Pinky turns off the shower, this hiss of water fading into silence. Cotton candy-scented suds drip down her legs, unnoticed as her mind races ahead. The determined woman wrings out her hair with practiced urgency and quickly dries off. After months of analyzing, scheming and planning, she was finally ready to kill Slenderman.
She tiptoes out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of shimmering puddles up to her bed. There, she fishes through a basket of clean laundry. It's been nearly a year since her transformation, but the need for clothing still felt like a nuisance. Her gaze flicks to the vanity mirror, where her reflection stares back with cruel clarity. Pinky drops her towel, chest rising with a huff at the contours of her feminine physique. Some would call her body flawless, sculpted like a masterpiece. But to her, it is nothing more than a puppet's shell, carved by the devil's hand.
The sports bra hugging her chest feels tighter than usual as Pinky slips into a baggy pink shirt and snug grey sweatpants. The fabric clings to her still‑damp skin, but she doesn't mind. She tugs her wet hair free from the collar, watching it fall flat over her shoulder like lifeless strands of taffy.
Ever since she lost Gummy, her once‑curly locks had refused to bounce back. No matter how she styled it, the pink floss always dried pin‑straight. She brushed off the memories and reached for her hairbrush - she freezes. A man's irritated voice rumbles just outside the room, words vibrating through the thin walls.
"I told you, I don't feel like fighting with that bitch."
Pinky's bare feet make no sound as she glides toward the door, instinct guiding her with predatory precision. She bites her lip, leaning in until her forehead nearly touches the cold wood. Holding her breath, she listens, every thought sharpening into a single point of dread and curiosity.
The gruff voice snaps at a softer incoherent mumble "No, Jane is coming back, so I'm leaving." In one hand Jeff clutches a clean knife, while his other pushes a bleached finger into Ben's forehead. The poke earns nothing but a glitchy smile. "Whatever. I know you both are just playing a na-aaughty game.~"
Ben twitches with a chuckle but Jeff doesn't return even a hint of amusement. Instead, he grabs the shorter male by the hair, yanking hard enough to knock off his green beanie as he forces Ben's head back. The motion is rough, impatient, a warning more than an attack. Even when Jeff drives him against the wall, Ben's smile doesn't falter - if anything, it widens, eerie and unblinking, as though he's feeding off the tension thickening the air.
Jeff's crusty scars twist with an angry scowl. "Watch your mouth. If you wanna suck my dick too, just say so." He runs his blade along Ben's cheek to his eyelid, metal hovering above the buzzing void and red iris. The elvish man only smiles wider, glitching at the corners, before his hand snaps up and clamp around Jeff's wrist. "Don't flatter yourself princess." Ben's voice deepens, crackling with static as he yanks Jeff's hand forward. The tip of the knife disappears into the shifting pixels of his eye, swallowed by the distortion.
His next words scratch against Jeff's eardrums like corrupted audio. "You're the ugliest thing I've ever seen." Fresh blood leaks from both eye sockets, red rivers running down his cheeks and splattering onto the floor. Digital darkness consumes the metal, dissolving it into static. Jeff's heart skips a beat and he tries to pull away, but Ben's grip is unyielding and unmovable. Blood pools at their feet, glistening like a liquid ruby. Jeff tugs harder, then without warning, Ben releases him. Jeff stumbles backward, breath catching, adrenaline spiking. "Go fuck yourself freak!" He barks. Bold yet ironic words, Pinky thought.
Stomping fades down the hall, followed by abrupt silence that makes Pinky gulp. Ben could glitch right through the wall if he wanted. A long minute scrapes by before she finally eases the door open. No one waits outside except a smiling black cat with bright red fur along its face and belly. Its long tongue laps at Ben's blood puddle with canine enthusiasm.
Pinky scoots past the creature, careful to keep her ankles out of reach; she's seen what curiosity earns in this place. As she hurries down the hall, she's relieved to hear the usual ruckus. Some rooms thump with music, others with cries - pain, excitement, or something in between. One door in particular pulses with emo rock and poorly muffled grunts. She doesn't have to glance at the bloody sign to know it reads Jeff. Her pink brows knit at the implication, a sour twist of disgust tightening in her chest. Thud!
Pinky flinches as a door slams behind her. Footsteps follow – slow at first, then heavier, faster – yet she refuses to turn around. The thumping of boots grows closer, closing the distance until she's already halfway down the stairs. She tries to ignore the presence shadowing her, but the sound of someone audibly sniffing the back of her head makes her skin crawl.
"What the hell is your problem!", she snaps, gripping the railing as she whirls around. Instead of eyes, she finds herself staring up into the goo-filled sockets of Eyeless Jack. He doesn't answer. He only growls, low and feral, like a rabid coyote muffled behind his wooden mask. They're roughly the same height, but in his double layers and a step above her, Pinky felt dwarfed.
A bead of tar drips from his mask and splatters between her feet. The hot splash makes her throat tighten, saliva catching as she instinctively steps back. But the creature follows, tracking her scent down each stair with unsettling precision. His sniffing grows louder, more deliberate, and his nails scrape along the railing in jagged strokes that echo through the stairwell. She knew the beast could hear her heart racing.
Ever since Pinky arrived, the eyeless demon deemed her untrustworthy. He kept his opinions to himself, but whenever she spoke, he swore her tone sounded cynical and forced. And her scent — still clinging to her even after a shower, reminded him of artifacts dragged up from the underworld.
"Soot and bedrock." His predatory voice grated like gravel, but she understood the accusation all too well. "I don't have time for this.", Pinky whispered. Even if she had a weapon, taking out someone now would blow her cover. I'll deal with you first. She bit her tongue, refusing to let the thought slip out.
She spun around, steadied herself on the railing, and bolted down the stairs into the circular living room. The space was empty, solemn, yet the TV still flickered mockingly with a show about friends. She risked a glance back just in time to see Jack storm past her. He clipped her shoulder, leaving a smear of dirty leather across her shirt. Her nerves snapped tight, but she forced a breath into her lungs and watched him vanish into the foyer. Clearly he was looking for an altercation elsewhere. Hopefully not-
†
After reapplying clean bandages to his arms and waist, Laughing Jack slipped into black slacks and a tank top. The clothing fit him perfectly, tailored to the frame of a lanky giant. To be more decent, he tugged on a white collared long-sleeve, leaving it lazily unbuttoned.
Jack sat on the edge of his bed. He didn't notice, but like his towels, the sheets had been recently cleaned. The clown's attention was fixed entirely on something else — an object glinting on the floor.
He reached between the bed and the nightstand and pulled out a large hairbrush. The handle shimmered with embedded gems, and when he turned it over, a silver crow gleamed back at him. It was the same brush Sally had given him for Christmas. Jack lingered on the memory of braids, beads, and her bright, unguarded smile. He wanted to run the brush through his hair, to remember the warmth of those moments and the simple joy they shared.
But the memory twisted, soured. Like a dream curdling into a nightmare, a surge of rage boiled up from his core. His mind warped-seeing her body draped across his palm like a forgotten doll. She hung limp in his grasp, head slumped, a weight he couldn't set down. His nails slipped through her hair in slow, haunted motions.
The tenderness of it all made his stomach twist, because even in this imagined moment, he knew he'd failed her. He snaps out of the memory, and the guilt evaporates beneath a surge of anger. His hands burn with restless, violent tension. With a guttural grunt, the clown hurls the hairbrush through the window. The floor was already littered with glass; adding more felt almost appropriate.
He rises, taking one oversized step before gripping the window frame, ripping the center section inward. Shards clatter like cold rain as they spill around his feet. Jack steps forward, leaning out through the jagged square. Glass crunches under his soles, pricking at skin he can't feel. He just stares into the dark underbrush. The forest swallows the moonlight, a black mass shifting with secrets. His throat aches, but he refuses to acknowledge regret — not then, not now.
He leans farther into the night and listens to the house's midnight song: the wind threading through broken glass, the distant groan of old wood, the whisper of leaves brushing against each other like conspirators. A gust hits his face, sharp and cold, and for a fleeting moment his thoughts clear.
He wonders what Slenderman is planning. When he stepped on the porch, it should have been a death sentence. Instead... he was spared. Forgiven? No. Jack knows better. He never apologized, never atoned, never even faced the truth of that night. Whatever Slenderman wants from him, he'll only learn when it's too late. Why worry?
†
By the time Pinky peeks into the foyer, the masked demon is gone. But a trail of black tar stains the floor in his wake, leading straight down the giants' corridor. Her heart skips. She rounds the corner and spots him at the far end of the hall, hand already closing around a doorknob. She could only hope that "keeping an eye on the clown" didn't mean "keeping him out of trouble." Surely Slenderman would intervene if things turned sour. Surely.
EJ used to be Jack's closest friend, but forgiveness died the night Sally did. She had been precious. There was no reason for Jack's outburst, no excuse for the destruction that followed. When Jack was banished, EJ had wished the punishment was harsher. His fingers ache with dread as he opens the tall door. He slips inside the dim room and eases it shut without a sound. Oblivious, the clown closes his eyes and lets the wind dry his hair. For a moment, something finally quiets the chaos inside him.
Crunch-
The clown's shoulders widened like a startled cat before beginning to tremble with eerie snickering. He knew exactly who stood behind him, and the realization was delightful.
"You sneaky bastard.~" Jack cooed, glancing lazily back under his arm.
No one is there.
His lips stretched into a thin, hungry smile as he turned fully around. Hide and seek had always been his favorite game. Facing the front door, eyes sweeping the ceiling, he appeared to be alone. "Come looking for your lost ball, little doggie?" Jack hooted, laughter bubbling up like something rancid. His friend's silence after so many years felt like an insult, a personal slight carved into the air. His beady eyes darted faster now, to the cracked bathroom door, the ceiling corner, the closet's shadowed seam. His patience frayed with every passing second.
EJ hides in darkness, listening. He could've sworn the clown was heartless, yet he could hear the organ pounding inside Jack's chest — a piston hammering cold, worthless blood through a creature who refused to feel anything real.
Jack notices a faint trail of tar threading through the debris. Under the bed. He reaches for the headboard, ready to flip the frame, when a gravelly voice echoes from the bathroom. "How dare you come back with no fear or sympathy. You're pathetic." The clown freezes, then creeps toward the sound, eyes widening with manic fury. "Wise words coming from the Suit's pedigree bitch.~" Jack hisses, shoving the bathroom door open. A shadow flickers behind the shower curtain. He tears it down in one violent motion — nothing. Only the weak glow of dying candles, their flames trembling like they're afraid of him.
Beneath the bed, EJ slips off his boots, the same ritual he used before sparring. Then the blind demon bends in an impossible arc as he crawls out from the darkness. Every movement is smooth and deliberate. His fingertips skim the floor, mapping each shard of glass, each shift of air, building a perfect mental image of the room as he glides toward the wall.
Jack stomps out of the bathroom just in time to catch a flicker of movement above. His grin stretches ear to ear as he slowly pivots back toward the doorway. In the left corner of the ceiling, the shadows ripple in a way no shadow should. He doesn't wait for the hungry spider to jump. Jack lunges, trying to snatch the demon from his hiding place — but his hand closes on nothing. The scuttling scrape of claws across the ceiling guides his next strike.
"Hah!" The clown crows as his nails snag on leather. EJ reacts faster. He hooks his legs around a rafter, letting his jacket slide cleanly off his arms as Jack yanks it away. Now the demon hangs upside down, body coiled and silent, hoarse laughter rumbling behind his mask as he listens to the clown fling the jacket out the window.
Hot tar splatters onto Jack's cheek, but before he can look up, the demon drops onto him, driving four sets of nails into his shoulders and back. Black blood seeps into the white cloth; the sting burns like a swarm of cat scratches, but it only drags a guttural moan from the clown's throat.
Jack reaches back to rip the creature off, but his enormous hands are slapped away with impossible speed. "Of course Slendyman would send a blind assassin.~ Hilarious!" Jack roars, sarcasm dripping as his claws shred through the back of the demon's hoodie, exposing dark grey skin.
EJ snaps, voice raw, "Your face is a sick reminder of why hell was created." With a wet snarl, he rakes his nails across Jack's face, leaving four deep marks that send the clown stumbling, vision blurring. Jack curses as he staggers toward the bed, eyes scrunched shut. Inky plasma drips down his cheeks. He should be furious. He should be howling. But the muffled laughter of his old friend stirs something else. A twisted nostalgia, warm and familiar as a passing breeze.
Smiling wide with excitement, Jack wasn't going to take punishment without a fight. The giant throws himself backward onto the bed, landing on his spine and nearly crushing EJ against the mattress. The demon slips away at the last second. It was a close call, far too close. EJ grips the bed frame, breath heavy, hands tensing at the sudden exposure of air against his bare face. He can feel Jack sitting up, but he can't see the way the clown's blood‑smeared expression twists with delighted malice.
"You look terrible Jackie.~" the clown coos. To Jack's surprise, the demon begins crawling toward him, piranha‑sharp teeth peeking out as his panting deepens into a soft, animal snarl. EJ's empty eye sockets seem to pull him in, dragging him down into memories he refuses to face and emotions he doesn't dare name. Jack craves the oily tar, and imagines his tongue weaving through the man's sockets — but EJ's upper lip curls, exposing his canines as if he can hear the clown's sick hunger. The demon lunges. EJ knows he can't match Jack's strength, but his speed has never failed him.
Until now.
Balanced on the edge of imagination and reality, Jack reacts faster than instinct. His giant hands close around the demon's waist, pinning EJ's arms tight against his sides. EJ's legs thrash, sharp toenails scraping Jack's pants like frantic weapons, until the clown abruptly drags him into his lap. The demon snaps at Jack's face, teeth clacking in rapid bursts as flecks of tar fling with each violent motion. Jack seizes the back of EJ's head, but the demon twists and fights against his grip, every movement fueled by fury and something far older.
"He should've killed you! You're a ticking time bomb!" EJ spits, every word dripping with venom. Yet the fury is dangerously alluring. After a decade of exile, Jack had grown starved for any kind of attention. Even this violent hate felt like a hand on his shoulder, a reminder he wasn't forgotten. He savors it. Jack smiles almost tenderly. "I can't die, silly.~" He sidesteps the point entirely, inviting the next outburst like a man leaning into a blade.
"Fuck you!" EJ snaps, teeth clacking near the clown's mocking grin before his voice drops into something colder, flatter, older. "Soulless... but you'll die. When Slenderman puts you back in the box, I'll throw it into the fireplace myself." The tone is the same one Jack remembers from the day he was banished. Gravelly, merciless, final. And somehow, after all these years, the weight of EJ's judgment still crushes him. Something inside Jack buckles. His grip slips for the briefest moment. A single second, but enough. EJ tears one arm free, breath sharp with fury and something like heartbreak.
The demon strikes Jack's throat in the blink of an eye. The four gashes are thin but deep, pumping out blood that quickly spills down his chest, painting his tank-top black. They'd take twice as long to heal compared to the tiny scrapes across his face.
EJ can't see the clown's eyes go wide with shock, but he smells copper and hears the sudden change in Jack's breathing — difficult, wet, ragged. Jack clamps his mouth shut, fighting the instinct to choke on the thick plasma rising in his windpipe. He tightens his grip around the demon's waist, still trapping EJ's arm against his side.
EJ immediately strikes again, but Jack releases his head and snatches the smaller wrist mid‑swing. EJ is half the clowns size, but hatred burns through him like hellfire, giving him a speed and ferocity that shouldn't belong to any man.
The growing pressure rattles Jack in a way he hasn't felt in years. The clown's grip begins to tremble as EJ pushes against his palms with a force that feels impossible to contain. "I'll stuff your pieces in that box tonight!" EJ's threat tears out of him in a warped, otherworldly rasp, but the clown doesn't seem to hear a word of it.
Jack feels a slow, woozy haze creep through his skull. For both their sakes, he clamps down on the thrashing demon, but EJ's cursing and snarling face is already beginning to smear at the edges of his vision. The weakness of blood loss presses in on Jack like fog over glass, threatening to swallow his thoughts whole. He wants to stay in control, to prove he's something more than the monster everyone remembers — yet he can feel his sanity thinning, draining out of him with every pulse of warmth down his throat. And as the room tilts, Jack realizes with a cold, sinking dread that he's running out of time to hold on.