I think I may have been hit with the writer's curse... does that even apply to Tumblr writers??
Anyways, so much has happened over the last 3 weeks. I wanted to let you guys know that I didn't abandon you, or this blog! I will be taking a hiatus for the summer to try and get my life back in order though.
My hope it that when I get back I will have a new Toby x reader series and an eyeless jack x reader series to share with you guys. Let's all keep our fingers crossed that everything goes to plan.
I love you guys, and I can't wait to share my stories with y'all again 💖
Every muscle in your body locks, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. For a second, the entire forest goes silent with you, like it’s listening too.
Then, movement.
Somewhere to your left.
Your head turns slowly, pulse pounding so hard it makes your vision throb.
“Toby?”
Your voice barely carries.
A shape shifts between the trees.
Tall.
Unsteady.
Familiar.
Relief hits you so fast it almost buckles your knees.
“Toby,” you breathe, louder now. “Hey—hey, it’s me.”
He steps from between the trees into your line of sight, and the relief dies in your chest.
His posture is wrong.
Too rigid. Too focused.
His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to line something up that won’t stay still.
His hatchet is stiff in his grip, his knuckles pale.
Your stomach drops.
“Toby,” you say again, softer this time, careful. “It’s okay. I found you.”
He doesn’t respond.
His eyes drag over your face, slow, searching.
Not landing.
Not recognizing.
Your chest tightens painfully.
“It’s me,” you try again. “You’re okay. We just need to get you back to the mansion.”
A pause.
“You followed me.”
His voice is quiet.
Flat and wrong.
You swallow hard.
“I came to find you.”
A small, humorless sound leaves him.
“I knew you would.”
Something cold slides down your spine.
“Toby…”
He takes a step closer.
You fight every instinct telling you to step back.
“I needed you alone,” he continues, almost to himself. “Somewhere you couldn’t hide behind him.”
Your pulse stutters.
Behind him?
No.
Not him.
Her.
You understand.
Your mouth goes dry.
“Toby,” you say carefully, grounding your voice the way you always do, “you’re not seeing things clearly right now.”
His grip tightens on the hatchet.
“I see you perfectly.”
“No,” you whisper. “You don’t.”
His head tilts again.
And this time, there’s recognition.
But something is still off.
“Natalie.”
The name hits like a physical blow.
You shake your head immediately.
“No. No, it’s me.”
“You don’t get to do that,” he snaps, sudden and sharp. “You don’t get to wear her face and pretend I won’t notice.”
Your breath stutters.
“I’m not pretending,” you say, voice breaking despite your effort to stay steady. “Toby, listen to me. It’s me. You know me.”
He steps closer.
Too close.
“You’ve been following us,” he says, voice low, unraveling at the edges. “Watching. Waiting.”
“That’s not—”
“I’m done letting you ruin this.”
The words land heavy.
Final.
Your heart starts to race.
“Toby,” you say, more urgently now, “you’re sick. You’re not thinking straight. You need to come back with me.”
He laughs.
It’s hollow.
“You think I don’t know that?”
Your throat tightens.
“Then you know this isn’t real.”
His eyes snap to yours.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
“No,” he says quietly. “This is the only thing that is.”
The forest feels tighter.
Closer.
The trees seem to lean in, as if they are waiting to see what happens next.
You take a slow step toward him.
“I’m not your enemy.”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “You are.”
“No,” you insist, voice trembling now. “You know me. You trust me.”
“I trusted you,” he corrects.
Your chest cracks.
“Toby, please—”
“You don’t get to say my name like that. Not anymore.”
His voice rises.
Fractures.
“You don’t get to sound like her.”
Your vision blurs.
“I am her,” you say, desperate now. “I’m right here. I never left you.”
For a split second, he hesitates.
Just a second, and hope sparks, fragile and fleeting.
Then his expression hardens.
“No,” he says again.
The word is final.
You understand then, there is no reaching him.
Not like this. Not here.
You take another step anyway.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say softly.
He moves faster than you expect.
One step forward.
Hatchet lifting.
Instinct screams at you to defend yourself.
To move.
To fight.
To do anything.
You don’t.
Not fast enough.
Not hard enough.
“Toby—wait—”
The swing is clean.
Efficient and practiced.
The blade bites deep. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs before the pain registers.
A moment later pain explodes through you, sudden and blinding.
A sound tears out of your throat.
Not controlled.
Not steady.
A plea.
“Toby—please—!”
Your legs give out.
You hit the ground hard, breath knocked from your lungs as warmth spreads too quickly beneath you.
He’s above you.
Breathing hard, shaking. But he doesn’t stop.
You reach for him. You just want to stop him, to hold him.
“I—It’s me,” you choke, voice wet, breaking apart. “Please—look at me—”
His eyes flicker.
For a second, something shifts.
But it’s too late.
The second strike comes down fast.
Everything goes quiet.
—
The forest stills.
The static fades.
And Toby stands there, chest heaving, staring down at the body at his feet.
For a moment, there is nothing.
No voices.
No distortion.
No confusion.
Just silence.
Then, clarity.
It comes slowly.
Painfully.
Like something forcing its way back into place.
His grip loosens on the hatchet.
It slips from his fingers and hits the ground with a dull thud.
“…what…”
His voice barely exists.
His gaze drags over the body again.
The blood.
The familiar shape on the ground.
The hand still half-reached toward him.
Recognition hits all at once.
Violent and absolute.
“No.”
The word breaks out of him.
He stumbles back.
“No—no, no—”
His hands come up, dragging through his hair, leaving streaks of red behind.
“That’s not—”
His breathing turns ragged.
Unsteady.
“I didn’t—”
But he did.
He knows he did.
And there’s no undoing it.
—
By the time he makes it back to the mansion, he’s barely holding himself together.
The static in his head has eased, but there is still a throbbing in his temples.
Blood covers him.
His hands.
His clothes.
His face.
It’s drying in places.
Still wet in others.
The front door creaks open.
Inside, the house is quiet.
Waiting.
Eyeless Jack is the first to see him.
He goes still.
Head tilting slightly.
He smells it immediately.
Blood.
Fresh.
Familiar.
But he says nothing.
Just watches.
Footsteps echo from deeper in the house.
Masky appears next, expression tightening the second he sees Toby.
“What happened?”
Toby doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
Tim steps closer, eyes scanning him quickly.
“Where’s your girl?”
The question doesn’t land.
Not at first.
Toby blinks at him.
Confused.
“…what?”
“Reader,” Tim repeats, sharper now. “Did she find you?”
Toby’s brow furrows.
“She… she should be here.”
The words feel wrong even as he says them.
Behind Tim, movement.
Jeff leans into the doorway, grin already forming.
Sleep comes in scraps now, if it comes at all. You wake at every sound. Every shift of weight beside you. Every sharp inhale Toby drags through his teeth when the static gets bad enough to make him flinch.
You have learned the rhythms of his unraveling.
The mornings are usually quiet. He wakes disoriented, exhausted, sometimes clear enough to be embarrassed by the night before.
By afternoon, the headaches start.
By evening, the shadows move wrong.
By night, anything can happen.
Sometimes he knows you instantly and reaches for you before he is fully awake.
Sometimes he stares at your face like it is a puzzle he cannot solve.
Sometimes he calls you Natalie.
Those are the nights that hurt most.
You try not to let him see it.
You keep your voice gentle. Keep your hands steady. Keep grounding him when he spirals, even as your own nerves fray.
You're so tired your bones feel like lead.
No matter what you do, he isn't getting any better.
-
By the seventh day, Tim steps into the doorway of your room while Toby sleeps fitfully behind you.
“He’s off rotation,” he says quietly.
You look up from where you sit on the floor beside the bed.
“What?”
“No missions. Not until this passes.”
Your eyes flick instinctively to Toby.
He's curled on his side, jaw tight even in sleep.
“This isn't going to pass,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Tim’s expression shifts, something pained and practical.
“I know.”
The room goes silent.
Then,
“You’re taking his spot tonight.”
You close your eyes for one brief second.
Of course you are.
-
The job should be simple.
Three people in a rented cabin on the edge of town. Amateur investigators who got too curious, too close to stories they should have laughed off and forgotten. Photos of trees that moved. Static on recordings. Missing hikers. A blurred figure too tall to be human standing between trunks.
The Operator does not like curiosity.
Tim drives.
Brian sits in the passenger seat, mask resting in his lap until they near the site. You sit in the back with your knife across your knees, staring out the window at the passing dark.
“You with us?” Brian asks after a while.
“Obviously.”
“That wasn’t convincing.”
You don't answer.
Tim glances at you in the mirror.
“We go in clean. In and out. Quick.”
You nod.
But your thoughts are back at the mansion.
Toby alone.
Toby waking confused.
Toby wandering.
Toby hearing voices no one else can hear.
Your stomach twists so hard it feels like nausea.
-
The cabin sits in a patch of woods where the trees crowd close enough to swallow sound.
There are lights on inside.
Laughter, music playing low through thin walls.
Normal life continuing seconds before it ends.
You move into position automatically. Years of practice carrying what your mind cannot.
Tim takes the back entrance.
Brian the side window.
You the front.
On Tim’s signal, everything breaks.
The door splinters inward beneath your shoulder. Someone screams. A lamp crashes. Brian is already inside through shattered glass.
You move toward the first target, strike clean, pivot.
The second comes at you with a fireplace poker and panic in his eyes.
You duck, slam your elbow into his throat, and bring the knife down.
Blood spatters warm across your cheek.
The third runs.
You should have seen it sooner.
Should have cut them off.
Should have been faster.
Instead you hesitate for half a second because in the blur of movement you think you hear Toby shouting your name.
By the time you realize it was only your own mind, the woman is already out the back door.
“Damn it,” Tim snaps, bolting past you.
You lunge after them both, but Brian catches your arm for one second.
“Focus.”
The word lands harder than it should.
You wrench free and follow.
Outside, the woods echo with crashing footsteps. Tim tackles the fleeing woman twenty yards from the tree line. Her scream cuts off abruptly.
Then silence.
He stands, breathing hard, and looks at you.
You hate the disappointment in his eyes because it is gentle.
“You’re distracted,” he says.
“I know.”
“Then fix it.”
He walks past you before you can answer.
-
The drive back is quiet.
Brian dozes against the window.
Tim keeps both hands on the wheel.
You stare at the blood drying under your nails and think of Toby alone in that room.
Every mile feels like a stone in your gut.
-
The mansion is too quiet when you return.
You know the moods of this house. Its silences. Its hunger.
This silence is expectant.
Jeff is sprawled across the living room couch with his boots on the cushions, flipping a hatchet lazily through one hand. Not just any hatchet, one of Toby's.
“Well,” he says when you walk in. “You look terrible.”
“Where’s Toby?”
Jeff catches the hatchet by the handle.
“Straight to business. Cute.”
Your voice comes out sharp enough to cut.
“Jeff.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Relax. He had another episode. Freaked out. Ran into the woods.”
Everything inside you goes cold.
“What?”
Tim is already moving forward. “How long ago?”
Jeff shrugs.
“Hour? Two? Lost track.”
“You let him go alone?” you demand.
Jeff snorts.
“Let him? You try stopping him next time. Dude was fucking feral.”
You step toward him so fast even he stills.
“He doesn’t know when he’s hungry,” you snap. “He doesn’t know when he’s hurt. Anything could happen to him out there. What happens if he doesn't come back?”
Something in Jeff’s grin falters.
Only slightly.
“I figured he’d come back eventually.”
“You figured wrong.”
You turn and take the stairs two at a time.
Your room is empty.
The bed unmade.
One boot overturned near the wall.
Static still hisses faintly from the old radio on the dresser though you know you unplugged it yesterday.
“Toby?”
Nothing.
You check the bathroom. Closet. Hallway.
Nothing.
His spare hatchet is gone.
Your pulse starts to pound.
When you come back downstairs, Tim is waiting by the front door already armed.
“I’m going.”
“I know.”
“I’m going too,” Brian says from the hallway, pulling his mask on.
You shake your head.
“No. Cover the house in case he comes back.”
Tim studies your face.
“You sure you can do this?”
“No,” you say honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
A shape moves near the kitchen doorway.
Eyeless Jack.
Tall, still, black sockets fixed in your direction.
He says nothing at first.
Then, “He bled recently.”
You turn fully toward him.
“You can smell him?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Your relief is sharp enough to hurt.
“I’ll owe you.”
Jack tilts his head.
“You already do.”
Complicated is the easiest way to describe your relationship with Jack.
You've brought him organs wrapped in butcher paper after messy missions when he had no time to hunt. He's stitched you closed twice without anesthesia and once sat outside Toby’s room all night because the screaming was attracting attention.
This is as close to friendship as either of you gets.
Tim nods once.
“We split the perimeter. Call out if you find anything.”
No one says what happens if they find a body.
-
The woods swallow you whole.
By dusk, you are alone.
Tim and Jack peeled off in opposite directions half an hour ago after the trail split.
You keep moving.
Branches rake your arms. Mud sucks at your boots. The trees stand too close together, trunks pale and endless in the deepening dark.
“Toby!”
Your voice disappears into the forest.
No answer.
You know, rationally, that proxies do not die unless the Operator allows it.
You know bones can mend wrong and still keep walking. Know blood loss that would kill anyone else only earns punishment for wasting resources.
You know all of that.
Knowing all of that does nothing for the panic crawling under your skin.
Because immortality is not safety, because people can still suffer forever.
Because Toby alone in this state is worse than death in ways you cannot name.
You stop suddenly.
The air has changed.
That feeling.
Pressure without touch.
Attention without eyes.
Slowly, you look up.
Between the trees, too far to be certain and too close to dismiss, stands a tall figure in black.
No face.
No movement.
Watching without eyes.
Your mouth goes dry.
It's been a long time since the Operator watched you this closely.
A long time since you felt singled out.
Something is wrong.
Something bigger than Toby running.
Something already in motion.
You force yourself to move again.
“Toby!”
Your voice breaks on his name.
No answer.
The silence that follows feels wrong. Too complete. Too watchful.
You turn once, searching the trees behind you, half expecting to see that tall shape still standing there.
Nothing.
But the feeling of being observed does not leave.
It presses between your shoulder blades.
You start walking faster.
Then faster.
Branches snag at your sleeves. Roots catch at your boots. You shove through brush without caring what tears or scratches. The only thought in your head is movement.
Find him.
Find him now.
“Toby!”
Your shout comes out ragged.
Silence is the only response.
Panic takes over so gradually that you don't recognize it until you're already running.
You sprint through the trees, breath tearing in and out of your lungs. Limbs whip across your face. Wet leaves slide under your boots. Twice, you nearly go down and catch yourself on instinct alone.
You keep going.
Faster.
As if speed can undo whatever has already happened.
As if distance can outrun dread.
“Toby!”
Your voice sounds small now, swallowed by the woods.
There's no reply.
Only the sound of your own footsteps.
Only your own breathing.
Every now and then, the faint crackle of static somewhere behind you.
You don't look back.
You run until your lungs burn and your vision blurs and your legs begin to shake beneath you.
Then you stumble to a stop, bent forward with your hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your chest.
For a moment, all you can hear is blood pounding in your ears.
Then awareness creeps in slowly.
The cold.
The silence.
The dark.
You straighten too quickly, heart lurching.
Night has fully fallen.
Not dusk.
Not fading light.
Darkness.
The kind that turns every tree into a figure and every shadow into movement.
You spin in a slow circle.
Nothing looks familiar.
No split trunk marked with old hatchet cuts.
No creek bed to the east.
No broken fence line near the road.
No path.
Just endless trees packed close together, black bark and deeper black spaces between them.
Your stomach drops.
You don’t know where you are.
You ran without thinking.
Ran hard enough, long enough, that the woods changed around you while panic kept your eyes forward.
Now even the air feels different here.
Still.
Heavy.
Wrong.
“Toby?” you call again, softer this time.
The word trembles out of you.
No answer comes.
Somewhere in the distance, a branch snaps.
Your pulse slams against your ribs, your chest heaving.
You're not scared for yourself.
You're scared that while you were running blind through the dark, Toby was somewhere out here alone.
I am so sorry guys. I really didn't want to do this, but my health is not good right now. I'm really struggling to get the next few parts of Loving Toby out. Hopefully this break won't be too long. I'm aiming for 2 weeks if my body cooperates. I promise that I will finish this series as soon as I am able though!
Not in a distant, abstract way. Not something you can tuck into the back of your mind and pretend isn’t there.
It’s close.
Close enough that you can feel it pressing in around you.
Toby doesn’t sleep.
Not really.
Even when his eyes are closed, even when his breathing slows, there’s a tension in him that never fully settles. His body never quite lets go. Like some part of him is still awake, still listening, still waiting for something neither of you can see.
You notice it more now.
You notice everything.
When you wake, he isn’t beside you.
Your stomach drops before you even open your eyes fully.
“Toby?”
Your voice comes out softer than you expect.
No answer.
You sit up quickly, scanning the room, and then you see him.
By the door.
Standing perfectly still.
His back is to you, shoulders slightly hunched, head tilted just enough that it looks like he’s listening to something on the other side.
Your chest tightens.
“…Toby?”
Nothing.
You push yourself out of bed, the floor cold under your feet as you cross the room.
“Toby,” you say again, quieter now.
You reach out, your fingers brushing his arm.
He flinches hard. Like you shocked him.
He turns too fast, eyes wide, unfocused, something sharp and panicked flashing across his face.
For a second,
He doesn’t recognize you.
You feel it.
That split second where his gaze doesn’t land.
Doesn’t settle.
Like he’s looking at something else layered over you.
Then he blinks.
And it’s gone.
“Oh.”
His voice is rough.
“…Hey.”
Your heart is pounding now.
“What are you doing?”
He glances back at the door, then at you.
“Nothing.”
It’s immediate.
Automatic.
A lie you’ve heard too many times now.
“What were you looking at?” you ask, softer this time.
Toby hesitates.
Just barely.
“…I thought I heard something.”
“At the door?”
“Yeah.”
You glance at it.
Closed.
Still.
“There’s no one there.”
He doesn’t answer.
His gaze lingers a second too long before he finally looks away.
-
The house feels tighter after that.
Quieter.
Like every sound matters more than it should.
Like everyone is listening for something they haven’t heard yet.
It happens in the kitchen.
Of course it does.
Everything happens in the fucking kitchen.
You’re rinsing a glass when the sound cuts through the room, sharp and sudden.
Ceramic shattering against tile.
You turn immediately.
Toby is standing a few feet away, a broken cup at his feet, water spreading slowly across the floor.
But he isn’t looking down.
He’s staring into the far corner of the room.
Completely still.
“Toby?”
No response.
Your chest tightens as you step closer.
“What happened?”
Nothing.
Not even a blink.
His breathing is uneven now. Shallow.
You follow his line of sight.
The corner is empty.
Cabinets. Shadow. Nothing else.
“Toby,” you say again, quieter. “Look at me.”
For a moment, you don’t think he will.
Then, slowly,
His gaze shifts.
Not fully.
Just enough to land somewhere near you.
“…She’s there,” he says.
Your stomach drops.
“Who?”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Don’t—” he exhales, frustrated, like you’re the one not understanding. “She’s right there.”
You glance back at the corner.
Still nothing.
“There’s no one there,” you say carefully.
“Yes there is.”
His voice is sharper now, strained in a way that makes your chest ache.
And then,
A faint sound threads through the silence.
Static.
Soft at first.
Like something just barely out of reach.
Toby flinches.
His hand comes up to his ear instinctively.
“Do you hear that?” he mutters.
You freeze.
“Hear what?”
The static sharpens for him, you can see it in the way his expression tightens, the way his eyes squeeze shut for a second like he’s trying to block it out.
“It won’t—” he swallows. “It won’t stop.”
Your pulse spikes.
“Toby, there’s nothing—”
“There is,” he snaps.
Then quieter.
“…there is.”
Movement at the doorway pulls your attention.
You turn, and this time,
Clockwork is there.
Leaning against the frame like she belongs there.
Like she’s been there long enough to settle in.
Her mechanical eye ticks softly, rhythm steady, almost thoughtful.
Your stomach drops.
Toby goes still beside you.
Completely still.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Clockwork’s gaze moves between the two of you slowly, deliberately, like she’s taking something apart piece by piece.
“You look worse,” she says to Toby.
Not concerned.
Not surprised.
Just… observant.
Toby doesn’t answer.
His focus is fractured now, flickering between you and her, like he’s trying to line something up that won’t quite fit.
Your chest tightens.
“Toby,” you say softly.
His head turns toward you,
But not all the way.
Not cleanly.
His eyes linger on your face, searching.
Confused.
And for a split second,
Something in his expression shifts.
Like he’s not entirely sure who he’s looking at.
Your breath catches.
“It’s me,” you say quickly.
That seems to ground him.
A little.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”
But he doesn’t sound sure.
Clockwork notices.
Of course she does.
Something flickers in her expression, small, controlled, but unmistakably interested.
She pushes off the doorway slowly, stepping into the room.
“You’re not sleeping,” she says to Toby.
He doesn’t respond.
“You’re hearing things,” she continues.
Still no answer.
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
“And now you’re seeing them.”
Your hands curl at your sides.
“Stop,” you say.
Her eyes flick to you.
“I didn’t say anything untrue.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to say it.”
Clockwork studies you for a moment.
Then hums softly, like she’s considering that.
But she doesn’t apologize.
She doesn’t soften.
Instead, she looks back at Toby.
And for a moment,
She just watches him.
Like she’s waiting.
“You should rest,” you say, quieter now, stepping closer to him.
Your hand finds his again.
His grip is immediate.
Tight.
Grounding.
You feel the tension in it.
The instability.
Like he’s holding on harder than usual.
Clockwork’s gaze drops to your hands.
Then back up.
Something shifts in her expression.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Something slower.
More patient.
She tilts her head slightly.
“You’re going to wear yourself out,” she says to you this time.
Your stomach tightens.
“I’m fine.”
Her lips curve just barely.
“Of course you are.”
She doesn’t say anything else.
Just turns.
And walks out.
Unhurried.
Like she knows exactly what happens next.
The silence she leaves behind is worse.
Heavier.
Toby’s grip doesn’t loosen.
You look at him.
“Toby?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze is distant again.
Unfocused.
“…It’s loud,” he says finally.
Your chest tightens.
“What is?”
“The static.”
You swallow.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“I know.”
That’s what makes it worse.
-
Later, when you’re back in your room, he barely speaks.
He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
You stay close.
Closer than usual.
Like distance might make it worse.
At some point, he lies down.
Not because he wants to.
Because you convince him to.
Your hand moves through his hair in slow, steady motions until his breathing evens out just enough to resemble sleep.
But even then,
He doesn’t fully relax.
You don’t notice when Tim comes in.
Not at first.
The door opens quietly.
Soft enough that it doesn’t wake Toby.
But it pulls your attention immediately.
Tim stands in the doorway, eyes flicking from you to Toby.
Taking everything in.
You shift slightly.
“He’s asleep,” you whisper.
Tim steps inside anyway.
Careful.
Measured.
He stops a few feet from the bed, watching Toby in that same way he has been all day.
Quiet.
Assessing.
“How bad?” he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
“…It’s worse today.”
Tim nods once.
Like that confirms something.
Toby shifts slightly.
His breathing stutters.
Then,
“T—Tim?”
His voice is barely there.
Tim’s attention snaps to him immediately.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
Toby pushes himself up slowly, blinking hard like the room isn’t staying where it should.
For a second, his gaze lands on Tim.
Relief flickers across his face.
Then it falters.
Just slightly.
Like something else tried to overlap.
“You okay?” Tim asks.
Toby nods too quickly.
“Yeah.”
A lie.
Tim doesn’t call it out.
“Hey,” Toby says, quieter now.
“Yeah?”
A pause.
Toby glances at you.
Then back at Tim.
Something uneasy flickers across his face.
“…Don’t tell her.”
Your stomach drops.
“Don’t tell me what?”
Toby’s jaw tightens.
“Nothing.”
Tim doesn’t look at you.
He keeps his focus on Toby.
“What aren’t you telling her?” he asks calmly.
Toby shakes his head.
“It’s nothing. Just—don’t.”
There’s something in his voice now.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Something closer to desperation.
Tim studies him for a long moment.
Then nods once.
“Alright.”
You stare at both of them.
“Tim—”
“It’s fine,” he says quietly.
It’s not.
You know it’s not.
But neither of them will say anything else.
After a moment, Tim steps back toward the door.
“I’ll check in later,” he says.
Then he’s gone.
The room feels too quiet after that.
Too still.
You look at Toby.
He’s staring at the wall now.
Not quite focused.
Not quite present.
“Toby,” you say softly.
He doesn’t look at you right away.
When he finally does,
There’s that hesitation again.
That split second of uncertainty.
Your chest tightens.
“It’s me.”
He nods.
“Yeah.”
But his grip on your hand tightens again.
Like he’s not completely sure.
And this time,
You don’t know if saying it is enough to make him believe you.
CW: implied violence, trauma/PTSD, dissociation, co-dependency, a really cute puppy, blood mention, references to abuse.
Word Count: 2514
Morning comes softly in the woods.
It doesn’t rush.
It just settles.
Light filters through the thin curtains in pale gold ribbons, stretching slowly across the bedroom floor. The air is cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth through the cracked window.
You wake before Toby, you always do.
For a moment, you don’t move.
His arm is draped over your waist, fingers grasping at the sleep shirt you wore. His breathing is slow, steady against your back.
Safe.
The air is still.
A small, fragile space between sleep and awareness.
And in that space, in that stillness, your body forgets where it is.
Your chest tightens.
Your breath catches.
Something inside you braces for hands that aren’t gentle. For a voice that doesn’t belong to you. For the weight of something you can’t escape.
It hits fast.
Sharp.
Stealing the breath from your lungs.
Then,
It passes.
Like a wave pulling back from shore.
You inhale slowly, a tremor rolling through your body.
The cabin comes back to you.
The quiet.
The warmth.
The absence of fear.
You’re here.
Not there.
Not anymore.
You let your shoulders loosen, just slightly, before carefully slipping out from beneath Toby’s arm.
You watch for a moment as he shifts, letting out a groan as his fingers flex over the mattress where your warmth still lingers.
The floor is cool under your feet.
You make it all of three steps before something small barrels into your leg.
“—Dakota,” you whisper, catching yourself against the wall.
The puppy looks up at you, ears too big for her head, tail wagging so hard it throws off her balance.
“Easy,” you murmur, crouching down.
She licks your hand immediately, insistent and clumsy.
You run your fingers through her fur.
Soft.
Warm.
Alive.
Toby found her months ago.
Just beyond the treeline. Alone.
You can’t understand how she survived on her own out here. She was so small pressed against Toby’s chest, half wrapped in his jacket.
You remember the way he looked when he came back that morning.
Quiet.
Focused.
Not shaken. Toby’s never shaken.
There had been dirt on his boots.
Something darker on his sleeve.
You hadn’t asked.
You still don’t.
Dakota presses closer to you, demanding attention.
You scratch behind her ears.
“Come on,” you say softly.
She follows you downstairs like she always does.
—
The kitchen feels like yours now.
Not unfamiliar. Not temporary.
Yours.
You move through it without thinking. Pulling a frying pan from the cabinets, setting a carton of eggs on the counter, carefully starting breakfast.
Routine.
Simple things.
Things that belong to you.
Dakota circles your legs, then grabs the edge of your pajama pants and tugs.
“Hey,”
You try to step away.
She refuses to let go.
A quiet laugh slips out of you.
“Dakota.”
You crouch, prying her teeth free.
“You’re getting bold.”
She just wags harder.
The eggs in the pan sizzle.
You stand, stirring them in the pan.
Behind you, the stairs creak.
You don’t turn.
You already know it’s him.
“Morning,” Toby says.
His voice is rough, still thick with sleep.
You glance over your shoulder.
His hair is messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep. There’s something soft about him in the mornings. Something almost boyish.
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, “Morning.”
He trudges towards the coffee machine, clicking the buttons even though his eyes are barely open.
He yawns, taking a mug from the cabinet above him.
His movements are easy, relaxed.
Like it’s always been like this.
Like it always will be.
He leans against the counter beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
Dakota immediately abandons you for him.
“Yeah, I see how it is,” you mutter.
Toby smiles faintly.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The quiet isn’t uncomfortable.
It never is.
—
He leaves later that day.
You don’t ask where he’s going.
You never do.
But you notice things.
You always notice.
The way he moves differently before he leaves.
More deliberate.
More focused.
The way he checks the truck.
The way his hands linger just a second longer on his hatchets.
You stand on the porch while he gets ready.
Dakota sits beside you, tail brushing lazily against your ankle.
The sun is low, stretching shadows across the yard.
Toby shuts the truck door and turns back toward you.
For a moment, he just looks at you.
Like he’s making sure you’re still here.
You tilt your head slightly.
“You’ll be back tonight?”
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
“Yeah.”
It’s not a promise.
You know that.
Still, you nod.
“Okay.”
He steps closer.
His hand comes up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
You lean into it without thinking.
“Be careful,” you say.
He gives you a small, crooked smile.
“Always am.”
You don’t believe that.
But you let it stand.
He kisses your forehead.
Then he’s gone.
The truck disappears down the dirt road, swallowed by trees.
You watch until you can’t hear the rumbling of the engine anymore.
Then you turn back inside.
—
The quiet doesn’t bother you anymore.
Not like it used to.
Dakota keeps you company.
She follows you through the house, through the yard, out into the woods.
You walk the same path you always do.
The one just beyond the cabin.
The trees stretch tall and endless around you.
The air is cool.
Still.
You used to hate this kind of silence.
It left too much room for your mind to wander.
Now,
It feels different.
Not empty.
Just… open.
Dakota runs ahead, then circles back, then runs ahead again.
You watch her for a moment.
The way she moves without hesitation.
Without fear.
You wonder what that feels like.
A sound snaps somewhere deeper in the woods.
You freeze.
Your body reacts before your mind does.
Muscles locking.
Breath catching.
Your heart starts to race.
It takes a second.
Maybe two.
Before logic catches up.
Before you remember where you are.
You exhale slowly.
“It’s nothing,” you murmur.
Dakota doesn’t even notice.
She just keeps moving.
You follow.
Slower now.
More aware.
—
You stop when the trees thin.
The sky stretches out in soft color.
Pink.
Gold.
Fading into blue.
Dakota settles at your feet.
You stare out at it.
And your mind drifts.
It still does that.
Back to places you don’t always want to go.
The motel.
The rooms.
The way your body never felt like yours.
Crystal.
The weight of her.
The sound of your own breathing when it happened.
The way everything went quiet after.
You swallow.
Your hands curl slightly at your sides.
For a moment, it feels close again.
Too close.
Like it could swallow you if you let it.
You inhale.
Slow.
Measured.
You’re here.
Not there.
You let the feeling pass.
It always passes.
Eventually.
You used to think that version of you would follow you forever.
That it would cling to you no matter where you went.
Something ugly.
Something permanent.
Something small.
Someone made to be used.
The kind of girl people imagine when they think of something disposable.
The kind of girl they name before they ever know her.
The kind of girl who doesn’t get to choose.
You look down at your hands.
At the faint scars.
At the way they don’t shake anymore.
Not like they used to.
You flex your fingers.
That girl existed.
She was real.
But she isn’t all you are.
She never was.
You’re still here.
Still breathing.
Still choosing.
Dakota nudges your leg.
You blink, grounding yourself again.
“Alright,” you murmur.
“Let’s go home.”
—
It’s dark when you get back.
Not the soft kind of dark that lingers at sunset.
The deeper kind.
The kind that settles into the trees and stays there.
The cabin sits quiet at the edge of it.
Still.
Waiting.
A thin line of porch light cuts across the steps, left on from earlier. You remember flipping it on before you left with Dakota, more out of habit than necessity.
You pause at the bottom step.
The air is colder now.
Damp.
It clings to your skin, seeps through the fabric of your clothes. The woods smell stronger at night—earth and pine and something faintly metallic underneath it all.
Dakota brushes past your leg, already bounding toward the door.
You glance toward the driveway.
Empty.
Toby isn’t back yet.
Your chest tightens.
Just slightly.
It’s not sharp anymore.
Not like it used to be.
Still,
It’s there.
A quiet, instinctive thing.
You tell yourself it’s nothing.
Because most of the time, it is.
You step inside, locking the door behind you.
The click echoes a little too loudly in the quiet.
You flip the lights on one by one.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Hallway.
The cabin hums to life around you.
You move through it without thinking, checking the windows, pressing lightly against each lock. Your fingers trace the edges of the frames, testing, confirming.
Routine.
Not fear. Not anymore.
Exactly the way Toby taught you.
Exactly the way you chose to keep doing it.
Dakota circles once before collapsing near the couch with a soft huff, already settling in.
You shrug off your jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door.
The kitchen still smells faintly like this morning’s coffee.
Grounds lingering in the air.
You move toward it automatically.
Fill the coffee machine.
Click it on.
The small, ordinary sounds fill the space. The rush of water, the soft click of the machine, the low hum of heat.
You lean against the counter while it warms.
For a moment, you just stand there.
Listening.
The clock ticks steadily on the wall.
Dakota shifts, her nails scraping softly against the wood as she resettles.
Outside, the woods hum.
Insects.
Wind through branches.
Something distant you don’t try to name.
Your shoulders loosen.
This is what your evenings look like now.
Not waiting.
Not pacing.
Not watching the door like something might come through it.
You cook.
You clean.
Some nights you read.
Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with Dakota curled against your legs.
Some nights, Toby comes back in time to help you make dinner.
Some nights, he doesn’t.
Either way,
You keep going.
The coffee pot hisses.
You pour the liquid slowly, watching the steam curl upward.
The mug warms your hands.
You take it with you to the couch, settling beside Dakota.
She lifts her head just long enough to acknowledge you before dropping it back down.
“Long day?” you murmur.
Her tail thumps once.
Time stretches.
Not empty.
Just quiet.
You sip your coffee.
Let it sit warm in your chest.
Let the minutes pass without counting them.
—
A while later, headlights cut through the dark.
It happens fast.
Light spilling through the windows.
Sharp.
Intrusive.
Your body reacts before your mind catches up.
You go still.
Your grip tightens slightly around the mug.
Your pulse spikes.
Then,
Recognition.
The shape of it.
The sound of the engine.
Familiar.
You exhale.
Relief follows close behind, softening the tension in your chest.
You set the mug down and sit up.
Dakota is already on her feet, ears perked, tail starting to wag.
The truck pulls in.
Gravel crunches beneath the tires.
The engine dies.
Silence rushes back in.
Then the door opens.
Toby steps inside.
He brings the cold in with him.
The smell of outside.
Dirt.
Night air.
Something sharper underneath.
He looks the same.
But not untouched.
There’s something on his sleeve.
Dark.
Faint.
You notice.
Of course you do.
You always do.
Your gaze lingers for half a second.
Long enough to register it.
Not long enough to question it.
Then you look at his face.
“You’re back.”
He nods once.
“Yeah.”
Dakota scrambles toward him, nails clicking fast against the floor, nearly slipping in her excitement.
He crouches automatically, bracing himself as she throws her full weight against him.
“Miss me?” he mutters, voice quieter now.
Her tail wags violently.
You watch them.
The way his shoulders loosen just slightly.
The way his hands move, steady, sure, as he scratches behind her ears.
Grounded.
Here.
Not wherever he just was.
Then you stand.
You don’t ask where he’s been.
You don’t ask what he’s done.
You already know enough.
Not details.
But enough.
Enough to understand that the world outside this cabin hasn’t changed.
It still takes.
Still hurts.
Still leaves marks.
Toby just meets it differently.
And somehow,
He always comes back to you.
That’s what matters.
You step closer.
The floor creaks softly beneath your weight.
He looks up at you.
There’s something searching in his expression.
Something quieter than before.
Something that only shows up when it’s just the two of you.
You don’t answer it with words.
You never do.
You just close the distance and wrap your arms around him.
He stills.
For half a second.
Like he wasn’t sure you would.
Then his arms come around you.
Tight.
Immediate.
You press your face into his shoulder.
His jacket is cold beneath your cheek.
Damp at the edges.
He smells like outside.
Like metal.
Like something you don’t name.
Your fingers curl into the fabric anyway.
You don’t need to ask.
You could, he’d probably tell you whatever you wanted to know.
But you don’t.
You don’t need to understand all of it.
He’s here.
Your body knows the difference now.
Between danger,
And this.
You exhale slowly, letting yourself settle into him.
He tightens his hold just slightly.
Grounding.
Present.
Real.
He’s here.
And that,
That’s enough.
—
Later, you lie in bed beside him.
Dakota is curled at your feet, warm and steady.
Toby’s arm is draped over your waist.
The same as this morning.
The same as every night.
You stare up at the ceiling.
Listening.
To the woods.
To his breathing.
To your own.
Your mind is quieter now.
Not silent.
It never will be.
There are still moments.
Still flashes.
Still nights where your body remembers things you wish it didn’t.
But it’s different.
You’re different.
You’re not trapped anymore.
You’re not something waiting to be used.
You’re not something small.
You turn slightly, pressing back into him.
His arm tightens instinctively.
Holding you there.
Grounding.
You close your eyes.
For a long time, you thought survival was the end of the story.
That getting out would be enough.
But this,
This life.
This quiet.
This choice.
This is something more.
Something you built.
Something you chose.
Outside, the woods stretch endlessly into the dark.
Unbothered.
Steady.
And for the first time in your life,
You’re not running.
You’re not hiding.
You’re not waiting for something to take you apart.
You’re just here.
And that’s enough.
Whatever you were before,
Whatever shape the world tried to force you into,
It doesn’t belong to you anymore.
It never really did.
Wrapped in the quiet of the cabin, with Toby’s arms around you and Dakota breathing softly at your feet,
You let it go.
And this time, it stays gone.
A/N: A big thank you to everyone who has read this series! This was my first time writing a series for the creepypasta fandom, and I'm really proud that I was able to finish it.
CW: violence, murder, corpse/burial, past sexual exploitation, strangulation (recalled), trauma/PTSD themes, abusive family mentions.
Word Count: 2919
A few hours after the motel disappears in the rearview mirror, it starts to feel like it never existed at all.
The road stretches on in a flat, endless ribbon. Cornfields blur into gold and green smears. The sky is too wide. Too blue. Too clean.
Your nerves are still buzzing.
Every sound feels too sharp. The hum of the tires. The whistle of wind through the cracked window. The faint rattle from the truck bed every time the road dips unevenly.
You know what’s back there.
Crystal.
Even thinking her name makes something cold settle in your stomach.
She felt different in the motel bathroom.
Contained.
Distant.
But now she’s lying in the open bed of the truck, wrapped in a motel sheet that flutters slightly with the wind. The reality of it presses heavier against your ribs with every mile.
You keep expecting sirens.
Keep expecting flashing lights in the rearview mirror.
Your mind plays through possibilities you can’t stop imagining—someone finding the body, someone tracing it back to you, police knocking on the door of every roadside diner between here and the state line.
But the road stays empty.
No sirens.
No headlights gaining on you.
Just the steady white noise of asphalt beneath the tires.
Toby’s hand rests easy on the steering wheel.
Like this is just another drive.
You press your forehead to the cool window glass and watch the Midwest roll past.
You never thought you would make it out of that motel.
Not really.
You thought it would swallow you whole eventually. Another room. Another man. Another version of yourself you would have to peel off in the shower.
Instead, you walked out.
You killed her.
The thought enters your mind without drama.
Without trembling.
You killed Crystal.
Your fingers curl slowly in your lap.
You wait for horror.
For guilt.
For the sudden rush of nausea that movies promise comes after something like this.
It never arrives.
What settles inside your chest instead is something quieter. Stranger. Like watching someone else’s life unfold through glass.
Like you’re observing a girl who finally stopped being prey.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
Your voice sounds almost normal.
Toby glances at you briefly. Loose strands of his hair brush his cheek in the wind. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails. A faint smear of dried blood near the collar of his shirt that neither of you have mentioned.
“There’s a field,” he says. “Few more miles out.”
His neck jerks sharply, “That’s where I’ll bury her.”
You nod.
You don’t ask questions.
You don’t offer to help.
Part of you thinks you should.
After all, you’re the one who drove the knife into her chest.
You don't even know how many times.
The truck turns off the highway onto a narrow gravel road. Dust blooms behind you in pale clouds.
The field is exactly what he said it would be.
Wide.
Empty.
The kind of place no one has a reason to stop.
Tall grass bends softly in the wind.
Toby pulls the truck to a stop and shuts off the engine.
The silence feels enormous.
“This’ll take a while,” he says quietly. “You can stay in the truck.”
You look at him.
He doesn’t say it like an order.
He says it like he’s protecting you.
“I don’t want you getting your hands dirty.”
Your lips almost curve at that.
Too late.
Still, you nod.
He climbs out of the truck.
The tailgate creaks as he lowers it.
You stare forward at first.
But your eyes drift upward.
To the rearview mirror.
Through the reflection, you watch him.
He pulls the sheet back.
Crystal’s body appears in pieces through the shifting angle of the mirror. Her arm first, pale against the dull metal of the truck bed. Then the dark spill of her hair.
Your throat tightens.
You watch Toby lift her.
He moves carefully, like he’s handling something fragile instead of a corpse. Her weight makes his shoulders strain as he lowers her down into the grass beside the truck.
For a moment, he just stands there.
Looking down at her.
Then he turns away and grabs the shovel.
The first thrust of metal into dirt echoes faintly across the open field.
You watch every movement.
The way the shovel sinks into the earth.
The way dirt parts and piles to the side.
Over and over again.
Part of you imagines getting out of the truck.
Walking over.
Taking the shovel from his hands.
You imagine the weight of it.
The rhythm of digging.
The earth opening beneath your hands.
You imagine Crystal lying nearby, her lifeless eyes pointed toward the sky.
Watching.
You imagine burying her yourself.
You even reach for the door handle once.
Then you stop.
Toby promised you something.
He said he would take care of it.
And for the first time in a long time, someone actually is.
So you stay in the truck.
Through the mirror, you watch him dig until sweat darkens the fabric of his shirt.
The sun climbs higher.
Time stretches.
At some point, you slide down slightly in your seat and close your eyes.
You think about the moment Crystal realized you weren’t afraid anymore.
The way her grip loosened after the first stab.
The way her hands finally went limp around your throat.
You don’t feel sorry.
That realization scares you more than anything.
When Toby finally climbs back into the truck, the sun is high and unforgiving. Dirt streaks his forearms. His breathing is heavy but steady.
He doesn’t look at you right away.
“It’s done,” he says.
You nod.
You don’t ask where.
You don’t want to picture the mound of fresh dirt left behind in the middle of nowhere.
The truck pulls back onto the road.
The field shrinks behind you.
And with it, something inside your chest loosens.
By the time you cross into the next state, your stomach is growling.
When Toby pulls into the parking lot of the roadside diner, the sun has begun to dip lower in the sky.
The neon sign in the window flickers weakly.
Hot Coffee. Homemade Pie.
The truck engine clicks softly as it cools.
Toby rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“I’m gonna clean up,” he mutters, glancing down at the dirt smeared across his arms and shirt. “Bathroom’s probably inside.”
You nod.
“Okay.”
He disappears through the diner door, leaving you alone beside the truck.
For a moment you just stand there.
Then you follow him in.
The diner smells like grease and coffee and something sweet baking somewhere behind the kitchen doors. The warmth inside wraps around you immediately after hours in the truck.
It almost feels unreal.
You slide into a booth near the window and wait.
The vinyl seat sticks faintly to the backs of your legs.
Your hands rest in your lap as your eyes drift slowly across the diner.
A trucker laughs loudly at the counter.
A radio crackles softly behind the kitchen window.
Silverware clinks against ceramic plates.
No one looks at you.
No one knows who you are.
The thought settles slowly in your chest.
You can be anyone now.
For nearly five years, your life was defined by a room number, a schedule, a name you never chose for yourself.
The reality of it used to sit heavy in your chest.
Now it feels distant.
Like it belonged to someone else entirely.
You stare at your reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser.
You look the same.
But inside, something fundamental has shifted.
For the first time in years, you get to choose who you are.
You’re still turning that thought over in your mind when Toby slides back into the booth across from you.
His hair is damp from where he’s splashed water on his face. His sleeves are rolled higher now, the worst of the dirt washed away.
Before either of you can speak, a waitress approaches with a coffee pot in hand.
“What can I get you two, hon?”
The word lands softly against your ears.
Hon.
Gentle.
Unassuming.
She doesn’t look at you like she knows anything about you.
She just sees a girl sitting in a booth.
Toby orders first.
“Waffles. Coffee.”
The waitress scribbles something on her pad.
You glance at the menu for a moment before answering.
“A burger and fries, please.”
“Coming right up.”
She disappears again.
The diner settles back into its quiet rhythm.
Your thoughts drift again.
So much has changed in just a few days.
You ran.
You fought back.
You killed someone.
You left the motel behind forever.
You’re still turning that realization over in your mind when a plate slides onto the table in front of you.
You don’t even notice at first.
Toby does.
He nudges your hand lightly with his fingers.
“You should eat.”
You blink, startled slightly.
“Oh.”
You pick up a fry.
The salt stings faintly against your tongue.
Across the diner, a small family sits in a booth near the window.
A man.
A woman.
And a toddler standing unsteadily on the seat between them.
The little girl bangs a plastic spoon against the table while the mother tries to wipe syrup off her chin.
You watch them quietly.
A strange thought slips into your mind. Starkly out of place considering the last 48 hours.
You wonder what it would be like to have a child.
Not just any child.
Toby’s.
The idea surprises you.
You’ve never really thought about kids before.
It’s not that you dislike them. Before you ran away, you used to babysit sometimes. Neighbors’ kids. Your cousin’s toddler.
But you never imagined a life where you’d raise one of your own.
You never thought you’d meet someone you’d want to build a life with.
Now the image drifts quietly through your thoughts.
A baby with Toby’s shaggy brown curls.
Your smile.
Small hands gripping his shirt while he tries to pretend he isn’t completely wrapped around their finger.
You’re still staring when Toby’s voice cuts through your thoughts.
“What’re you looking at?”
You hesitate.
Your answer doesn’t come right away.
Toby follows your gaze across the diner.
The mother wipes syrup from the toddler’s face.
Something clicks behind his eyes.
You speak quietly.
“Do you like kids?”
Toby’s head snaps toward you so quickly his neck cracks.
“What?”
Your question clearly caught him off guard.
“I mean—” he stumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t feel… strongly about them or anything.”
It takes him a second.
Then realization dawns slowly across his face.
What you’re actually asking.
His expression shifts.
He exhales quietly.
“I never really wanted to be a dad,” he says after a moment.
“Why not?”
He shrugs, gaze dropping briefly to the table.
“Never wanted to turn out like my father.”
The honesty in his voice makes something soften inside your chest.
You nod slowly.
You understand that fear.
Your parents weren’t exactly examples of what a happy family should look like either.
You glance back toward the toddler for another moment before speaking again.
“Maybe a dog then,” you say lightly.
“I’ve heard they’re easier than kids anyway.”
Toby looks at you.
Then a crooked smile slowly pulls across his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I could do a dog.”
You don’t stop again until long after the diner disappears in the rearview mirror.
By the time Toby pulls into a rest stop, the sky has gone dark.
Both of you are exhausted.
The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead as you step out of the truck.
Inside, the rest stop is quiet.
A vending machine buzzes against the far wall.
The tiled floor echoes faintly beneath your shoes.
You and Toby split off without needing to say anything.
The showers are simple.
Cold tile.
A plastic curtain.
A single hook for your clothes.
But when the hot water starts running, you stand under it for a long time.
Longer than necessary.
The water runs over your shoulders, down your back, spiraling into the drain at your feet.
This is the first shower you’ve taken since leaving the motel.
For years showers meant scrubbing away fingerprints.
Perfume.
Sweat.
Someone else’s smell lingering on your skin.
But this feels different.
This time you’re washing away something deeper.
The girl who survived those years.
The girl who had no choice.
The water pours over your face.
You close your eyes.
You’re becoming someone new.
When you finally step out, you move slowly.
Drying off.
Pulling your clothes back on piece by piece.
Almost like you’re putting yourself back together.
When you return to the truck, Toby is already there.
The two of you climb into the backseat.
The space is cramped but warm.
You share vending machine snacks, chips and candy bars eaten slowly between tired conversation.
You glance at him.
“Are we close yet?”
“Day or so,” he answers.
You nod.
Toby hesitates for a moment.
“You really okay with a dog?”
You blink.
Then your conversation from the diner resurfaces in your mind.
A small smile touches your lips.
“Yeah.”
He still looks uncertain.
“I want you to be happy,” he says quietly. “But I can’t give you a kid.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“I know.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I don’t want the kid to turn out… messed up like me.”
You reach for his hands.
A twitch wracks his body, “I don’t want to become my dad.”
Your fingers lace gently through his.
“Toby,” your voice is soft.
“I don’t just want a kid,” you tell him gently. “If I had one… I’d want it to be yours.”
He looks at you like you’re speaking another language.
“Because I love you.”
The words settle gently between you.
“And honestly,” you continue with a small shrug, “I think I just like the idea of having something to take care of.”
You squeeze his hands.
“A dog would be just as good.”
Toby relaxes slowly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once.
“What kind?”
You laugh quietly.
“We have plenty of time to figure that out.”
Eventually the conversation fades.
You curl together in the backseat.
Your legs tangled.
Your head tucked beneath his chin.
Exhaustion pulls you under quickly.
Your heart pounds violently against your ribs.
For a moment your mind is still trapped somewhere else.
Dirt crusted under your fingernails, Crystal looming over you.
She looks wrong. Her skin too pale, eyes hollow and lifeless.
You can still feel the motel room closing in.
Your body is here in the truck. You know that.
But your mind hasn’t caught up yet.
It takes several long breaths before reality settles again.
You’re free.
You made it out.
The movement wakes Toby.
He sits up halfway, hair messy and eyes barely open.
“What’s wrong?”
You stare at him for a moment in the dim light.
Your voice comes out hoarse when you speak, “It was just a bad dream.”
He nods groggily.
“Mhm.”
Then he pulls you down on top of him.
Your cheek presses against his chest.
His heartbeat thumps steady beneath your ear.
You settle there quietly.
You and Toby have never actually named whatever this is between you.
Not boyfriend.
Not girlfriend.
Those words feel too small.
Too shallow for everything you’ve been through together.
Whatever this is runs deeper than that.
You fall asleep again before you can find a word that fits.
The next day passes slowly.
You watch the landscape change through the truck window.
Fields become hills.
Hills become forests.
You cross state lines.
The world outside grows greener, quieter.
By the time Toby turns down the long dirt driveway, the sun has already disappeared.
Your body aches from the long drive.
The cabin appears slowly through the trees.
Small.
Cozy.
Tucked deep in the woods.
The porch light flickers on as Toby unlocks the door.
Inside, the cabin is simple but warm.
Two bedrooms upstairs.
A cozy living room with a stone fireplace downstairs.
Wood floors creak softly beneath your steps.
Toby watches your reaction carefully.
“I know it’s not perfect,” he says quickly. “There’s still repairs I gotta do.”
You smile.
“It’s perfect.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales quietly.
“How’d you find it?” you ask.
He rubs the back of his neck.
“I stayed here when I was younger.”
“After I left home.”
You nod.
You don’t press further.
Instead you wander through the cabin.
Exploring the small kitchen.
The living room.
Eventually you step out onto the back porch.
The forest stretches endlessly behind the cabin.
Owls call somewhere in the distance.
The air smells like damp earth and pine.
You breathe in slowly.
Peace settles in your chest.
You haven’t felt that in years.
When you return inside, Toby is in the bedroom unpacking your few belongings.
You lean quietly against the doorframe and watch him.
There’s still so much you don’t know about him.
And he doesn’t know everything about you either.
But that doesn’t bother you.
You have time now.
All the time in the world.
Toby closes a dresser drawer and looks up.
“You ready for bed?”
You smile.
“Yeah.”
You climb into bed beside him.
The mattress dips as he settles in.
Your limbs tangle together naturally.
His arm wraps around your waist.
For the first time in years, you feel completely safe.
You press closer.
Outside, the forest whispers softly in the dark.
And wrapped in Toby’s arms, you finally let yourself drift to sleep.
The house settles into something that almost resembles normal again.
Almost.
People stop staring quite so openly when you walk into a room. Jeff gets bored of hovering around the drama every five minutes. Even Kate starts talking to you again like nothing’s wrong.
But the tension never fully disappears.
It just… sinks deeper.
Like something waiting under the surface.
You notice Clockwork before you actually see her.
It’s strange.
A feeling more than anything.
Sometimes when you’re in the kitchen, you’ll glance toward the doorway and catch the faintest flicker of movement just as someone disappears down the hall.
Other times you feel her mechanical eye before you find it.
Watching.
Measuring.
Waiting.
She never approaches you directly.
But she’s always somewhere nearby.
Toby pretends not to notice.
But you know him too well.
You see the way his shoulders stiffen whenever Clockwork walks into a room.
You see the way his temper flares quicker than usual.
Little things.
Small cracks.
The headaches start two days later.
At first it’s small enough that you almost miss it.
You’re both sitting in the living room when Toby suddenly presses his fingers against his temple, rubbing at the side of his head like he’s trying to work something loose.
“You good?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
The answer comes too quickly.
You watch him for a moment longer.
“You look like you’re about to strangle the couch.”
He snorts faintly.
“Just a headache.”
Your brain stalls.
You stare at him.
“A what?”
Toby glances over at you, confused by your reaction.
“A headache?”
Your stomach drops.
“You… don’t get headaches.”
He shrugs.
“Well apparently I do now.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
You sit up a little straighter, studying his face.
People with CIPA don’t feel pain.
You’ve known Toby long enough that this fact lives in the back of your mind constantly. It’s the reason he doesn’t react when he gets cut during missions. The reason you’ve had to physically stop him from walking on injuries before.
So if Toby is feeling pain, something is very wrong.
“You sure that’s what it is?” you ask carefully.
“Feels like my brain’s trying to crawl out of my skull,” he mutters.
Your chest tightens.
“You should tell Masky.”
Toby groans immediately.
“Absolutely not.”
-
Masky pulls you aside later that evening.
You’re heading down the hallway when you hear your name.
You turn to see him leaning against the wall near the stairwell.
No mask.
He rarely wears it inside the mansion.
Without it, he just looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, expression drawn tight in a way that makes him seem older than he probably is.
“Got a minute?” he asks quietly.
You nod and step closer.
“What’s up?”
Masky studies your face for a moment before speaking.
“Toby acting strange around you?”
Your stomach sinks slightly.
“Define strange.”
“Headaches. Irritability. Losing focus.”
Your arms fold instinctively.
“He mentioned the headaches.”
Masky exhales through his nose.
“I figured.”
You shift your weight.
“You think something’s wrong?”
He hesitates.
Just long enough to make the silence uncomfortable.
“Just keep an eye on him,” he says.
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
Masky rubs the back of his neck.
“He’s been through this before.”
Your pulse quickens.
“What does that mean?”
Masky’s gaze flicks briefly down the hallway before returning to you.
“Slender sickness.”
The words land heavy.
You swallow.
“It’s not bad yet,” he adds. “Could just be stress.”
“Could be,” you echo.
Masky’s voice softens slightly.
“He trusts you. If something’s wrong, you’ll notice first.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“Great. No pressure.”
He almost smiles at that.
“Just stay alert.”
-
You find Toby in the kitchen later that night.
He’s standing at the sink, rinsing blood off one of his hatchets.
You lean against the counter.
“Riveting evening activity.”
He glances over his shoulder.
“Jealous?”
“Deeply.”
You grab a towel from the drawer and walk over.
“Give me that.”
Toby raises an eyebrow but hands the hatchet over.
You dry it carefully while he washes his hands.
The water runs pink for a few seconds before clearing.
“You’re staring,” he says suddenly.
You blink.
“Am not.”
“You are.”
You shrug.
“Masky talked to me.”
Toby groans immediately.
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“He thinks I’m dying again, doesn’t he?”
“Again?”
He sighs and shuts off the water.
“Slender sickness.”
You set the hatchet down on the counter.
“You shouldn’t be getting headaches.”
Toby dries his hands on a towel.
“Apparently I didn’t get the memo.”
“That’s not how CIPA works.”
He shrugs.
“Guess my brain’s improvising.”
You don’t laugh.
He flashes you a crooked smile. “I’m fine.”
You want to believe him.
But the memory of Masky’s warning lingers.
-
Later that night Toby ends up in your room again.
It happens naturally at this point.
He walks in without knocking, kicks off his boots, and drops onto your bed like he belongs there.
You’re sitting cross-legged with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.
“Long day?” you ask.
“Jeff exists,” Toby mutters.
“Ah.”
That explains everything.
He stretches out across the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes.
You watch him for a moment.
Then you scoot closer and start running your fingers through his hair.
Toby goes completely still.
After a second he exhales slowly.
“You’re spoiling me,” he murmurs.
“You’re covered in blood.”
“So?”
“So I’m being generous.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
For a while neither of you say anything.
The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of your fingers in his hair.
Eventually Toby shifts slightly so he can look at you.
“You worried about me?”
You hesitate.
“Masky seems to be.”
Toby rolls his eyes.
“Masky worries about everything.”
“Maybe he has a reason.”
“Maybe he’s dramatic.”
You give him a look.
“That’s rich coming from you.”
He grins faintly.
“Fair.”
The smile fades after a moment.
“Seriously though,” he says quietly. “I’m okay.”
Your fingers keep moving through his hair.
“Okay.”
He studies your face.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I want to.”
That answer seems to satisfy him.
Toby shifts closer until his head is resting against your thigh.
You continue running your fingers through his hair while he slowly relaxes.
After a few minutes his breathing evens out.
Almost asleep.
Your hand pauses briefly.
For a moment you think you see something move in the hallway outside your door.
A shadow crossing the frame.
You glance up.
The hallway is empty.
Still.
But the uneasy feeling doesn’t fade.
Somewhere in the house, you know Clockwork is watching.
Waiting.
And for the first time, you start to wonder exactly what kind of fight she meant when she promised one.
But you notice the way conversations stall when you walk into a room. The way people glance between you and Toby like they’re waiting for something to explode.
It doesn’t, and that might be worse.
-
Jeff notices first.
Or at least he’s the first one bold enough to comment on it.
You and Toby walk into the living room sometime in the afternoon. Jeff is sprawled across the couch like usual, one leg thrown over the armrest. His eyes flick between the two of you as Toby drops down beside you instead of across the room.
Jeff’s grin spreads slowly.
“Well,” he says. “This is new.”
Toby doesn’t even look at him.
“Shut up.”
Jeff snorts.
“Oh, it’s bad.”
You feel heat creep into your face and pretend to focus on the TV.
Across the room, Hoodie leans against the wall with his arms crossed. He isn’t smiling. His eyes move between you and Toby once before drifting away again.
Masky sits in his usual chair near the window.
You can’t see his expression behind the mask, but you know he’s noticed.
Masky always notices.
Clockwork walks in a few minutes later.
The shift in the room is immediate.
No one says anything.
Jeff goes quiet for once. Hoodie straightens slightly. Even Toby seems to tense beside you.
Clockwork stops just inside the doorway.
Her mechanical eye ticks softly as it scans the room.
Jeff.
Hoodie.
Masky.
Then Toby.
Then you.
Her gaze lingers for half a second.
Just long enough to make your stomach tighten.
Then she walks past the couch without a word and grabs a glass from the cabinet.
Water runs from the sink.
The sound feels louder than it should.
She doesn’t look at either of you again.
Not once.
When she leaves the room, Jeff exhales slowly.
“Well,” he mutters.
“That’s not ominous at all.”
-
Dinner is worse.
No one says anything directly to you, but you catch the looks.
Kate watches you for a little too long before looking down at her plate.
Jeff keeps glancing between you and Clockwork like he’s watching a tennis match.
Hoodie doesn’t look at anyone.
Clockwork sits across the table and eats like nothing happened.
Like Toby didn’t break up with her yesterday.
Like the entire house isn’t waiting for the fallout.
Toby barely touches his food.
Later that night, you head toward the kitchen for water.
You stop in the hallway when you hear voices.
Toby.
And Masky.
You hadn’t meant to listen, but something about the tension in Toby’s voice makes you freeze.
“You’re being reckless,” Masky says quietly.
Toby scoffs.
“Since when do you care?”, you can imagine him rolling his eyes.
There’s a pause.
Then Masky again.
“This place doesn’t tolerate attachments.”
Your chest tightens.
You shouldn’t be listening. You know you shouldn’t.
But you stay where you are.
“You think I don’t know that?” Toby snaps.
“I think you’re forgetting what happens when someone becomes a liability.”
The word hits like a punch.
You swallow hard.
“She’s not a liability,” Toby says.
His voice is sharp. Defensive.
There’s a long silence.
Then Masky sighs.
“Just… be careful, kid.”
You hear footsteps and quickly move away from the hallway before they can see you standing there.
Your hands feel cold.
-
The next evening Slenderman calls a meeting.
Everyone gathers in the main room.
The air feels heavy the way it always does when he’s around.
Orders are given one by one.
Assignments.
Locations.
Targets.
Routine.
Until Toby’s name is called.
“You will accompany Clockwork.”
The words settle in your stomach like a stone.
You glance at Toby.
His shoulders tense slightly.
Clockwork doesn’t react at all.
Jeff mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite catch.
The meeting ends soon after that.
-
The mission happens later that night.
Toby doesn’t come back until well after midnight.
You’re sitting on your bed when your door suddenly swings open.
He stumbles inside without knocking.
His hoodie is streaked with blood.
Dirt clings to his sleeves.
His goggles are pushed up into his hair, making it stick up in every direction. His muzzle is gone, probably dropped somewhere downstairs.
He looks exhausted.
“Hey,” you say softly.
Toby doesn’t answer right away.
He just crosses the room and drops onto your bed face first, boots and all.
The mattress dips under his weight.
“Mission sucked,” he mutters into the blanket.
You can smell metal and damp earth clinging to him.
“Clockwork?” you ask gently.
He groans.
“Yeah.”
You shift closer, sitting beside him.
Your fingers slide carefully into his hair, brushing it back from his face.
For a second he goes completely still.
Then he exhales.
Slow and tired.
“She kept watching me,” he says.
Your hand pauses slightly, tilting your head.
“Watching you?”
“Like she was waiting for me to screw up.”
You start running your fingers through his hair again.
Toby lets out a groan, pressing closer to your hand.
Your voice is soft when you ask, “What happened?”
Toby turns his head slightly so his voice isn’t muffled by the blanket.
“I missed a guy during the chase.”
“That’s not like you.”
“I know.”
His voice sounds frustrated now.
“And then she just… looked at me.”
You feel something uncomfortable twist in your stomach.
“Did she say anything?”
“No.”
He snorts quietly.
“That’s the creepy part.”
Your fingers move through his hair again.
Gentle.
Comforting.
Toby relaxes under your touch little by little.
“You’re probably just tired,” you tell him softly.
“Maybe.”
But he doesn’t sound convinced.
After a moment he shifts slightly so he’s lying on his back instead of his stomach.
His eyes flick toward you.
“You heard the others talking, didn’t you?”
You hesitate.
“Maybe.”
He sighs.
“Masky?”
You nod slightly.
Toby rolls his eyes.
“He thinks I’m gonna get you killed.”
The words make your chest tighten.
Your hand stills in his hair.
You shoot him a stern look, “That’s not funny.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He stares up at the ceiling for a long moment.
Then his voice softens.
“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
Something warm and painful spreads through your chest at the same time.
You want to believe him.
You really do.
So you lean down and press a quiet kiss against his forehead.
Toby closes his eyes.
And for a few minutes the world feels almost normal again.
But somewhere in the house, you can feel the tension still lingering.
At first I measure it by the neon flicker bleeding through the curtains. Then by the hum of the ice machine down the walkway. Then by the slow return of pain in my ribs when I breathe too deeply.
By morning, I stop measuring at all.
The room feels hollow without Toby in it. The air is colder, thinner, like something essential has been removed. His jacket is gone from the chair. The bed holds only my shape. The switchblade lies on the nightstand where he left it, dull metal catching weak light.
I told myself he would be back before sunrise.
Then before noon.
Then before dark.
By the time the sky bruises purple beyond the curtains, hunger gnaws low in my stomach and a whisper I don’t want to hear begins to creep in.
What if he doesn’t come back?
I sit on the edge of the bed and press my palm against my ribs. The skin there feels hot, swollen. When I lift my hand, there is a faint smear of pink.
The wounds reopened while I slept.
I stare at the spot for a long time.
He told me not to leave.
The hallway outside remains quiet. No footsteps. No truck engine. No Toby.
My fingers close around the switchblade before I fully decide to move.
I slide it into my pocket.
Not because he told me to.
Because I choose to.
The late afternoon air presses heavy and damp against my skin when I step outside.
For a moment, I don’t move.
I wait for the familiar shift of weight behind me. The soft scuff of Toby’s boot. The quiet assurance of him at my back.
Nothing comes.
The space beside me feels wrong. Unprotected. Like a door left open somewhere I can’t see.
I lock the room and slide the key into my pocket. My fingers brush the switchblade tucked against my thigh. I don’t pull it free. I just make sure it’s there.
It isn’t that I can’t walk across a parking lot alone.
It’s that I haven’t had to.
Not lately.
Not since him.
Heat radiates from the concrete stairs as I descend. The metal railing burns against my palm. The air smells like motor oil, stale beer, and sun-baked asphalt.
The parking lot stretches wide and bleached beneath the sinking sun. Rows of dented cars sit motionless, their windows reflecting white glare. Somewhere, an ice machine rattles. A television blares laughter from behind a closed curtain.
No one answers it.
My footsteps sound too loud as I cross the open space. Each step feels visible. Each shadow feels occupied.
I keep my eyes forward.
Don’t linger. Don’t invite.
The motel office sits beneath a flickering plastic sign, its window coated in a film of dust and nicotine. A bell chimes faintly when I push the door open.
Cool air meets my skin.
The woman behind the counter doesn’t look surprised to see me. She rarely looks surprised by anything. Her eyes flick briefly to the bruising along my arm, the split skin at my knuckles, the cut at my hairline.
She doesn’t ask.
I don’t explain.
“First aid?” I ask.
She reaches beneath the counter and sets out gauze, alcohol wipes, adhesive bandages, and a small tube of antibiotic ointment. The items slide toward me like this is a ritual we both understand.
“Five dollars.”
I place the crumpled bills on the counter.
Her gaze lingers a moment longer than usual.
Not pity.
Recognition.
I gather the supplies and leave.
The heat hits harder this time.
The walk back feels longer.
The sky has softened into a dull, hazy gold. The lot is quieter now. The ice machine has stopped. Even the television laughter has faded into static murmur.
I feel it again halfway across the asphalt, that hollow space at my side.
The absence.
My shoulders tighten. My pace quickens despite myself.
This is temporary.
He will be back soon.
I repeat it like a promise.
Metal stairs groan beneath my weight as I climb to the second floor. The walkway stretches in both directions, paint peeling, doors closed, curtains drawn tight against the light.
My room waits halfway down.
Empty.
Still.
I move toward it, digging the key from my pocket, already thinking about cleaning the wound, locking the door, waiting for the sound of Toby’s return.
The silence presses close around me.
I am three steps from the door when I feel it.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I look up.
Crystal leans against the railing across from my room, cigarette burning between her fingers.
Smoke curls upward in thin blue ribbons.
Her eyes are bright and sharp, like she has been standing there long enough to memorize every movement I might make.
“Well,” she says. “Look who finally came out of her cage.”
I stop.
The parking lot heat still clings to my skin. Sweat gathers at the base of my spine. My pulse remains steady, but something in my chest tightens, alert and listening.
I keep walking.
“Where’s your guard dog?” she asks sweetly. “Off fetching sticks?”
Something inside me goes very quiet.
Still.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.
She laughs, but it sounds brittle. “Funny. You never had a problem before.”
I stop then. Turn. Really look at her.
Mascara shadows her eyes. Her skin is drawn tight. Her smile shows too many teeth.
Her confidence is loud.
But it’s fraying.
Cracking.
Unraveling under something she can’t hold together anymore.
“Leave me alone,” I say. “Or Toby will make you.”
Her smile fades.
She knows exactly what I mean.
For a moment, something like fear flickers there.
“There it is,” she murmurs. “You finally learned how this works.”
She pushes off the railing and steps closer.
Smoke clings to her clothes, sharp and stale.
“And what happens when he’s not around?” she asks. “You think he’ll always be there to clean up after you?”
I move to pass her.
Her hand snaps around my wrist.
Too hard.
The pressure sends a spark of panic up my arm.
The first aid supplies scatter across the ground. I watch as a roll of gauze tumbles off the balcony.
“Girls like us don’t get saved,” she says, voice low now. “We get used. We get left. That’s how it goes.”
My eyes meet hers.
“Let go,” I say.
She tightens her grip.
“You think you’re different now?” she whispers. “You think he picked you because you’re special?”
Her nails bite into my skin.
I feel the tremor in her hand.
Not hesitation.
Rage.
Desperation.
“Let go,” I repeat.
Her other hand shoves my shoulder.
The world tilts. My back hits the railing with a metallic shudder that vibrates through bone.
Up close, her eyes are wild.
Cornered.
Something inside her has already decided how this ends.
And something inside me understands that.
She wants me to fight.
She needs a reason.
She will take one if I don’t give it to her.
Her grip tightens.
The cigarette drops, ember flaring against the concrete below.
“Let go,” I say again, but the words feel thinner now.
Her mouth curls.
“Make me.”
Her fingers twist in my wrist, dragging me closer.
And something inside her breaks.
The first blow is clumsy.
Crystal’s fist glances off my shoulder instead of my jaw, more shove than strike.
The second is not.
Her nails rake across my cheek, hot and sharp. I taste copper before I realize I’ve bitten my tongue. I shove her back, breath already ragged, pulse thundering in my ears.
She lunges again, catching a fistful of my hair and yanking hard enough to make my vision flash white.
We slam into the railing. Metal rattles violently against the concrete.
Her knee drives into my thigh.
Pain bursts up my leg. I stagger.
She’s stronger than I expected.
“Stop!” I gasp.
She doesn’t.
Her hands claw for my throat.
Air cuts off in a choking rush. The world narrows to pressure, heat, and the suffocating memory of hands where they should never have been.
No.
Not again.
I drive my elbow into her ribs. She grunts but doesn’t release me. Spots explode behind my eyes. Her thumbs dig deeper, crushing.
I twist, wrenching sideways with everything I have.
Her grip slips.
I tear free and run.
My key scrapes uselessly against the lock as my hands shake. The door bangs open. I stumble inside, lungs burning, turning to slam it shut.
Crystal hits it from the other side.
The impact cracks the door against the wall. The frame shudders under the force.
She forces her way in.
The room shrinks instantly, too small for breath, for movement, for escape.
The lamp crashes to the floor. The bulb bursts. Glass scatters across the carpet like ice.
I back away.
She comes straight at me.
Crystal launches herself forward, tackling me mid-step. We crash sideways onto the mattress, momentum carrying us over the edge. The floor slams into my spine. Pain detonates along my ribs.
Her forearm jams across my throat.
“You don’t get to leave,” she spits, breath hot against my face. “You don’t get to be happy while I rot here.”
Her fingers tighten.
My airway collapses to a thin, useless thread.
Black creeps into the edges of my vision.
Her face above me is not rage.
It is certainty.
She is going to kill me.
The realization lands with cold, perfect clarity.
If I stop fighting, I will disappear.
My hand scrabbles blindly across the carpet.
Carpet.
Glass.
Metal. The switchblade.
My fingers close around it.
The first stab is panic.
The blade sinks in with shocking resistance, then a sudden give. Crystal gasps, her grip faltering in pure surprise.
The second is survival.
Air scrapes into my lungs as her hands loosen.
The third lands because she is still on top of me and I want to live.
After that, there is no counting.
Only motion.
Breath tearing in and out of my chest.
The wet sound of fabric and skin parting.
Her weight shifts, weakens, collapses.
But I do not stop.
I cannot stop.
Not until her fingers slide from my throat.
Not until her hands fall limp.
Not until she slumps fully against me, heavy and unmoving.
Silence crashes into the room.
My arm is still raised.
The blade is still in my hand.
Crystal’s blood is warm where it soaks through my shirt.
My lungs drag in air that feels too sharp, too cold, too real.
I stare at the ceiling and understand, with terrible clarity,
that I am still alive.
I lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
My lungs drag air back into my body like they’ve forgotten how.
Each breath scrapes.
Each inhale burns.
Crystal is still.
Her weight presses across my ribs, heavy and unmoving, pinning me to the floor.
I wait for movement.
For a twitch.
For a breath against my collarbone.
For the terrible possibility that this isn’t over.
There’s nothing.
The silence stretches, thick and unnatural.
Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Footsteps pass along the walkway. A television murmurs through the wall.
The world is continuing.
I’m still here.
My hands begin to shake.
It starts in my fingers, a faint tremor, then spreads up my arms until my muscles feel loose and unreliable. I slide my palms against her shoulders.
Her skin is cooling.
Dead weight is different from living weight.
It doesn’t resist.
It doesn’t help.
It simply is.
I push.
Crystal rolls off me with a dull, heavy thud onto the carpet.
Air rushes into my chest in a ragged gasp. I curl onto my side, coughing, dragging breath after breath into lungs that feel scraped raw.
My entire body trembles now, from exertion, from shock, from the violent drain of adrenaline leaving my system all at once.
I sit up slowly.
The room tilts.
I plant my hand in the carpet to steady myself and it slips.
Wet.
Dark.
My palm comes away slick.
I look down.
Blood coats my skin. My wrists. Beneath my fingernails. It has soaked through my shirt, glued the fabric to my stomach and ribs. The carpet beneath my knees is saturated, fibers dark and shining.
The smell hits me then. Metallic, thick, unmistakable.
I never realized humans had this much blood in them.
The thought arrives without emotion.
Only observation.
Crystal lies on her back beside the bed, eyes half open, mouth slack, one arm twisted beneath her.
She looks smaller now.
Deflated.
Empty.
I stare at her, waiting for something to rise inside me.
Horror.
Revulsion.
Grief.
Guilt.
Something, anything.
My chest rises.
Falls.
Nothing comes.
Instead, there is quiet.
And beneath the quiet, something solid settles into place.
A truth. One that I’ve always known, even if I didn’t want to.
If it is her or me,
I choose me.
The realization does not frighten me.
It does not shame me.
I press my shaking hands into my thighs and breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The room is wrecked.
Glass glitters near the lamp.
The door hangs crooked on its hinges.
Blood stains the floor in widening shadows.
Crystal does not move.
And I am still alive.
Moving her is harder than I expect.
Dead weight is an unforgiving thing.
Crystal’s arm catches on the leg of the table. Her hair snags against the carpet. My hands slip. My breath comes in thin, shaking pulls as I drag her inch by inch across the room.
The carpet darkens beneath her.
I do not look at that.
By the time I reach the bathroom door, my shoulders burn and my palms ache. The threshold feels higher than it should. I brace my foot against the frame and pull harder, forcing her over it. Her heel bumps the tile with a dull, hollow sound.
The bathroom floor is cold beneath my bare feet.
I stop there, bent over, trying to pull air deep enough into my lungs to matter.
She is heavy.
Heavier than she ever seemed standing in doorways, leaning over railings, filling space that was never hers.
I hook my hands beneath her arms and lift.
Nothing.
My muscles tremble.
I adjust, push, drag again. Her shoulder thumps against the tub. I manage to lever her upper half over the edge before my strength gives out and she folds awkwardly, torso inside, hips twisted, legs still on the floor.
I stare at her like that for a moment.
Then I grab her ankles and pull.
The tub creaks as the rest of her slides in.
Water sputters when I turn the knob. A cough of rust-colored liquid streaks the porcelain before running clear. Steam begins to gather, softening the sharp edges of the room.
I lean against the shower wall, eyes closed, chest rising and falling too fast.
There is blood on my arms. My hands. My stomach. It has soaked through my shirt, glued fabric to skin.
I peel the shirt away and drop it to the tile.
For a long moment, I just stand there listening to the water run.
When I open my eyes, I look at her.
Death has changed her already.
The sharpness she wore like armor is gone. The tightness around her mouth has loosened. Her brow is smooth. Without tension, without breath, she looks younger. Smaller.
Unfinished.
I strip the rest of my clothes and step beneath the spray.
The first touch of warm water sends diluted pink spiraling toward the drain. I watch it slide down my arms in ribbons. I scrub my skin slowly, methodically, working the blood from the creases of my knuckles, the lines of my wrists, the inside of my elbows.
There is more than I expect.
There is always more.
I tilt my head back and let the water run over my face, into my hair, down my spine. My breathing steadies. My hands stop shaking.
Only when my skin is clean do I reach for her.
I wash her the way one washes someone who cannot do it themselves. Arms first. Then hands. I clean beneath her nails. I smooth the water over her face, careful around her closed eyes. Blood loosens from her hair in dark threads before slipping down the drain.
The water runs red, then pale, then clear.
Steam thickens the air. The room grows quiet except for the steady rush of water and the slow rhythm of my breathing.
When I am finished, her hair fans across the porcelain like dark silk. Her skin has lost its mottled stains. Her face is slack, emptied of whatever sharpened it in life.
Now she looks like she is sleeping.
Peaceful.
I know she isn’t.
I step out of the tub and pull the curtain closed.
The room feels different now. Quieter. Sealed.
I dry myself slowly, pressing the towel into my skin, grounding myself in the solid reality of my body. The strength in my arms, the steadiness returning to my hands.
In the other room, I find something to wear.
I choose a pair of shorts and one of Toby’s shirts. It hangs loose on me, soft from wear, faintly carrying his scent, soap, smoke, something warm and familiar that settles low in my chest.
When I pull it over my head, something inside me settles into place.
Not safety.
Not comfort.
Something closer to belonging.
I turn off the bathroom light and leave her in the tub.
The door clicks softly shut behind me.
The room takes longer.
Longer than it should. Longer than I have.
I stand in the middle of it first, breathing through my mouth, staring at what remains. The air smells metallic and damp, layered with motel cleaner and something sour underneath. The curtains hang crooked. The mattress is half off its frame. A dark stain blooms across the carpet like a shadow that refuses to fade.
Toby will be back soon.
The thought moves me before I’m ready.
I start with the wastebasket tipped on its side, gathering broken glass in shaking handfuls. Each piece clicks softly as it lands in the plastic liner. Some shards glitter like grains of salt. Others bite into my fingertips before I feel them. I wipe my hands on my shorts and keep going.
Piece by piece.
I flip the mattress, straining under its weight. The fabric is damp where it shouldn’t be. I don’t look too closely. I shove it back into place, tug the sheet tight, smooth the wrinkles with the flat of my palm like neatness might disguise what happened here.
Thin motel towels turn pink, then rust, then brown as I press them into the carpet. I blot instead of scrub at first, remembering somewhere that scrubbing spreads stains. The towels soak through almost immediately. I fold them, press again, again, again, until the worst of it fades into damp shadows that could be anything in this dim light.
My arms begin to ache. My shoulders follow.
I rinse the towels in the bathroom sink and watch diluted red spiral toward the drain. For a moment I grip the porcelain too hard, staring as the last tint disappears, as if proof might remain if I look long enough.
There isn’t time.
Back to the carpet. Back to the floor. Back to the small flecks of glass glinting near the baseboard I missed the first time.
When I finally straighten, the room tilts. I brace myself against the dresser until the dizziness passes.
My shirt is stiff. I peel it off and drop it into a plastic bag, tying the handles tight before shoving it to the bottom of the trash. In the bathroom, I scrub my hands first, then my arms, then my neck. The water runs hot. I scrub harder. Soap stings where the skin has split. I don’t stop until my skin burns and my fingers wrinkle pale.
The mirror shows someone I almost recognize.
Almost.
I pull on a clean shirt with trembling hands and return to the main room.
One last pass.
I adjust the curtains. Straighten the nightstand. Slide the chair back into place. A sliver of glass glints beneath the bed. I crouch to retrieve it, unwilling to leave even that behind.
By the time I finish, the room looks almost unchanged.
Almost.
The sun is sinking now, bleeding orange through the thin curtains. The light softens the stains I couldn’t fully erase. It hides the dampness still clinging to the carpet. It makes everything gentler than it is.
My stomach growls, sharp in the quiet.
Only then do I realize how badly my body hurts.
My back throbs. My knees ache from kneeling. My hands sting each time I flex them. There is dried soap beneath my nails and a faint chemical smell clinging to my skin.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, careful, listening to the springs settle.
Toby will be back soon.
The room is quiet.
Too quiet.
I sit in the fading light and breathe slowly, as if stillness might hold everything in place.
As if nothing will move.
As if nothing already has.
Night has fully settled when I hear the truck.
A low engine rumble that vibrates through the building.
Toby’s back.
Relief hits first.
Then panic follows hard behind it.
There is a body in the bathtub.
Gravel crunches. The engine dies. Footsteps approach.
I move without thinking, planting myself in front of the bathroom door.
The lock turns.
Toby steps inside.
He is covered in dirt and dried blood, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. His eyes soften the moment they land on me.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens.
He drops his keys onto the table. “I’m gonna shower. Then we’ll get something to eat.”
My heart slams.
“Maybe we should eat first,” I say quickly.
He shakes his head, already peeling off his jacket. “I need the shower.”
“It can wait.”
He pauses then, studying me.
“I smell like a graveyard,” he says, gentle but firm. “Two minutes.”
I step sideways, blocking the door more fully.
“Toby, please—”
Now he knows.
Not what.
But enough.
He moves me aside with careful hands and opens the bathroom door.
The light spills over the tub.
Crystal lies inside it.
He goes still.
I stop breathing.
He studies the scene. The water droplets. The careful arrangement. The blood diluted to pale pink around the drain.
Then he looks at me.
“What happened?”
The words rush out tangled and shaking. She attacked. I tried to leave. She wouldn’t stop. I didn’t want to die.
My voice breaks somewhere in the middle.
He listens without interrupting.
Then a low laugh escapes him — not cruel, not shocked, something almost disbelieving.
He pulls me into his arms.
“Guess my bad habits are rubbing off on you,” he murmurs into my hair.
His hand cups the back of my head, steady and warm.
“I was just trying to protect myself,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “You did good.”
The words land somewhere deep and permanent.
He pulls back, brushing his thumb beneath my eye.
“Pack your things,” he says softly. “I’ll take care of her later.”
“You’re not… angry?”
His mouth curves faintly. “No.”
He steps past me and turns on the shower.
Water begins to run.
I pack carefully.
Clothes folded tight. Gauze. The gray blanket. The small things that feel like they belong to us now.
When he emerges, clean and damp-haired, he begins packing his own things with efficient movements.
I sit on the edge of the bed watching him.
“What happens now?” I ask.
He glances up.
“Where will we go?”
He zips the bag closed.
“Somewhere quiet,” he says. “Somewhere no one knows us.”
His eyes meet mine, steady and certain.
“Somewhere we can be normal.”
He lifts the bag.
“We just have to take care of our Crystal problem first.”
Outside, the neon hums.
Inside, something final settles into place.
And for the first time, the future isn’t something uncertain.
Curled half on his side, half on his back, staring at nothing. Your fingers lace with his at some point during the night. It’s quiet. Familiar. Painfully close to the way things used to feel before everything fractured.
You both pretend the world isn’t waiting outside your door.
By the time the sun drags pale light through the curtains, he’s already decided.
You see it in the way he sits up.
No spiraling. No pacing.
Just resolve.
You follow him anyway.
-
The kitchen smells like coffee.
Natalie stands at the counter, pouring hot water into a mug. The ticking in her eye is steady. Controlled. Measured.
She doesn’t turn around.
“You’re up early.”
Toby doesn’t bother easing into it.
“We're done Natalie.”
She turns slowly.
Her expression doesn’t shatter.
But something hardens.
“No.”
Not dismissive. Not even calm.
Just cold possession.
Toby blinks once. “What?”
“No,” she repeats, jaw tightening. “You’re not.”
His temper flares instantly, neck cracking sharply. “You don’t get to veto a breakup.”
“I get to refuse to be discarded.”
“I’m not discarding you.”
“You’re trying to trade me.”
That lands like a strike.
“I’m not trading anyone,” he snaps. “I don’t love you anymore.”
Her gaze flickers. Not surprised, not devastated.
Angry.
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is for me.” Toby barks.
“You don’t get to wake up one morning and decide you’re done because things got complicated.”
“It’s not complicated!” His voice rises. “It’s dead!”
“You don’t get to decide that alone.”
“I absolutely do!”
The kettle clicks off behind her.
Silence drops heavy.
“You’ve always done this,” she says, voice sharpening. “You feel something intense and you mistake it for permanent.”
She's made a mistake.
The psychoanalyzing. There aren't many things Toby hates more than that.
You see the exact second it hits him.
His shoulders lock.
“Don’t.”
“For weeks you’ve been reactive. Irritable. Reckless.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re chasing adrenaline and calling it clarity—”
“Stop.”
“You don’t know the difference between obsession and—”
“Shut up!”
His voice cracks on the words, the sound echoing through the kitchen.
His hands are shaking now.
“I'm so sick of you reducing me to a case study,” he snarls. “I'm not one of your broken projects.”
“You were broken when I met you.” Her tone is factual, even.
“And I fixed myself.”
Clockwork folds her arms, stepping closer to Toby. “You stabilized because of me.”
“No,” he bites out, stepping forward. “I stabilized because I wanted to.”
“You would’ve self-destructed.”
“Maybe,” he shoots back. “But that would’ve been my choice.”
The tension is thick in the air between them.
Toby never had much control over his life until we became proxies. Natalie should know that.
She should also know that making his own choices, even if they're the wrong choices, is exactly what Toby needs.
Clockwork’s composure slips just slightly. “You think this is about freedom? You’re running headfirst into something you can’t sustain.”
“I'm not running headfirst into anything. I’m choosing her.”
Her eyes snap to you.
Sharp.
“I told you to stay away from him.”
You feel your pulse jump, but you don’t step back.
“I’m not your subordinate,” you say evenly. “We’re both proxies.”
“You inserted yourself into my relationship.”
“He kissed me,” you fire back. “Not the other way around.”
Toby glances at you, his brows raised.
Clockwork’s jaw tightens. “You knew we were together.”
“And you knew he wasn’t happy,” you snap. “You just didn’t care.”
The ticking in her eye grows louder.
“You don’t get to act righteous,” she snaps. “You stood there and let him unravel.”
“I tried to walk away.”
“You failed.”
“So did you,” Toby cuts in. “You felt me slipping and you tightened your grip instead of asking why.”
“I don’t beg.”
“I never asked you to!”
His voice spikes again, volatile, fraying.
“I wanted you to see me!”
The words echo.
For a second, that almost-human crack shows in her expression.
Then it’s gone.
“You are not leaving me for her,” Clockwork says flatly.
“You don’t own me.”
Her stare burns. “I fought for you. I chose you. I built something with you.”
“And I don’t feel it anymore!” he shouts. “Why is that not enough?”
“Because I don’t care if you love me,” she snaps back, voice finally rising. “You don’t get to humiliate me by walking out to chase her.”
This isn't about love.
This isn't about Toby, or their relationship.
This is about pride and control.
Toby laughs, the sound wild and sharp. “And there it is. This isn’t about love. It’s about you not losing.”
Her hand slams onto the counter.
“You think she can handle you?” Clockwork demands. “You think she won’t flinch when you spiral?”
You step forward instantly. “I’ve known him since we were kids. I've been at his side through everything.”
That hits.
Clockwork’s eyes narrow.
“He’s not something to handle,” you continue. “And he’s not something to manage.”
Toby’s breathing is ragged now, but he’s not backing down.
“You don’t get to decide who I stand next to,” he says, voice trembling with fury. “You don’t get to dictate who I love. You don’t get to trap me because you’re scared of losing.”
“I’m not scared,” she says, but the edge in her tone betrays her.
“You are,” he pushes. “You’re scared I’m choosing something you can’t control.”
The silence that follows is electric.
You feel it building. She isn't just going to let this go.
Clockwork steps closer.
Her calm fascade long gone.
She's unraveling.
“If you walk away from me,” she says low, “don’t come crawling back when she realizes you’re too much.”
Toby steps into her space without hesitation.
“If she leaves,” he says hoarsely, “that’ll be her choice.”
Your chest tightens.
You would never leave him. You've been at his side since the beginning.
Clockwork looks between the two of you.
And you know she sees it.
This isn't just a fling.
It's real.
Her voice drops, dangerous again.
“You think this ends clean?” she asks.
“No,” you say quietly. “But it will end.”
Her eyes settle on you.
A warning.
A promise.
Toby moves slightly in front of you sheilding you from her view.
“We’re done,” he says, final.
This time she doesn’t say no.
She just studies him.
And the ticking in her eye sounds less steady than it did five minutes ago.
“Fine,” she says at last.
But there’s nothing conceding about it.
“Then understand something clearly.”
Her gaze locks onto both of you.
“You wanted a fight.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. Not a smile, something closer to a snarl.
It’s a scent that would have made me nauseous once. Now it settles somewhere familiar, almost grounding. Clean, metallic, sterile in intention if not in reality.
The freezers hum in steady intervals behind me. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Latex snaps softly as Jack pulls his gloves into place.
It’s late. Past two. Closer to three.
He’s already opened the body along a clean midline incision. The cut is precise, straight, and unembellished. His hands move the way my father’s used to when suturing late at night in our kitchen, stitching oranges to practice new techniques. Economical. No wasted motion.
I recount the sutures in our supply bin.
“Thirty-four,” I murmur, writing it down.
“Thirty-two,” Jack corrects without looking up.
I pause.
Recount.
He’s right.
“You miscounted twice in the last hour,” he adds, tone even.
I flex my fingers unconsciously.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He finally looks at me.
His eyes absorb the light rather than reflect it. Being seen by him feels less like attention and more like evaluation. Not unkind, just thorough.
“You are compensating for fatigue,” he says. “Your fine motor control is diminished.”
There’s no reprimand in it. Just fact.
I glance down at my hands. There is a faint tremor at the tips. Subtle enough that I hadn’t consciously registered it.
“I can finish inventory,” I insist.
“You have,” he replies.
I haven't.
A pause.
“You will sleep.”
It isn’t sharp. It isn’t forceful. It’s simply decided.
If I were anyone else, he would have allowed me to stay until I faltered.
I close my notebook. “Alright.”
His head inclines once, and he turns back to the body.
Upstairs, the mansion feels hollow.
Too quiet. The walls creak in ways the basement never does.
I change into soft cotton pajamas and brush my teeth mechanically. The mirror shows a version of me that looks younger than I feel. Pale. Tired.
I lie down.
Close my eyes.
The silence presses.
I am used to the hum of machinery. The muted drag of steel. The quiet rhythm of Jack’s breathing somewhere across the room. It is predictable. Predictability is calming.
Without it, my thoughts wander.
I turn onto my side. Then onto my back.
Sleep does not come.
After an hour, I sit up.
There is inventory left to formalize. A supply list to prepare. We are low on sterile saline and lidocaine.
Productivity is a reasonable response to insomnia.
That is why I go back downstairs.
The basement door opens with a soft groan.
Jack pauses mid-motion.
The blade hovers just above exposed muscle. He turns his head slowly toward me.
His gaze travels once, from my bare feet to the oversized shirt hanging off my shoulder to my loose hair, then stills.
“What are you doing,” he asks.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “I thought I’d finish inventory.”
A beat.
The angle of his head sharpens slightly. A more pronounced tilt than neutral.
“You require rest.”
“I will,” I say, moving toward my desk. “After.”
He watches me for a moment longer.
Then he resumes.
We work in parallel.
He portions organs with careful precision, labeling and sealing them in sterile bags before transferring them to the freezer. The door opens; cold air rolls across the room; the scent intensifies briefly before sealing away again.
I update supply counts.
The room smells different tonight. Without scrubs and harsh soap, my skin probably carries linen and warmth instead of disinfectant. He is sensitive to scent. I’ve seen him recoil from strong perfume before.
He hasn’t recoiled.
If anything, his breathing has slowed.
I underline gauze quantities and glance up.
He’s looking at me.
Not at the notebook.
At me.
Our eyes meet.
His head tilts slightly.
Assessment, I assume. Monitoring for pallor. Nausea. Dizziness.
I offer a small nod. I am fine.
He returns to his work.
My pen grows heavier.
Numbers begin to blur at the edges.
I rest my cheek briefly against my forearm, just to ease the strain in my neck.
The freezer hum stretches into something low and constant. His breathing evens with it.
I blink.
Ink trails across the page in a slow, slanted line.
Then darkness.
I surface to sensation before thought.
Pressure beneath my knees.
An arm at my back.
I am lifted.
His hands are broad and cool even through the thin fabric of my shirt. There is strength there. The kind that knows exactly how much force to use. He adjusts his hold once, careful not to jostle me.
My head tips toward his shoulder.
There is a faint vibration in his chest. A low, steady hum. Not sound so much as resonance.
I try to open my eyes.
They refuse.
I am lowered onto something firmer than the beds upstairs.
It must be his bed.
The blanket slides over me. Tucked precisely at my sides.
There is a pause.
Then the lightest pressure at my temple.
His thumb brushes my hair back from my face.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Unnecessary.
The gesture is achingly familiar. My father used to do the same when I fell asleep over anatomy flashcards at the kitchen table.
Warm breath near my ear.
“Goodnight.”
Low. Close. Almost careful.
The weight disappears.
Footsteps retreat.
Latex snaps.
The freezer door opens.
I sink under again.
When I wake, the lights are dimmer.
The hum remains constant.
For a moment, I do not move.
The blanket is tucked too tightly at my sides for someone half-conscious to have done it themselves.
My inventory notebook rests squarely on the crate beside the mattress, aligned with the edge.
My shoes are placed neatly beneath it.
He must have moved me.
That is logical.
The memory returns in fragments.
Hands beneath my knees.
An arm at my back.
His thumb at my temple.
Goodnight.
I close my eyes and test the memory.
The touch had been gentle.
Slower than required.
Sleep deprivation can produce vivid sensory recall. We covered it in a neurology lesson. The brain compensates for exhaustion by filling gaps with plausible comfort.
If he had spoken like that, softly, close. I would remember it with clarity.
Across the room, his voice cuts through the quiet.
“You slept three hours and twelve minutes.”
Measured. Even.
No variation.
Of course.
I sit up and tuck my hair behind my ear. It falls neatly into place, as though someone has already arranged it.
I hesitate.
Then I let my hand fall.
“It must have been a dream,” I murmur.
He does not respond.
His back remains turned. His movements precise.
The freezer hum deepens briefly as the door seals shut.
Beneath it, there is a faint vibration in the air.
Low. Steady.
Almost like a purr.
I decide it is the machinery.
That explanation is cleaner.
And I have always preferred what can be explained.
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