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 đ€đ»
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.
ââ .⊠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 Maskyâs 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
The air smelled clean. Warm. Your limbs didnât ache like they should, you werenât cold, and you werenât bleeding. The silence felt gentleâlike 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 wasnât 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 couldnât feel. There was a house aheadâyour 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 didnât remember walking here, and surely Masky and his friends hadnât 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 wasâwhatever your brain had conjured to protect you from the painâyou didnât want it to end. If this was a dream orâŠ
Were you dead? If this was heaven, you didnât think it would be so bad.
Inside your house, soft music was playing.
It sounded like a recordâfaint static over a piano tune you couldnât name. There was coffee on the counter, steam curled from the mugâyour favorite mugâthe one you thought youâd lost. It sat exactly where youâd always left itânext 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 didnât even care how fake it felt.
But thenâsomething 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 coffeeâs steam no longer rose. The clock on the wall ticked too fast, too loud.
Tick. Tick. Ticktickticktickticktickâ
You turned your head.
The windows were black now. Not darkâblack. 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 aroundâ
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 suitâwell, 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 didnât exist, the indents of eye sockets and a mouth that should be there, but werenât. The first thing you thought when you saw it was how similar it looked to a treeâa wilting, decaying, sickly thin birch tree.
No face.
No footsteps, no entrance, just⊠there. Towering, still, a living silhouette against the wallpaper. You couldnât breathe. Couldnât 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 wouldnât 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 wasnât a voice at allâjust a rippling in your mind. Deep, smooth, like silk stretched over rot.
âYou are wasting time with fear.â
Your knees nearly buckled. You werenât speaking. Your lips wouldnât move.
âYou do not belong here. But you are here. Because I allow it. Do not mistake my authority for kindness.â
Images flashed in your headâTimâs face twisting in pain, Maskyâs rage, Hoodieâs cold stare, Tobyâs laugh as blood sprayed in the trees. You saw yourself handcuffed, screaming, running, bleeding.
âYou search for answers where there are none. That is why you are weak.â
âNoââ you finally managed to speak, voice hoarse and muffled, like you were listening to yourself speak from another room. Your voice cracked. âI donât need your riddles. I want out.â
âI have plans for you yet, Sheriff. You will suffer less if you comply effortlessly.â
âI d-donât even know what the fuck you are. Neither will I submit to you. To any of themââ
The ground cracked beneath your feet. The walls groaned, bending inward. The couch caught fire silently, blue flames licking up and down its arms.
âYou will. Not because you are weak. But because you are already mine. All who belong to me return to the woods, eventually.â
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 throatânot choking, just⊠holding. Like a leash being gently tugged.
âDo as the others say. They work in honor of me, as too, will you. Rest yourself, Sheriff. We will meet again.â
You screamedâbut no sound came.
Everything collapsed.
ââ .âŠ
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 darknessâstone 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 lipsâhalf a sob, half a breath.
It was just a dream.
But it wasnât 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 werenât sure what would kill you firstâthe 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. Thatâs when you saw itâlayers of gauze wrapped carefully around your shoulder and bicep. Fresh, white bandages. The skin underneath ached deeply, but⊠you werenât 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 hadnât noticed it until now â 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 didnât like you, that much was obvious. You werenât one of them. You werenât even supposed to be alive, by the way they looked at you. Like you were some puzzle they hadnât decided how to break yet.
Toby mightâve done itâmaybe, if ordered to. Brian? Maybe, if it served a larger plan. But Tim? Masky?
You exhaled sharply. No. He wouldnât have done this. Not unless it served some other purpose towards his internal battles. Even if thereâd been something strange in his eyes back in the clearing. Even if, for a moment, youâd thought maybeâŠ
No. You didnât 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 youâd showered?
You blinked slowly. Nine days. Maybe longer. Maybe more. Time didnât 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 werenât rushing, they didnât 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 didnât hear voicesâjust 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 nowâTobyâs bouncing walk, Hoodieâs stiff stance, Maskyâs quiet rage like a storm that hadnât broken yet.
But behind themâ
A figure you didnât recognize.
Taller than Toby. Slightly leaner than Masky. Their steps were calm, measured. You couldnât see muchâjust the shape of them, tucked behind the others like they didnât 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.Â
âThey up?â came a voice. It was low, gravelled, clinical. And totally uninterested.
âLooks it,â Hoodie replied.
You squinted toward the group as they stepped into the light. Three familiar masks⊠and one you didnât recognize.
The figure that stepped forward didnât move like the others. He was quiet, calm, tense with purpose. His head turned slightlyâblack 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. âNoâwho the hell is that? What the hell is that?â
âDonât start,â Masky snapped. âYou want the infection to spread?â
âWaitâno, no! Donât let that thing touch me!â 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 runâbut 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. âTold you th-theyâd freak.â
âLike clockwork,â Hoodie muttered.
The manâno, the creatureâwas already pulling on gloves, holding a metal tray full of supplies in one hand. A needle, scissors, a spool of thread, gauze, and forceps. âTheyâre filthy,â he muttered under his breath, more annoyed than anything else. âTheir bandages are soaked, pulse is too fastâthey're going to pass out from hyperventilating.â
âBecause Iâm terrified!â you shouted.
âClearly,â he deadpanned.
Toby chuckled and cracked his knuckles. âAlright, Jacky, where to?â
âGet them on the table.â
âNoâdonât touch me!â you yelled, thrashing against the cuffs as Hoodie approached with the key. âI swear to God, if you let that thing near meâ!â
âI said donât start,â Masky growled, stalking forward. âYou want to rot? Be my guest. Otherwise shut your mouth and hold still.â
The cuffs snapped open, and before you could twist away, two pairs of hands gripped your arms and legsâToby and Hoodie each taking one side, dragging you from the wall as you kicked and fought and screamed.
âLet go! Donât let him touch me! Please, justâ!â
âYouâll live,â 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 nameâ
The air changed when he got close. It wasnât cold, but you shivered. His presence was intense, sterileâlike 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 woundâdried 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.
âStop moving,â the newcomer snapped flatly.
âDonât touch me! Donât touch me!â
âDo you want sepsis?â
You whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. You couldnât see him anymoreâyou felt him. Felt him clean the wound with something that stung deep, pulling the skin apart and sending fire down your spine.
âWound is inflamed,â he said. âYouâre lucky it didnât go deeper.â
âLucky?! Iâ!â
âIf you jackasses hadnât taken all damn night to run into town and get me more saline, I couldâve gotten to this faster.â
Now Toby spoke up, âSorry, Jack. Town is sw-swarming with cops right now. Hard to get around.â
Jack gave a huff of annoyance, the sound of clattering and scissors cutting making you jerk your head. But Maskyâs palm just pressed harder.
âHold tighter,â 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.
âGodâGod please stopâ!â
âYouâre not dying,â he said. âYouâre just weak.â His tone wasnât cruel. But it wasnât kind, either. It was factual. Cold.
Weakâthatâs twice now youâve 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.
âYou people are sick,â you hissed through clenched teeth.
âThis could be much worse,â Masky murmured. âI assure you.â
You gathered yourself, despite your situation and how bad it mightâve been if you succeeded, the searing pain of the needle digging through your torn flesh was unbearable, but it was the handsâtheir hands on you, the cold wooden table beneath you, the monsterâs fingers splitting you open further just to stitch you back together like a butcherâthat 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 Hoodieâs ribs. He grunted, caught off guard, and you pushed yourself halfway up from the table.
âI said get off of me!â you shouted, fury bursting through the pain, through the terror. You were so close to getting upright, to putting space between you and himâthe thing with the black sockets and needles.
But you only made it halfway.
Because then Masky grabbed you.
His hand came down hardâfingers tangling into your hair, palm pushing flat at the back of your neckâand 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.
âDonât. Move. Again.â 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 hurtingârestraining. Reminding you who held the power here.
âI swear to godââ you spat, voice ragged.
âSwear all you want,â he cut you off. âBut the next time you pull a stunt like that, Iâll be the one to cut you myself, just so you have to get stitched over and over. Understood?â
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 eyesâthose sharp, hard, furious eyes behind the yellowed plasticâdidnât leave yours. If they were black holes, you were the planet incapable of doing anything but being sucked up inside.
Jack barely looked up. âI said not to move.â
âIâM NOT MOVING NOW, AM I?!â you snapped, voice breaking.
Masky didnât answer. He didnât need to.
He stayed there, hand cemented on your neck, body hovering just close enough to make sure you didnât twitch again. Watching you, holding you, taming you.
And slowly, you stopped fighting.
Because you could feel itâyour 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, youâre the one whose being kneeled upon.
Your breathing slowedâstill trembling, still raggedâbut 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 hadnât 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. âThere. Done.â
You didnât 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 didnât try to sit up again.
Didnât move at all.
Just stayed thereâquiet, aching, burning with exhaustion and humiliationâyour 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 wouldnât try the same stunt twice.
âWell,â Jack muttered, dry and clipped, âglad we wasted half my kit on a cop.â
Your jaw clenched. You didnât even have the energy to snap back.
Maskyâs head turned, still standing at the top of the table near your head.
âTheyâre notââ he started, his voice low, jaw already tight behind the mask.
âOh, come on,â Jack drawled, lifting his eyeless face toward the others. âYou dragged a badge-wearing, handcuff-carrying, tight-ass little hero into our den, and now Iâm supposed to patch them up like one of you?â
Toby let out a too-loud snort. âTechnically, theyâre 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.â
Hoodie didnât say anything. He just folded his arms across his chest and watchedâexpression unreadable beneath the fabric mask.
You didnât move. You couldnât. The mention of being âone of themâ made your skin crawl more than the sutures did.
Maskyâs voice came again, sharper this time.
âThey saw a little too much for me to just leave them behind, man. Things got complicated, boss decided we should use them as bait.â
Jack gave a dry scoff. âThatâs 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?â
âThey almost died,â Masky snapped. âIt got too close. I wasnât gonna leave them like that.â
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 surfaceâsomething uncertain.
You hated that part even more.
âYouâve never cared about leaving people behind before. What changed?â Hoodie perked up, head tilting to the side with more accusation in his voice than genuine question.
Masky just stared.
Jack sighed, exasperated. âThen they need to shower before I rewrap this. Bacteriaâs already making itself at home in those wounds. If they donât clean up, theyâre just gonna rot from the inside.â
You grimaced at the image. But⊠he wasnât wrong. You felt like something that had been dragged from a graveâsoaked 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. âYouâve got an hour before I re-wrap. Donât waste it.â
Maskyâs hand curled beneath your arm. Hoodie moved to your other side.
You stiffened.
âWaitâwait, I can walk, justâjust give me a minute,â you rasped, voice raw, exhausted. You didnât want their help. You didnât want to be touched again. âPlease⊠just give me a second.â
âNo,â Masky said flatly.
That one word dug into your ribs harder than any hand.
âNo time,â Hoodie added, tone colder than ice.
Before you could protest again, you were hauled upwardâyour legs buckling instantly from the strain. You gasped, the torn muscles in your back flaring with white-hot fire.
âShitââ you hissed through your teeth, nearly collapsing again if it werenât for their grip.
Neither of them slowed.
They dragged you toward the stairs like someone moving furnitureâno 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 didnât work.
Up the stepsâwood groaning beneath their feetâthey 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 mindânumb, broken, hanging on by a threadâwas done fighting.
And above all of it, you knew: this wasnât 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 yetâthere were signs of life. Muddy boot prints on the floor. A warm bulb burning in a hallway lamp. Creaks above. Distant murmuring voices that werenât yours or theirs.
You didnât ask who they belonged to. You didnât 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 corridorâpaint faded to gray, dust clinging to the air like a second skinâand stopped at a single, grimy door near the end.
Masky reached for the knob and shoved it open.
âHere. Donât take all day,â he said curtly.
Hoodieâs voice followed, low and quiet. âDonât try anything. You wonât get far.â
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.
âI said donât start anything,â 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 roomâwide 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 shampooâcheap drugstore stuff, luxury conditioners, even thick, chemical-scented menâs body wash. Razors, loofahs, folded towels stacked unevenly. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Nail clippers. Cologne. Old cologne.
It didnât make sense.
This wasnât 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 didnât 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 hellâcotton 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.
âFuckâfuckâfuckââ 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 drainâblood and dirt and dried sweat melting away from your skin like sins you hadnât 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 wasnât 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 momentâjust a flickerâwhere 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 didnât 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 hurtâeverything hurtâbut the grime was gone. The dried blood, the sweat, the ache of the forestâall 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.
âLetâs go,â Masky barked from the other side of the door.
You winced. âWhat the hell am I supposed to wear? My clothes are soaked in blood.â
There was a shuffle. Then a voiceâcheerier, almost smug.
âWe got you somethinâ special from town,â Tobyâs chirp sounded through the wood. âThrift store fashion, ba-baby. Be grateful.â
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 onâclean and dryâit 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 didnât 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.
âHope they fit,â Toby said, already turning to head down the hallway. âIt was be-between that and a sequined mini skirt, soooo⊠yo-youâre welcome.â
You didnât answer. You couldnâtânot when every step felt like reopening the wounds youâd 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 mansionâs winding interior. As you turned a corner toward the stairwell, a murmur caught your ear.
You stalledânot enough to be obvious, but just enough to listen.
Voices. In the kitchen, out of sight. Hoodieâs was low and calm, as always. But another voice followedâsharper, with an edge that made your stomach drop. Then another, more playful and flippant, almost teasing.
You didnât recognize them. But you didnât have to.
Whoever they were, they were newâand if your time here had taught you anything, new meant dangerous.
âMove,â 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 âpet copâ looked like?
The basement door yawned open again. Cold air curled up from below like a second breath.
âCome on,â 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 didnât say anything at first, just gestured to the wooden table again.
You hesitated. He looked upâblack pits where eyes should beâhis expression unreadable. Your nerves shook your skin like a rattle, fingers trembling at your sides as Masky shoved you towards him.
âI need to re-wrap it,â he said flatly. âThe skinâs too exposed. You showered, thatâs good, but itâll still split if you move too much. Sit.â
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 couldnât help but glance at the stairs. Were the others coming?
Jack finally broke the silence. âCanât believe he hasnât killed the lot of you for bringing a human here.â
Your head turned toward him.
Maskyâs voice was sharp. âWeâre alive, arenât we?â
Jack scoffed. âFor now.â
Toby snorted. âI dunno, I think boss is ge-gettinâ easy. Letting Masky have a new toy. Or a death wish. May-Maybe both.â
âLucky for you,â Jack muttered, not looking up, âIâm done. Just⊠donât tear it again. The bacteria in this basement could kill a rat.â
Masky stepped closer. âCuff her.â
âWhat?â you asked, voice hoarse.
âJust cause you got to roam around for a bit doesnât mean youâre free,â he said, and you could hear the subtle venom in his voice. âDonât get comfortable.â
You swallowed hard. âCan I just have a minute?â you asked quietly. âPlease.â
âNo,â 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.
ââ .âŠ
The door groaned shut behind him, the muffled sound of cuffs jingling below like a chain around his own damn neck. Masky didnât look back. He couldnât. If he caught one more glimpse of the mess heâd dragged into this house, he wasnât sure if heâd go back down to help them⊠or put a bullet in his own foot for ever dragging you out of that police station.Â
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 loudâstill fucking annoyingâbut 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 yellowâjust 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.
âAnother thing,â Jack muttered from behind the fridge door, metal clinking as he rustled through supplies. âYou feeding the cop? Or you just gonna let âem starve to death in our basement like a raccoon?â
Masky scoffed under his breath. âTheyâre not dead, are they?â
Before Jack could respond, two voicesâtoo familiarâbroke through from the other side of the room.
âWait, wait, wait,â Jeffâs laugh cut the air like a blade. âBack up. Thereâs a cop here?â
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 mouthâtoo wide, too jarringâtwitched 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 heâd 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 itâd been stolen from a thrift binâtoo big, too stainedâand he smelled faintly of old wires and static.
âNot just a cop,â Ben added, âa sheriff. Thatâs gotta be breaking, what, at least six house rules?â
âSeven,â Jeff said, âif you count âNo bringing home strays like a sad-eyed little mutt.ââ
Masky grit his teeth and walked past them, opening the cupboard to grab instant coffee. âItâs not your problem.â
âOh, I think it is,â Jeff said, straightening. âYou really think Slenderâs gonna be cool with this? Theyâre alive. Theyâve seen your faces. Thatâs a fuckinâ liability.â
Ben nodded. âDude, seriously. Are you screwing them or just hoping theyâll join the club after a few more beatings?â
Masky didnât answer. His fingers trembled just slightly as he tore the coffee packet open. The kitchen was too damn quiet.
Jack slammed the fridge shut. âThat âliabilityâ is half-dead right now. Theyâre not going anywhere. I just patched their spine back together, for Godâs sake.â
âOh, theyâre not going anywhere,â Jeff said, voice dropping sarcastically. âNot unless itâs to your bedroom, huh, Masky?â
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.
âYou wanna repeat that?â Masky hissed, his voice low and vibrating with fury. âSay that one more time.â
Jeffâs already large grin widened, teeth glinting. âTouchy, touchy. Hit a nerve?â
âLet go of him,â Hoodieâs 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. âYo, whoaââ
Jeff shoved Masky off with a grunt, both men stumbling back. âYou really went and caught feelings, huh?â he snapped, eyes narrowing. âWhat, couldnât get laid so you grabbed the first breathing thing in a uniform?â
âShut your fucking mouth.â
âYeah, yeah.â
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Masky didnât speak. He couldnât. Not with every word in his throat trying to claw out as a scream.
Ben clapped a hand on Jeffâs shoulder. âCâmon, man. Enough. Letâs go.â
Jeff rolled his eyes, shooting one last look over his shoulder. âYouâre gonna regret this. All of you. Slender will have you all hanging by the balls when he sees this shit.â
They left in a thud of footsteps and door creaks, the sound lingering like smoke.
Masky stood there, chest rising and falling like heâd run ten miles. Jack muttered something under his breath and returned to assembling whatever food scraps he was compiling for you downstairs.
âYou want me to say it?â Hoodie asked, his voice low.
âNo,â Masky muttered.
âIf Jeff thinks youâre in trouble, you fucked up.â
âI said no.â
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 didnât bother with gloves.
The lighter clicked twice before sparking. The first drag burned his throatâperfect.
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. Heâs growing less and less sure of himself.
Maybe The Operator really was going to kill him. Or maybe, this was him doing it already.
ââ .âŠ
The hours crawled. You werenât sure how long youâd 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, âEat something.â And you had, because the hunger gnawed worse than prideâbut 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 didnât 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 youâd been killed in that fire at the station. Maybe theyâd given up already.
Or maybe the department had started overâa fresh rebuild, new recruits, a shiny new station to replace the one they lost. Maybe theyâd even put your name on a plaque on the wall, In Memoriam, never knowing you were alive, rotting in someoneâs basement like a rat.
Maybe theyâd 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 dreamâthe 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 sheriffâbuilt 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 yearsâyou would not hand them your soul on a platter.
But another thought crept in, unwelcome and cold:
What if I canât 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 youâd 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 mansionâs rotting floorboards drifted down, reminders that they were still up thereâMasky, Hoodie, Toby, maybe even that creature from your dreamsâplanning, 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, angryâyou 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 youâeyes sharp, restless, as though sizing you up for the thousandth time.
You lifted your chin, refusing to shrink. âWhat now?â you rasped, voice raw from hours of silence.
He stalked closer, boots scraping the concrete, a storm radiating off him in waves.
âDonât,â he snapped, before you could say anything else. âDonât start. Iâm notâIâm not here for your questions.â
You kept your eyes steady on him. âThen what are you here for?â
He let out a humorless, pained bark of a laugh, fingers flexing at his sides. âYou think I know?â Masky practically growled, voice shaking with something you couldnât placeârage, confusion, fear maybe? âI donât even know what the fuck Iâm doing anymore.â
You watched him pace, a tiger trapped in a cage, shoulders rising and falling, breath harsh behind the porcelain.
âIs it Tim?â you guessed softly.
He froze, like youâd hit a nerve.
âShut up,â he snapped, but it wasnât cruelâit was panicked.
You tilted your head, trying to read beyond the white mask. âYouâre not keeping me here because you want me, are you?â
He whirled on you. âWhat the hell does that mean?â
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. âYouâre trying to tell yourself thereâs a reason. That thereâs a purpose for this. That Iâm not just⊠a thing you dragged back for your own reasons.â
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. âYouâre not a monster, Masky,â you whispered. âI think⊠youâre trying to convince yourself of that.â
He flinched, shoulders crumpling slightly, like youâd just taken all the wind out of him.
You swallowed hard, staring at the dirty floor, your voice barely holding steady. âFor what itâs worth, I had a⊠a dream. Before. About someone. Something. It talked about you.â
Maskyâs head snapped toward you, body going rigid. âWhat did you just say?â
Your voice faltered under the intensity of his stare. âIt was⊠tall. Faceless. Likeâlike shadows with arms. It told me I had to submit to you. That I had a purpose. That you wouldââ
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.
âSlender,â he hissed, barely above a whisper, voice so raw it almost scared you.
You blinked. âSlenderâ?â
Masky didnât answer, didnât 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.
âFuck,â he spat under his breath. âFucking hell.â
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 spineâbecause if he was scared, the one whoâd been tormenting you all this timeâŠ
âŠthen maybe you had no idea how deep this nightmare truly went.
ââ .âŠ
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 thingâs presence in the wallsâlike 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, âWhat the hell was that noise dowââ, but Masky didnât 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 outâenough distance to not be noticed, maybe. Enough distance to do something wrong.
By the time the lights of the subdivision appeared, Maskyâs 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 openedâa man, maybe mid-thirties, stepping out with a trash bag, grumbling to himself.
Maskyâs pulse spiked.
There.
He slid out of the truck, quiet, measured, moving like a shadow across the neat little lawns.
The man didnât 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 didnât let go. Didnât 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.
âCome onâŠâ he hissed into the shadows. âI know youâre there. I know youâre fucking watching.â
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 bendâlike a silent scream pulling it inside outâuntil a tall, impossibly thin figure stepped through the veil.
Blank white face. No features. Just a mind-crushing nothingness where a human should be.
Maskyâs entire body went rigid.
There you are.
The Operator stood there, the night itself bowing around him. And despite the lack of features, Masky knewâhe 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 đ) and Lego. đ
jimmyeatworldofficial
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
