beneath the fabric mask.
You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The mention of being “one of them” made your skin crawl more than the sutures did.
Masky’s voice came again, sharper this time.
“They saw a little too much for me to just leave them behind, man. Things got complicated, boss decided we should use them as bait.”
Jack gave a dry scoff. “That’s your excuse? You bait a feral monster out in the woods with a warm body, and then get all protective about patching up your fucking meat shield?”
“They almost died,” Masky snapped. “It got too close. I wasn’t gonna leave them like that.”
His voice had dropped, low and dangerous. The kind of voice that made the hairs on your arms rise. But there was something else in it, too. Something flickering beneath the surface—something uncertain.
You hated that part even more.
“You’ve never cared about leaving people behind before. What changed?” Hoodie perked up, head tilting to the side with more accusation in his voice than genuine question.
Masky just stared.
Jack sighed, exasperated. “Then they need to shower before I rewrap this. Bacteria’s already making itself at home in those wounds. If they don’t clean up, they’re just gonna rot from the inside.”
You grimaced at the image. But… he wasn’t wrong. You felt like something that had been dragged from a grave—soaked in dirt, dried blood, and whatever else was seeping from the gashes across your back.
Jack snapped the gloves from his hands and turned away, muttering. “You’ve got an hour before I re-wrap. Don’t waste it.”
Masky’s hand curled beneath your arm. Hoodie moved to your other side.
You stiffened.
“Wait—wait, I can walk, just—just give me a minute,” you rasped, voice raw, exhausted. You didn’t want their help. You didn’t want to be touched again. “Please… just give me a second.”
“No,” Masky said flatly.
That one word dug into your ribs harder than any hand.
“No time,” Hoodie added, tone colder than ice.
Before you could protest again, you were hauled upward—your legs buckling instantly from the strain. You gasped, the torn muscles in your back flaring with white-hot fire.
“Shit—” you hissed through your teeth, nearly collapsing again if it weren’t for their grip.
Neither of them slowed.
They dragged you toward the stairs like someone moving furniture—no urgency, no comfort, no care. You stumbled, toes scraping against the concrete floor. The fluorescent light above flickered once as you passed underneath.
You tried to dig your heels in.
It didn’t work.
Up the steps—wood groaning beneath their feet—they tugged you forward. The basement door yawned open ahead, spilling hallway light into the narrow stairwell.
Your body screamed at you to fight, but your mind—numb, broken, hanging on by a thread—was done fighting.
And above all of it, you knew: this wasn’t mercy. This was maintenance.
You barely felt your feet beneath you as Hoodie and Masky hauled you through the winding hallways of the mansion. The air was cold, and the soles of your feet scraped across stone floors and half-rotted rugs with every limp, dragging step. Your body screamed with each motion, muscles raw, skin split and burning beneath bandages that already felt soaked through. Your shirt was half-hanging off your body, completely ruined. You could smell the copper on yourself. Still bleeding… great.
The mansion was a contradiction. Gothic in some corners, stripped bare in others. Cracked wallpaper curled away from the walls like peeling scabs. Some rooms you passed were sealed shut, others yawning wide with nothing but broken furniture inside, half-eaten by mold and time. A shattered chandelier loomed above the main foyer like a corpse strung up for display, and yet—there were signs of life. Muddy boot prints on the floor. A warm bulb burning in a hallway lamp. Creaks above. Distant murmuring voices that weren’t yours or theirs.
You didn’t ask who they belonged to. You didn’t want to know. This was the first time you were seeing the upstairs, and it looked no different than the horrific scenes underneath.
They turned down a narrow corridor—paint faded to gray, dust clinging to the air like a second skin—and stopped at a single, grimy door near the end.
Masky reached for the knob and shoved it open.
“Here. Don’t take all day,” he said curtly.
Hoodie’s voice followed, low and quiet. “Don’t try anything. You won’t get far.”
They shoved you in before you could speak. The door slammed shut behind you with a sharp metal click.
You turned instantly and grabbed the knob.
Locked.
You rattled it once, twice.
“I said don’t start anything,” Masky barked from the other side of the door, voice muffled but sharp.
You jerked your hand away and took a shaky breath.
The bathroom smelled like mildew, antiseptic, and old iron pipes. A mid-sized room—wide enough to be comfortable but still unwelcoming in every corner. The mirror was spotted and cracked down one side, warped in the middle like it was melting. A stained clawfoot tub sat half-sunken into the tile, a fraying shower curtain wrapped around its rusted rings. The tiles beneath your feet were black and white, but water-damaged and cracked, the grout sickly yellow.
Yet despite all that… it was stocked.
You stepped forward, staring.
There was everything. Half-used bars of soap. Five or six different brands of shampoo—cheap drugstore stuff, luxury conditioners, even thick, chemical-scented men’s body wash. Razors, loofahs, folded towels stacked unevenly. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Nail clippers. Cologne. Old cologne.
It didn’t make sense.
This wasn’t a house for one, or two, or even four people. There were dozens of things. All mismatched. All clearly used. All kept.
How many people lived here…?
You shook the thought from your head, breathing shallow. You didn’t have the energy to figure it out. You could feel blood soaked into your bandages, sweat under your arms, dirt caked into every scrape and bruise.
You needed to be clean.
You peeled the wrappings from your head and arms off slowly. It hurt like hell—cotton ripping away from scabs, pulling crusted blood from healing tissue. The stitching through your back pulled a gritted scream from your throat when it tugged your skin and pulled muscle as you had to bend down to shimmy your pants off.
The mirror caught a flash of your reflection. Pale, hollow-eyed, bandaged like a ghost. Who the hell was this person anymore?
You gritted your teeth and turned the water on.
It took forever to warm.
When it finally did, you stepped in, and immediately regretted it.
The water struck your back like a whip. Scalding at first, then stinging cold, then hot again. It rushed over the sutures and the gauze and the healing cuts like acid, soaking into every exposed nerve. You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, knees almost giving out as you braced against the back of the tub with one arm.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” you whispered through clenched teeth, every muscle shaking.
Still, you stayed.
You pressed your forehead against the cracked tile wall and let the water run down your shoulders, your arms, your legs. You watched dark swirls circle the drain—blood and dirt and dried sweat melting away from your skin like sins you hadn’t even chosen.
You scrubbed slowly. First your arms, then the parts of your back you could reach. You avoided the stitches. You avoided looking at yourself in the mirror. You tried to pretend the pain was cleansing.
Tried to pretend this wasn’t just another part of your cage.
But when the steam finally fogged the glass and the sound of the water masked your ragged breathing, there was a fleeting moment—just a flicker—where your body started to relax. Muscles released. The tremble in your fingers slowed. The heat loosened the ache in your legs.
You were still in hell.
But for five minutes… you didn’t feel like you were dying.
The steam clung to your skin as you finally twisted the water off. The pipes groaned in protest behind the walls, like even the mansion itself resented you trying to feel human again. You stood in the porcelain basin for a beat longer, water dripping off your fingertips, head hung low. It still hurt—everything hurt—but the grime was gone. The dried blood, the sweat, the ache of the forest—all stripped away in the harsh sting of too-hot water and the even sharper sting of sutures as they pulled against freshly cleaned skin.
A harsh knock broke the moment.
“Let’s go,” Masky barked from the other side of the door.
You winced. “What the hell am I supposed to wear? My clothes are soaked in blood.”
There was a shuffle. Then a voice—cheerier, almost smug.
“We got you somethin’ special from town,” Toby’s chirp sounded through the wood. “Thrift store fashion, ba-baby. Be grateful.”
A rustling sound, and a bundle of worn but clean clothes was shoved through the door.
You hesitated a moment before pulling them close and drying off with a rough towel. The clothes were simple: an AC/DC band tee, soft from too many washes, and sweatpants two sizes too big. You dressed slowly, everything still sore. Even the feeling of cotton dragging against your stitched skin made you flinch. But once the clothes were on—clean and dry—it felt like breathing for the first time in days.
You waited just a minute more, soaking in the feeling of being alone for the first time in a week. You would have stayed forever, if another impatient knock didn’t rattle the barely-latched door.
You knocked softly on the door. It creaked open, revealing Masky again, his expression unreadable behind the porcelain-white face. Toby stood behind him, grinning like none of this was out of the ordinary.
“Hope they fit,” Toby said, already turning to head down the hallway. “It was be-between that and a sequined mini skirt, soooo… yo-you’re welcome.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not when every step felt like reopening the wounds you’d just had closed.
The house was quieter now, but it felt heavier. You followed them down the stairs, Toby in front and Masky behind, deeper into the mansion’s winding interior. As you turned a corner toward the stairwell, a murmur caught your ear.
You stalled—not enough to be obvious, but just enough to listen.
Voices. In the kitchen, out of sight. Hoodie’s was low and calm, as always. But another voice followed—sharper, with an edge that made your stomach drop. Then another, more playful and flippant, almost teasing.
You didn’t recognize them. But you didn’t have to.
Whoever they were, they were new—and if your time here had taught you anything, new meant dangerous.
“Move,” Masky said sharply behind you.
You flinched, startled, and picked up your pace. But that pit in your stomach was growing again. How many of them lived here? How many people had seen your face now? And how many more would be brought in to see what the new “pet cop” looked like?
The basement door yawned open again. Cold air curled up from below like a second breath.
“Come on,” Toby said, already halfway down the steps.
You followed, back into the heavy dark, the stone chill sinking into your skin again. When you reached the bottom, the familiar sting of bleach and dried blood met your nose like a punch.
Jack was waiting this time.
He didn’t say anything at first, just gestured to the wooden table again.
You hesitated. He looked up—black pits where eyes should be—his expression unreadable. Your nerves shook your skin like a rattle, fingers trembling at your sides as Masky shoved you towards him.
“I need to re-wrap it,” he said flatly. “The skin’s too exposed. You showered, that’s good, but it’ll still split if you move too much. Sit.”
Still sore and wary, you climbed up onto the edge of the table. The silence hung thick between the four of you.
Jack worked quickly, but not gently. His fingers were fast and practiced, tugging gauze and wrapping it clean, securing the sutures from earlier with neat tape. You winced again and again, but this time, you kept quiet. You couldn’t help but glance at the stairs. Were the others coming?
Jack finally broke the silence. “Can’t believe he hasn’t killed the lot of you for bringing a human here.”
Your head turned toward him.
Masky’s voice was sharp. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”
Jack scoffed. “For now.”
Toby snorted. “I dunno, I think boss is ge-gettin’ easy. Letting Masky have a new toy. Or a death wish. May-Maybe both.”
“Lucky for you,” Jack muttered, not looking up, “I’m done. Just… don’t tear it again. The bacteria in this basement could kill a rat.”
Masky stepped closer. “Cuff her.”
“What?” you asked, voice hoarse.
“Just cause you got to roam around for a bit doesn’t mean you’re free,” he said, and you could hear the subtle venom in his voice. “Don’t get comfortable.”
You swallowed hard. “Can I just have a minute?” you asked quietly. “Please.”
“No,” Masky said without missing a beat.
Before you could plead again, Toby was already unlocking the cuff from the wall. Masky gripped your arm, guiding you forward, then forced your wrist back into the familiar ring of metal and locked it tight.
The cold from the pipe soaked in almost instantly.
They left without another word.
── .✦
The door groaned shut behind him, the muffled sound of cuffs jingling below like a chain around his own damn neck. Masky didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he caught one more glimpse of the mess he’d dragged into this house, he wasn’t sure if he’d go back down to help them… or put a bullet in his own foot for ever dragging you out of that police station.
Tim was exhausting as ever, but he was more reasonable now. He was more of an angel on his own shoulder now, whispering pleas and suggesting actions rather than screaming his own head off. He was still loud—still fucking annoying—but tolerable, as if he had been tired out.
His boots hit the creaking floorboards in sharp thuds as he made his way up the winding staircase. The hallway above was lit in a muted, eerie yellow—just bright enough to feel sick. Everything in this goddamn place had a film of rot on it, and now he was no different.
Toby and Jack wandered into the kitchen, and he followed behind. He stepped in just as the low hum of conversation drifted into something snide.
“Another thing,” Jack muttered from behind the fridge door, metal clinking as he rustled through supplies. “You feeding the cop? Or you just gonna let ‘em starve to death in our basement like a raccoon?”
Masky scoffed under his breath. “They’re not dead, are they?”
Before Jack could respond, two voices—too familiar—broke through from the other side of the room.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jeff’s laugh cut the air like a blade. “Back up. There’s a cop here?”
Masky froze mid-step. Jeff stood by the counter, sharp and twitchy, his pale skin practically glowing against the black hoodie clinging to his wiry frame. That carved-up mouth—too wide, too jarring—twitched with anticipation, and his greasy black hair hung in his face like a curtain masking something even worse beneath. The white of his eyes looked almost silver in the kitchen light, and his hands were already twitching like he was dying to use them.
Ben sat cross-legged on the counter itself, chewing bubblegum and grinning like this was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. His blond hair was messy under the green beanie stitched with that familiar Triforce, and his bloodshot eyes flickered like static, always unfocused, always watching. His hoodie looked like it’d been stolen from a thrift bin—too big, too stained—and he smelled faintly of old wires and static.
“Not just a cop,” Ben added, “a sheriff. That’s gotta be breaking, what, at least six house rules?”
“Seven,” Jeff said, “if you count ‘No bringing home strays like a sad-eyed little mutt.’”
Masky grit his teeth and walked past them, opening the cupboard to grab instant coffee. “It’s not your problem.”
“Oh, I think it is,” Jeff said, straightening. “You really think Slender’s gonna be cool with this? They’re alive. They’ve seen your faces. That’s a fuckin’ liability.”
Ben nodded. “Dude, seriously. Are you screwing them or just hoping they’ll join the club after a few more beatings?”
Masky didn’t answer. His fingers trembled just slightly as he tore the coffee packet open. The kitchen was too damn quiet.
Jack slammed the fridge shut. “That ‘liability’ is half-dead right now. They’re not going anywhere. I just patched their spine back together, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, they’re not going anywhere,” Jeff said, voice dropping sarcastically. “Not unless it’s to your bedroom, huh, Masky?”
That was it.
Masky turned fast, cup forgotten in his hand, the ceramic shattering as it hit the floor. He lunged across the room and shoved Jeff hard against the counter, fists bunching in the collar of his hoodie.
“You wanna repeat that?” Masky hissed, his voice low and vibrating with fury. “Say that one more time.”
Jeff’s already large grin widened, teeth glinting. “Touchy, touchy. Hit a nerve?”
“Let go of him,” Hoodie’s voice cut through, sharp and cold. He was standing in the doorway, one hand already reaching beneath his coat for his knife.
Ben jumped off the counter. “Yo, whoa—”
Jeff shoved Masky off with a grunt, both men stumbling back. “You really went and caught feelings, huh?” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “What, couldn’t get laid so you grabbed the first breathing thing in a uniform?”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Masky didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Not with every word in his throat trying to claw out as a scream.
Ben clapped a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “C’mon, man. Enough. Let’s go.”
Jeff rolled his eyes, shooting one last look over his shoulder. “You’re gonna regret this. All of you. Slender will have you all hanging by the balls when he sees this shit.”
They left in a thud of footsteps and door creaks, the sound lingering like smoke.
Masky stood there, chest rising and falling like he’d run ten miles. Jack muttered something under his breath and returned to assembling whatever food scraps he was compiling for you downstairs.
“You want me to say it?” Hoodie asked, his voice low.
“No,” Masky muttered.
“If Jeff thinks you’re in trouble, you fucked up.”
“I said no.”
A heavy silence passed before Hoodie turned and left the room.
Masky stood there alone. The air stank of antiseptic and tension. His fingers curled and uncurled, still itching with the need to hit something. Or maybe just scream.
Instead, he grabbed his coat off the hook by the back door, shoved the crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pocket, and stepped outside into the late afternoon air.
The cold slapped him in the face like it was trying to wake him the hell up. He didn’t bother with gloves.
The lighter clicked twice before sparking. The first drag burned his throat—perfect.
He leaned back against the wall, smoke curling past the eyeholes in his mask, and stared up at the trees swaying under the weight of secrets.
Everything was falling apart. And somehow, he had no idea if it was your fault… or his. He had been so sure this was your doing, so sure that Tim breaching was a product of your influence. But more than a week has passed, and Tim can barely get a word through his own brain before Masky is shutting him up. He’s growing less and less sure of himself.
Maybe The Operator really was going to kill him. Or maybe, this was him doing it already.
── .✦
The hours crawled. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting against the damp concrete, one hand still cuffed to that same pipe, but you knew it had to be well past midnight. The only sound was the faint scuttling of insects hiding in the cracked walls, and the metallic click of your chain shifting whenever you tried to get comfortable.
A half-finished plate of bland reheated pasta sat on the floor next to you, the sauce long congealed under the chill. Hoodie had brought it hours ago, saying in his blunt, unfeeling way, “Eat something.” And you had, because the hunger gnawed worse than pride—but now even that felt like a distant concern.
You pulled your knees to your chest carefully, trying not to jostle the fresh bandages biting at your skin, and let your head fall against the cold basement wall. The stitches burned, the bruises pulsed with their own quiet heartbeat, and beneath it all a bone-deep exhaustion ate away at you.
Your mind wandered, even when you didn’t want it to.
Was your family looking for you?
The thought cut like glass. You pictured your dad pacing the living room, your mom leaving messages on your phone that would never be answered. Maybe they thought you’d been killed in that fire at the station. Maybe they’d given up already.
Or maybe the department had started over—a fresh rebuild, new recruits, a shiny new station to replace the one they lost. Maybe they’d even put your name on a plaque on the wall, In Memoriam, never knowing you were alive, rotting in someone’s basement like a rat.
Maybe they’d give a plaque for you and Marcus.
It made your throat close up.
It had only been a week. You hugged your knees tighter, trying to block out the chill, but the dread was a weight pressing down on you. It made breathing hard. What was the point of even trying to fight, if nobody knew to come save you?
Then, of course, there was him.
You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the dream—the impossible dream that felt more real than anything else. That towering, faceless creature, those endless limbs that moved like smoke. The way it had spoken to you without speaking at all, filling your mind with its icy voice.
Do as the others say. They work in honor of me, as too, will you. Rest yourself, Sheriff. We will meet again.
A shiver wracked through you.
You had spent your entire life as a sheriff—built on backbone and grit, protecting others, refusing to bend to anyone. And now this… thing was telling you to submit?
You clenched your jaw, a sick rage bubbling under your exhaustion. There was no way in hell you would let yourself break that easily. Even if your station was gone. Even if no one was coming. Even if you had to rot here a thousand years—you would not hand them your soul on a platter.
But another thought crept in, unwelcome and cold:
What if I can’t hold out?
Because every night dragged you a little closer to that line. Every new wound chipped away at your will, every moment with these monsters made you wonder if you were truly alone, if you’d ever get back.
You exhaled shakily, letting your head slump forward as the sound of the chain rattled in the still air.
Above you, the faint creaking of the mansion’s rotting floorboards drifted down, reminders that they were still up there—Masky, Hoodie, Toby, maybe even that creature from your dreams—planning, watching.
Waiting for you to break.
You swallowed hard, fighting tears that you refused to let fall. Because if you started crying, you were afraid you might never stop.
You had just sunk your head against your knees, trying to quiet your breathing, when the basement door slammed open again.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs, quick, hard, angry—you felt the floorboards shake with every step. And you knew before you even looked who it was.
Masky.
He came into view, that ever-present porcelain mask hiding his face, shoulders bunched up like a coiled spring. The lightbulb above cast harsh shadows on the angles of his sweater and coat, making him look even more dangerous in the flickering yellow light.
His fists were clenched, jaw working behind the mask as if trying to chew down words before they came out. For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes sharp, restless, as though sizing you up for the thousandth time.
You lifted your chin, refusing to shrink. “What now?” you rasped, voice raw from hours of silence.
He stalked closer, boots scraping the concrete, a storm radiating off him in waves.
“Don’t,” he snapped, before you could say anything else. “Don’t start. I’m not—I’m not here for your questions.”
You kept your eyes steady on him. “Then what are you here for?”
He let out a humorless, pained bark of a laugh, fingers flexing at his sides. “You think I know?” Masky practically growled, voice shaking with something you couldn’t place—rage, confusion, fear maybe? “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”
You watched him pace, a tiger trapped in a cage, shoulders rising and falling, breath harsh behind the porcelain.
“Is it Tim?” you guessed softly.
He froze, like you’d hit a nerve.
“Shut up,” he snapped, but it wasn’t cruel—it was panicked.
You tilted your head, trying to read beyond the white mask. “You’re not keeping me here because you want me, are you?”
He whirled on you. “What the hell does that mean?”
Your voice stayed calm, the voice of a sheriff used to talking people down from a ledge, hostage negotiator calm, even if you were half-terrified yourself. “You’re trying to tell yourself there’s a reason. That there’s a purpose for this. That I’m not just… a thing you dragged back for your own reasons.”
A tremor ran through him. He stopped pacing, one gloved hand coming up to grip his hair, like he was holding his skull together.
You drew a slow breath, ignoring the pain it cost you. “You’re not a monster, Masky,” you whispered. “I think… you’re trying to convince yourself of that.”
He flinched, shoulders crumpling slightly, like you’d just taken all the wind out of him.
You swallowed hard, staring at the dirty floor, your voice barely holding steady. “For what it’s worth, I had a… a dream. Before. About someone. Something. It talked about you.”
Masky’s head snapped toward you, body going rigid. “What did you just say?”
Your voice faltered under the intensity of his stare. “It was… tall. Faceless. Like—like shadows with arms. It told me I had to submit to you. That I had a purpose. That you would—”
His reaction was immediate. The word submit sent a violent ripple through him, like someone had just thrown ice water on his nerves. He jolted upright, hands balling up again.
“Slender,” he hissed, barely above a whisper, voice so raw it almost scared you.
You blinked. “Slender—?”
Masky didn’t answer, didn’t explain. He just shook his head, breathing fast, his fists trembling. Then, in one harsh, decisive movement, he backed away from you, eyes flicking around the basement like he was expecting the walls to cave in.
“Fuck,” he spat under his breath. “Fucking hell.”
You tried to call after him, but he was already halfway up the stairs, moving like something was chasing him, boots pounding each step until the basement door slammed shut behind him and left you alone in the dark once again.
The echo of that slammed door rattled in your ears, and a creeping terror crawled up your spine—because if he was scared, the one who’d been tormenting you all this time…
…then maybe you had no idea how deep this nightmare truly went.
── .✦
His boots slammed up the basement stairs two at a time, heart hammering against his ribs so loud it drowned out his thoughts. Submit. Slender. The word was still rattling around his skull like a bullet ricocheting through bone.
He could feel that thing’s presence in the walls—like it was listening, always listening, twisting everything to its will.
No.
No.
He was sick of always being a pawn.
He shoved open the kitchen door, Hoodie starting to say something, “What the hell was that noise dow—”, but Masky didn’t even answer, shouldering past him like a battering ram. Out the back hall, coat flapping, down the porch steps, every muscle screaming to move.
He needed to do something. Needed to break the hold, force that faceless bastard to look at him, see him, answer him.
The truck keys bit into his gloved hand when he snatched them off the hook. He nearly tore the door off its hinges climbing inside their beat-up truck, the engine rattling to life, tires spinning mud as he backed out of the worn-in driveway.
Dark pine trees blurred past, the dirt road turning to cracked blacktop. He pressed the pedal down until the needle trembled over 90, ignoring the way the engine stuttered in protest. Town was twenty miles out—enough distance to not be noticed, maybe. Enough distance to do something wrong.
By the time the lights of the subdivision appeared, Masky’s hands were shaking on the wheel. He turned down a neighborhood road, houses dark except for a few warm porch lamps. Normal people, safe behind locked doors, living.
He wanted to hate them. He wanted to be them.
But he needed the Operator. And he only came for mistakes. Big ones.
He killed the engine, breath ragged behind the mask, watching the street. A dog barked somewhere. A TV flickered in a window. Then a door opened—a man, maybe mid-thirties, stepping out with a trash bag, grumbling to himself.
Masky’s pulse spiked.
There.
He slid out of the truck, quiet, measured, moving like a shadow across the neat little lawns.
The man didn’t even look up before Masky slammed into him from behind, one hand clamped around his mouth, the other burying a blade through the side of his ribs.
The muffled scream curdled his gut, but he didn’t let go. Didn’t stop. He dragged the man backwards, off the driveway, into the thin belt of woods behind the subdivision, ignoring the blood soaking through his gloves.
The guy kicked weakly, dying. Masky grit his teeth so hard his jaw popped, forcing the blade in deeper, deeper, until the body went slack.
He dropped him in the leaves, panting, his entire frame trembling. Cold night air burned in his lungs, mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood.
“Come on…” he hissed into the shadows. “I know you’re there. I know you’re fucking watching.”
A chill. A wrongness in the trees, like the whole forest was holding its breath.
And then the air went still.
Branches barely moved, but darkness gathered between them, warping, thickening, swallowing up the shape of the woods. The world seemed to bend—like a silent scream pulling it inside out—until a tall, impossibly thin figure stepped through the veil.
Blank white face. No features. Just a mind-crushing nothingness where a human should be.
Masky’s entire body went rigid.
There you are.
The Operator stood there, the night itself bowing around him. And despite the lack of features, Masky knew—he was pissed.
Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!
kanadoom come quickly, waiting for kanacrashout etc etc u already know
uncensored below cut (tw: sh scars)
i had a song in mind for this but might save it for when i start posting on insta cus thats a nice feature there, ik i can technically do it here but its not the same :P
btw im getting to the requests dont worry <3 just getting this out first
I'm so fed up of people asking me what I want for my birthday like first of all I want money, a healthy will to live, freedom, ambition, liposuction, BATTERIES FOR OUR FUCKING SCALE (although I'm probably the only one to notice that because no one else gives a shit about their weight here 😭) and Lego. 😇
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
tangentwithtanner
gracieabrams
2087
