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rainrot4me · 1 day ago

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Run Rabbit Run - Chapter 3

“Claws”

Summary: Haunted by guilt and unnerved by how easily you saw through him, Masky spirals into isolation. But when the Operator delivers a new order, the proxies set a deadly plan in motion, dragging you into the night as bait for something far worse. Secrets unravel, instincts clash, and the forest comes alive. And for the first time, blood won't be the only thing spilled.

Characters: Masky x Genderneutral Reader, Ticci Toby, Hoody, The Rake

MAY CONTAIN SENSITIVE TOPICS

TW: Mental distress, emotional distress, blood, injury, guns, descriptions of wounds, chase sequences, trauma

Words: 7.9k

A/N: Thank you all so much for 4,000 lovely followers!!! Longer chapter! I took my last final exam this morning, so that means I am officially done for the summer! My schedule will become more open, so expect lots more posts soon! There are a good bit of POV switches in this chapter, so I hope it doesn't become too confusing! I hope you enjoy how the story is progressing!!!

Eight Days Earlier…

He didn’t go downstairs.

Not once. Not even to glance.

He told himself it was strategy, a control maneuver, or tactical distance.

But every time he so much as passed the basement door, something twisted in his gut like barbed wire. A feeling he couldn’t place—too sharp to be guilt, too heavy to be fear, but too loud to be nothing.

You were down there. The cop. The one who saw too much in that interrogation room, who cut through layers of static and noise and found him in the middle of it all. You shouldn’t have been able to. No one ever had before without the influence of The Operator, not even Brian, not even Toby, not even himself. The Operator had twisted him, no, gutted him so brutally that Tim was barely a whisper in his mind anymore. Masky was the frontman now, and he was to remain in control as long as he was ordered to.

So, how did Tim front?

All he could think about was the look in your eyes right before the world had shifted—right before Tim’s voice had clawed its way out of his throat and pleaded for you to listen. He couldn’t have stopped it if he tried.

Masky spat the taste of ash out of his mouth and lit another cigarette. The porch was damp with dew, the fog thick enough to press against the edges of his vision. The mansion was quiet, only the creaking of hinges and settling of floorboards as Masky leaned against the railing of the porch. The smell of cigarette smoke was thick on his jacket, but it always was nowadays. It was morning, maybe, or evening. It didn’t matter anymore. The days blended together like one long scream muffled through his own skull. All he knew was it was August, and the nights were getting colder than he preferred them to be.

He hadn’t slept since they brought you here. That’s not saying much, he doesn’t sleep at all anyway. Not really. Not since he started talking again.

Tim clawed behind his eyes like a desperate animal, whispering in his own voice, hissing nonsense and fragments of your name, begging—begging—to be let out. Masky had nearly thrown himself into the lake just to shut him up.

“You look like shit,” Toby said casually, flopping beside him on the warped porch railing. He stole the cigarette from Masky’s fingers and puffed it for himself. “You gon-gonna do anything about your stowaway in the basement? Or wait until the bo-boss gets tired of ‘em first?” Masky didn’t answer, just stared out into the trees and let the smoke curl from his nose.

Honestly, that was Masky’s main fear at the moment. The Operator liked the be in control, liked to have a say on where and when his proxies did things. Taking you back to the mansion was not in the plan, but getting himself caught and taken to the police station wasn’t in the plans, either. Masky figured it was only a matter of time before The Operator’s patience with him ran out.

Toby nudged him with a shoulder. “Oh come on, they’re gonna starve the-themselves first if we keep feeding ‘em expired protein bars.” He let the smoke roll from his lips with every word, gray plumes hazing from the wilting gash in the side of his cheek. Unlike the other two, Toby didn’t wear his mask as a safeguard; he had no qualms with his appearance or the things going on in his head, so Masky usually had the displeasure of always seeing his shit-eating grin plastered on his freckled cheeks. “Not very gentleman-like to hoard your new play-plaything down with the rats.”

“Shut up.”

“Touched a nerve,” he sang.

“Toby,” Hoody’s voice cut in from the doorway, flat and low. “That's enough.”

The hooded man stepped outside, arms crossed, unreadable behind his mask. He looked at Masky for a long moment.

“Are we going to talk about yesterday?” Hoody questioned sternly, crossing his arms. “Or are you going to keep pretending it didn’t happen?”

Masky didn’t answer. Toby watched quietly.

“Because I’d really like to know,” Hoody pressed, stepping closer. “How the hell a you got yourself dragged into a police station? That’s not just a mistake, that’s a risk to all of us.”

“I handled it,” Masky muttered.

“No,” Hoody said sharply. “We handled it.” The words hung between them like a pit. Masky’s eyes flicked up, his jaw tensing.

“Don’t start with me.”

“I will end with you if you keep putting us in danger,” Hoody snapped. “You know what we are, what we do. We don’t exist in the system. We don’t leave fingerprints. You getting picked up like some drunken vagrant for trespassing? That’s not a fluke, that’s a breach.”

“You wouldn’t care to know anyway.”

“Then explain it,” Hoody demanded. “Why were you even in that part of town?”

Masky inhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to explain how the walls of the mansion had been closing in, how the Operator had been pressing harder than usual, coiling in his brain like smoke through vents. How Tim had been clawing louder and louder inside his head, and all Masky could think to do was run. Get air. Go somewhere he didn’t have to feel so damn watched.

“I needed a break,” Masky muttered finally. “Got too far out. Wasn’t paying attention. Ended up near some abandoned warehouse. Didn’t know it had surveillance. Cops picked me up for trespassing, then got all over themselves when they realized I still had my gun on me.”

Hoody’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “That ‘break’ nearly got you booked.”

“They barely had anything on me, could barely pin a name. There’s no way in hell they could trace anything back, especially now that their entire sanction is dead.”

Hoody didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his presence in the room seemed heavier now—oppressive.

“And the sheriff?” he said coldly.

Masky gripped the banister of the porch.

“They were the one who read you,” Hoody went on. “The one who watched you like they already knew what you were. They talked you down like a rabid dog.”

Masky ground out the rest of his cigarette.

“They got lucky.”

“They got too close. And you brought them back here.”

Masky turned sharply, throwing his hands up in agitation. “I didn’t plan it, Hoody. I didn’t go in there looking to bring them back here.”

“Then why?”

Masky didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know how to explain it. How strange it felt to have someone look through him like glass. How furious it made him when you asked questions that got too close to the truth—closer than anyone else ever had. And how terrified he’d been when Tim stirred because of you. Tim had been loud enough, but it was as if being talked down by you was the final push he needed to block Masky out.

Hoody stepped forward. “They got under your skin,” he said, no judgment in his tone—just fact.

Masky groaned sharply, fist tightening at his side. “Shut up.”

“You dragged them into this. You made them a part of his game now.”

Masky pressed his forehead against the hilt of his palm, breathing heavily, his other fist tight at his side. “I didn’t mean for any of this,” he growled. “But no way in hell was I going to let someone who ran around my head like a playground go scot-free.”

“They’re dangerous then,” Toby mumbled, rolling the nearly-empty cigarette around between his bandaged fingers. “We gotta kill ’em. Simple solution, end of story. Th-That’s what should’ve happened in the first place.”

He turned, face unreadable behind the cracked porcelain mask. “They’re not special. Not important. They’re information I plan to gain and then dispose of.”

Hoody’s silence stretched for a long beat. Then he stepped back toward the doorway. “For your sake,” he said quietly, “you better start believing that.”

Masky was already walking before Hoody finished the sentence, boots crunching the damp leaves as he stalked into the trees. He wandered for hours, maybe longer. The forest blurred around the edges, familiar and unknowable all at once. He liked it out here. The quiet was never silent—not like the house. Birds called, branches creaked, wind whispered through the canopy like some old god breathing overhead.

It kept Tim quiet, too. Most of the time. He lit another cigarette with shaking fingers. Hands that slit throats without flinching now trembled around a lighter.

“You’re slipping,” he whispered to himself, voice raw with exhaustion. “Get it together.”

But no matter how many hours passed…

No matter how many trees he passed or cigarettes he burned down to the filter or cups of coffee he downed until his hands went numb—

He still couldn’t stop thinking about you. Not what you said, not what you knew. But what you unlocked. And what it would cost to shut it again.

It was after midnight when Masky finally stopped walking. He always forgot just how big the woods surrounding the mansion were, designed entirely to accommodate not only the inhabitants, but to drive any unwanted company straight for their demise. It drew you in, whispered to you through wind and shadows. Masky had lost his fear of this place a long, long time ago, though.

He stood at the edge of a crumbling ravine, the moon bleeding through the branches overhead like a knife wound in the sky. Somewhere below, water trickled faintly, weaving through jagged rocks. The drop wasn’t high enough to kill him, but it might shut Tim up for a while.

He tilted his head back, letting the smoke drift past his mask, up into the dark. The cigarette burned close to his fingertips, and he let it. Let the sting remind him he was still here. Still in control.

Still the one driving.

But that wasn’t true, was it?

Tim was awake. More awake than he’d been in months. Pounding at the inside of his skull. Screaming, whispering, crying.

That was the worst part.

It wasn’t rage Masky felt behind his eyes. It wasn’t revenge or hunger or madness. It was grief. Longing. That aching, open wound of a man who’d never healed.

And all of it—all of it—was aimed at you.

Masky ground the heel of his boot into the dirt. “They didn’t do anything,” he hissed. “You’re just soft. You’re just—”

Let me talk to them, Tim whispered.

“No.”

Please.

It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

But this time, the voice didn’t sound like an echo in his mind. It felt closer. Heavy in his chest, like an animal trapped beneath his ribs.

A bird, he realized, in a rare moment of clarity. A bird trapped in a cage.

Tim flapped against his bones like desperate wings. Bruising the inside of his skull, clawing at the corners of his consciousness for any sliver of light.

The cop had been that light. Even if they didn’t mean to be. Even if they didn’t want to be. They had seen him. Not the mask, not the killer. Him.

And Masky had slammed the cage shut.

“You think I like this?” he snarled at the nothing around him, the night listening silently. “You think I wanted to split open and find you crawling out like some pathetic kid?”

They didn’t flinch, Tim whispered.

“They should have. They all should.”

They looked at me like I was still a man.

Masky’s breath caught. Just for a moment. Just long enough.

And then he shoved the feeling deep, deep down where even Tim couldn’t reach.

He lit another cigarette with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. Somewhere in the mansion behind him, the sun would rise soon. Another day. Another hour. Another reason not to look them in the eyes.

Let Tim stay a bird and keep breaking his wings on the bars. Because if the door opened—if Masky let it open—then what was left of him wouldn’t survive it. The Operator wouldn’t let him.

The mansion sat like a carcass in the woods, long dead and still refusing to rot. By the time he emerged from the trees, the sun had risen into a haze of gray and white, too dull to burn, too present to ignore. The light bothered him anyway. His head ached. His bones ached. His hands trembled from caffeine and cold and too many nights without anything but the taste of smoke in his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten something, maybe since the day they brought you here? He couldn’t tell.

Tim had been clawing at the edges again.

Go back down there, the voice whispered. You left them alone too long. They didn’t deserve that. Just talk to them. Just let me explain.

Masky grit his teeth and pushed the front door open. The hinges whined like they hated him. The house was quiet, that brittle kind of quiet that came before something broke. He didn’t have to wait long.

The pain hit his skull like a spike driven into the base of his brain. He grunted, stumbling forward, one hand braced on the wall, the other cradling the side of his head. A static hum swelled in his ears, rising to a shrill, high-pitched drone that split his thoughts in two. Everything stopped. The world folded inward. He saw nothing—but he felt it. A slithering presence like a rope coiling around his ribs, pressing into his mind with impossible weight.

THE WOODS TREMBLE.

AN OLD FRIEND STIRS.

YOU WILL CLEANSE IT.

The voice wasn’t a voice at all. It didn’t speak so much as press its meaning directly into the meat of his brain, bypassing sound and reason entirely. Masky gasped as the pressure twisted deeper. Something behind his eyes burned.

He wasn’t alone in the pain.

Toby stumbled in from the side hallway with a groan, scratching at his scalp like he could dig the Operator’s grip out with his nails. “Gah—fuckin’ ow, man—can he not do that every time?”

Hoody followed close behind, slower, more composed, but even he winced beneath the hood. He stood at the base of the stairs, arms folded, chest rising slowly. “It’s bad,” he said lowly. “He doesn’t summon like that unless something��s… distressing him.”

Masky tried to speak but choked on a cough. His knees buckled. He must have gotten caught up in The Operator’s guide in his mind, because someone else tried to slither their way in, too. For a second, Tim surged forward, panic bleeding through.

Let me out. Let me speak. LET ME—

Masky shoved him back with a snarl.

“Get it together,” Hoody barked.

“Don’t you start with me,” Masky hissed, voice ragged. “He’s in my goddamn skull.”

Toby’s smile was stretched wide and twitching now, equal parts anxious and excited. “Did you hear the boss? Something’s mo-moving in the woods—something nasty. Big teeth. Long claws. I love those jobs.” He laughed, cracking his knuckles obnoxiously loud.

“It’s the Rake,” Hoody said simply. “Or one of its spawn. Too close to the borders. The Operator wants it dead.”

“And let me guess,” Masky growled, straightening despite the tremors in his legs, “he wants us to babysit the woods all night, play exterminator while it stalks us from the trees?”

Hoody flinched, gripping his fists tight at his sides—a sign that The Operator was speaking again, just to him. “Not quite.”

The silence that followed crawled under his skin. Toby tilted his head like a dog hearing a distant whistle. Then that shit-eating smile grew. “He wants us to use the cop.”

Masky’s heart stalled.

“They’re bait,” Hoody said flatly. “They’re durable. And they draw attention. You know it too.”

“No,” Masky said instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Toby cackled. “Aw, come on, Masky. It’s not like they’re useful for anything else. And hey—ma-maybe if it eats ‘em, it’ll save you the trouble.” Masky’s fingers curled into fists. His mind buzzed. He could still see your face the last time he saw you—eyes wide, body trembling, the faint whisper of Tim on your breath.

“They’re a liability,” he snapped. “They’re not as fast as us. Or familiar with the woods. Or—”

“What happened to disposing of them?” Hoody said, voice like a blade. “That was your plan, right?”

Masky’s head whipped toward him.

“You’re unraveling,” Hoody continued, stepping forward slowly. “You haven’t slept in four days. You haven’t eaten. You walk around like a dog that’s lost its scent. Because they’re in your head. And he’s in your head. Tim’s not scratching anymore—he’s pounding.”

Toby let out a low whistle. “You gonna cry about it?”

Masky lunged.

Hoody caught his arm and shoved him back hard against the wall, pinning him in place with the force of someone who knew how to hold a struggling man down. “If you don’t get control, the Operator will cut you loose,” Hoody growled, eyes flashing behind the red-tinted fabric. “And you remember what that means. We all do.”

The thought of it silenced them. That kind of silence—the kind where pain leaves a memory so deep it becomes instinct. Masky breathed hard through his nose. Rage burned through him, bright and sharp. But under it… something worse. Guilt. Weakness.

Let me see them, the voice inside him pleaded again. Just let me explain. Let me apologize. I can’t take it anymore. I didn’t mean to—

Masky slammed the heel of his palm into the side of his head. “Shut up,” he muttered. “Shut the hell up.”

“You’re pathetic,” Hoody bit out, stepping forward, voice low and hard. “You’re the one who dragged them here, and now you can’t even look at them. You’re getting weak and sloppy.”

Masky looked up sharply, eyes flashing behind his mask. “You don’t get to talk like you’re any better.”

“I’m not,” Hoody agreed. “But I own what I am. You’re a mess of delusion and rot, letting some innocent nobody crack you open like a ribcage, and all you do is pace around like a dog too scared to go near the fire it started.”

Toby let out a low whistle and backed a few steps away, sensing the shift in the room. “Oooookay. I’ll just… go.”

“Shut it,” Hoody and Masky snapped in unison.

But Hoody didn’t take his eyes off Masky. “Since you can’t handle it,” he said, stepping toward the basement door and dragging on his gloves, “I will. I’ll get the information so you can get to the disposing part.”

Masky moved to block him on instinct. “Don’t touch them.”

Hoody stopped just inches from him. “I don’t have to. I just want to see what all this fuss is about. What Tim can’t stop clawing for.”

Masky stiffened.

Hoody’s voice dipped into something more scathing. “You think if you keep your distance, the problem will sort itself out. But it won’t, Masky. You’re rotting from the inside out.” With that, he turned and started down the stairs.

Masky stayed frozen where he stood, fists clenched so tightly the joints cracked. He stared at the wall, counting every age-line in the wooden boards. He saw Toby slip downstairs too, cheery as ever to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.

Go down there. Please. Just talk to them. Tim pleaded.

But the voice didn’t stop. It never stopped. Tim buzzed in the back of his skull like static under his skin, digging in deeper with every breath he took. Every heartbeat down in that basement. Every sob you swallowed just out of earshot. Masky could feel it all, like a splinter burrowed beneath the bone.

He snapped.

“Fine,” he hissed. “You want to see them so bad? You want to crawl back to your fucking mess and see what it did to you?” Masky stormed toward the door, vision red at the edges, rage boiling up to meet the sharp relief of decision. “Then we’ll look. We’ll see what’s left of them.”

His hand gripped the knob. Then he heard it.

A voice.

Not Hoody’s. Not Toby’s.

Yours.

Raw. Scratchy. Threadbare. So unlike the sharp, clever words you’d thrown at him that first day. Nothing steady or sure in it now—just a hoarse whimper, barely a breath through cracked lips.

It stopped him cold.

He didn’t hear the words. He didn’t need to. It was the sound. The sound of someone broken in a way that couldn’t be undone. Hollowed out and left to echo. Something in him twisted. It wasn’t Tim. It wasn’t Masky. It was just… human.

You sounded human.

Masky’s breath paused. He stood with his palm still pressed to the door, pulse hammering in his neck. That voice—it didn’t belong in the mansion. It didn’t belong in his world. It belonged somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. And he’d dragged it here. Left it to rot, just like he was.

The next breath he took came out like a snarl.

He pressed the door open, boots crashing on the stairs, fury flooding his limbs again like gasoline on fire. How dare he even contemplate such thoughts.

If Tim wanted answers, then Tim could have them.

But not the way he wanted.

Not gently.

Present Day…

The wind bit colder out here.

Branches whispered like teeth clacking, and the night closed around you like a vice. The mansion’s looming silhouette vanished behind the treeline, swallowed in black. You had woken up in the basement, so being dragged out to the sight of a mansion was more whiplash than it was worth. You stumbled as Toby dragged you forward by the wrist, humming off-key like this was some kind of walk in the park.

He hadn’t said much since hauling you from the basement. Just little things, mostly to himself, muttered phrases like “you’ll see,” or “it’s gonna be fun, yeah?” His grip never loosened. In the fogged moonlight of the forest, you could see him more clearly now. Toby wasn’t much younger than you, probably around the same age, but the wild look in his eyes and the stress lines creasing his face made it hard to tell. Just like the other two, the masks didn’t help, hiding away all the secrets they didn’t want you to see.

“Where are we going?” you croaked. Your voice was still raw, throat bruised from days of crying, screaming, then drowning. “Toby—what the hell is this?”

He just hummed, high-pitched and jittery. “A surprise, sheriff. Our boss wants to try some-something new. Play a little game, y’know.”

“Play?” you echoed, dread tightening in your stomach.

“You’ll find out soon,” he sang.

That was it. Being scared was one thing, but teetering on the edge of terrified was enough to push your reflexes to the precipice. Instinct surged up in you. Not fear—training. You were a cop. Or used to be. Whatever you were now, you weren’t helpless. You didn’t go through years of combat simulations and skills classes just to let some kid manhandle you around. What little strength you had left, it was enough. In one smooth motion, you twisted your wrist in his grip, threw your weight forward, and slammed your shoulder into his side. He hit the ground hard, a crack of impact echoing through the trees.

You stepped back, chest heaving, muscles bracing for retaliation. But Toby just laid there, arms sprawled.

Then… he started laughing. Choking, wheezing laughter, like it had knocked the air clean out of him but he still thought it was the funniest thing in the world. He rolled onto his knees, dropping his mask just enough to wipe his nose on his sleeve. His grin never dropped.

“That was good!” he chirped, teasing and sarcasm lacing his words. “Damn, you got some gu-guts, sheriff. Do it again, maybe I’ll land on a rock next time.”

You backed away, blood pounding in your ears. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh, so much,” Toby said brightly, pushing himself up without a flinch. “But pain? Not one of them. Don’t feel it. Born special, ‘s what my mo-mom said.” He winked, giggling to himself. Something cold slid down your spine.

Up on the ridge, two figures stood half-shrouded by branches, stopping their pace into the forest to access the damage you clearly didn’t afflict on Toby. Masky had his arms crossed. His posture screamed irritation, but his head tilted—just a little. As if sizing you up. Hoody said nothing, but you saw the faintest nod beneath his hood. Approval? Or calculation? You couldn’t tell.

The woods thickened as Toby shoved you forward again, but now his grip had changed. Lighter. Not respectful—but curious. “C’mon,” he said. “Can’t keep the Rake waiting.”

Toby walked ahead, swinging a flashlight, your flashlight from your utility belt they had taken from you, like a toy, letting the beam skate across tree trunks and tangled brush. Shadows danced behind him—sometimes yours, sometimes not, you couldn’t be sure. Every crunch of leaves underfoot echoed too loud. Every branch looked like it might reach out and wrap around your throat.

Hoody and Masky flanked you, quiet as phantoms. You couldn’t see their eyes, but you felt them. Watching your shoulders, your hands, your steps. Not guiding you—just waiting. For something.

The deeper you went, the worse it got.

The trees were wrong. Too tall. Too thin. They leaned like they were listening. You knew the woods. Had trained in them for search and rescues, camped with your friends, lived near them. But these felt sick. And somewhere in the distance, a low rustling, soft and rhythmic, followed in your wake.

You were being led. No—you were being delivered.

When the trees finally parted, it felt like stepping off a ledge. The clearing opened like a wound in the forest. Moonlight bled across the uneven earth, silvering tufts of dying grass. It was quiet—too quiet. No bugs. No wind. Just… stillness.

And then Masky stopped walking.

“This is it,” he muttered.

You turned toward him, your voice a hoarse rasp. “What is this? Why did you bring me out here?”

He didn’t answer. Hoody stepped forward, shoulders square. “The forest’s been disturbed. Our boss doesn’t like that.” Toby twirled in place beside you, humming something just off-key. “Something’s hun-hunting in his territory. So we’re hunting it.”

You stared at them, heart crawling up your throat. “So why am I here?” Masky gave a dark, dry chuckle, low and empty. “Bait.”

Your blood turned to ice. Toby clapped his hands like you’d won a prize. “Don’t worry, you get a head start.”

“What—?”

“You better start running,” he said, eyes wide behind the goggles. “I can already hear it.”

Your legs didn’t move. Hoody turned away like he’d already dismissed you. Masky took a step back into the treeline.

And then it hit you. They were leaving you here.

“What’s coming?” you asked, voice cracking as your gaze swept the woods. “What the hell is coming?!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Masky said, giving one glance back before retreating with the others. “You’ve got maybe a minute before it’s here.”

Panic detonated inside your chest. This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t some power play. This was survival.

You tried to think—assess, assess—but nothing came. No tactics. No strategy. Just cold, raw fear chewing through your thoughts like acid. You turned. Stumbled. Then ran.

Branches tore at your pant legs, the roots of trees so prominent in the ground that it seemed as if they were trying to run away themselves. The night swallowed your breath. And somewhere, not far behind, something began to move. Something fast. Something hungry.

Your feet hit the forest floor hard—too hard. Everything was too loud. The thud of your boots, the rasp of your breath, the snarl of branches snapping past your shoulders, the wind slicing against your raw throat.

Bait.

Masky’s words kept echoing, droning itself like you were nothing more than meat strung on a hook. You had no idea what was out there. But whatever it was, it had to be worse than them.

Why? Why drag you out here? Was this Masky’s revenge? Some sick punishment for what you’d said in that interrogation room? Or maybe—maybe this was part of the same game, some twisted test to see how long you last. See how fast you run. Or maybe they just didn’t care. Maybe they really were going to let whatever was out there rip you to shreds and be done with it. This is what you get for sticking your nose in other people’s personal vendettas for so long: someone finally gets to hurt you instead.

No. No, you weren’t going to let it end like this.

You pushed through the next tangle of brush, lungs burning. Every step jarred your body like a hammer. You hadn’t eaten in days. You were dehydrated, sleep-deprived, trembling from adrenaline and cold. Your muscles screamed, but your survival instinct was louder. You had to think. Where am I? How far from town?

You tried to remember the drive, the hazy bits you could see in-between losing consciousness. The turns, the winding road before they pulled you off the map. There’d been a stream. A distant highway hum. Lights, maybe. Somewhere east?

You slowed just enough to glance around. Moonlight lanced through the canopy in broken strips. You looked for elevation, shadows, any sign of clear sky that might suggest an opening. A road. A hill. Get to higher ground. Find the ridges of the mountains. Head east.

Your hand braced against a tree as your knees wobbled. Just one second. One second to catch your breath and—

A branch snapped. Not behind you, ahead. You froze, the little breath you had caught in your throat.

Then—movement. Not big. Fast. Low to the ground.

You didn’t see it so much as feel it—a flash of pale skin cutting between trees, limbs too long, too thin, moving on all fours like a starving animal.

It stopped.

Staring.

Eyes like hollow pits, glinting silver in the dark.

It smelled you.

And it grinned.

Your scream caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. You turned—bolted again, blindly now. Crashing through brambles, your arms shielded your face as thorns ripped into you.

Behind you, something gave chase. No footfalls, no heavy steps, just a whisper of motion. A scrape against bark. A skitter. It was faster. So much faster.

You tripped—caught yourself—kept running.

Your legs felt like wet paper. Your chest cracked with every breath. Pain lit your sides like fire. You couldn’t do this, not in this shape, not after days in the dark, starving and broken.

But still you ran.

You weren’t a victim. You weren’t going to die out here like an animal. The trees blurred around you. A root caught your boot. You fell hard—knees smashing into cold earth. You rolled, gasping, and looked back—

Nothing.

Just trees. Moonlight. Silence. Your whole body quaked. Mud coated your hands. Blood ran down your arms where the thorns had caught you.

You sat up slowly, eyes scanning the dark.

Maybe it’s gone.

A whisper of breath behind your ear. You turned—

And saw it. Not twenty feet away. Crouched, still, grinning. Waiting.

And then—it leapt.

Masky moved like a shadow between trees, boots crunching softly over dead leaves and hardened earth. His breath came out in shallow plumes, fogging in the crisp air. Beside him, Hoody was silent—almost ghostlike, gliding just beyond his periphery. Toby brought up the rear, far less graceful, singing something under his breath. They were spread just wide enough apart to cover ground, just close enough to regroup if it came to that.

The moon was high now, an ever-present light in the foggy sky.

The forest creaked and moaned in the wind. Every crack of a branch or scuffle of animal paws sent adrenaline spiking through Masky’s limbs, not from fear, but anticipation. Something was out here with them; he could feel it in the pressure behind his eyes, like a headache waiting to happen.

“He’s watching,” Toby chirped quietly, skipping a step to keep pace. “I can hear him, somewhere past the fo-footpath.”

Masky didn’t answer. Just pressed on. Hoody, ahead, slowed to a stop. He tilted his head, listening—then murmured, “West. It’s circling.”

Masky adjusted the course without a word. His fingers twitched at his sides. He could feel the pistol's weight hidden under his coat, the familiar itch in his spine. Fight or flight had long stopped applying to them; there was only attack.

“They should’ve run farther by now,” Hoody said humorlessly, glancing back. “Or at least screamed.”

“They’re probably dead,” Toby offered, a little too snarky. “Or pissing the-themselves. I’d be pissing myself.”

“You wouldn’t know. You can’t feel anything.”

“Exactly,” Toby beamed.

Masky gritted his teeth. His mind was loud again, not just from Toby or the ambiance of the woods, but from Tim.

We have to find them, Tim murmured, barely a whisper. They’re not ready for this. They don’t even know what it is.

“They’re bait,” Masky hissed under his breath.

Hoody turned his head slightly. “Now's not the time, Masky.” He ignored him.

Branches cracked to the east, and all three men froze. Toby’s grip on his hatchet tightened, holding it at the hilt against his side. Hoody’s hand brushed the revolver at his hip.

The sound came again. Louder. Not the careful steps of a hunter, but something running.

A scream tore through the density of the forest, breaching the silence of the trees like a gunshot. All Masky could think was how human you always sounded. The air snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Masky’s head lifted toward the sound, and his blood surged. The noise sliced into his chest before he could even register it—hoarse and raw and desperate. Nothing calculated about it. No edge. No charisma attached, just your fear.

“Let’s move,” Hoody said coolly, already changing direction. Toby nodded and vanished into the dark like a dog off his leash. Masky stood rooted for half a second longer.

Tim was screaming in his head now. Screaming with you.

Go. Please.

Masky’s fists clenched. His legs moved before he could think better of it.

Branches tore at your arms as you pushed through the underbrush, lungs burning, legs screaming. You didn’t know where you were going anymore—just forward, forward, anywhere but here. But it was fast. You could hear it now.

Behind you, beside you, above you.

A blur of pale limbs darted between trees in your peripheral vision, flashes of bone-white skin and gleaming black eyes catching the moonlight. It didn’t sound like it ran; it slithered, it crawled, it just kept grinning.

You stumbled, caught yourself on a tree, and shoved off again. Your body was failing, muscles trembling from starvation and cold, your stomach clenching with every jolt. Your throat was raw from sucking in gasps of air, your feet were blistered in your old work shoes, and the thing behind you—whatever it was—wasn’t chasing; it was herding.

Your foot caught on a root. You hit the ground hard again, cheek scraping bark and dirt. Before you could move, you felt it: hot breath on your neck. You turned with a scream just in time to see a long, narrow limb retract into the shadows. It had touched you, tasted the moment, and let you live. This wasn’t a chase; it was hunting, playing with its prey before tiring it out.

You were the rabbit in the snare.

Tears blurred your vision. You scrambled to your feet, every instinct firing off—cop or not, your brain only told you one thing—runrunrunrunrun.

You pushed through another clearing. The woods opened for a split second, moonlight spilling across the frostbitten grass. You looked around, desperate for a path, a road, a fucking miracle.

Nothing. No direction seemed safer than the other.

“Please…” you whimpered, staggering toward a cluster of trees. “Please, Jesus, fuck…”

Snap. Behind you.

You turned—and there it was, just standing. Bare, bony, and too long in every place that should’ve been short. Knees bent backward, mouth stretched far too wide across a gaunt, eyeless face, fingers so long they nearly scraped the ground. It cocked its head.

And smiled.

You screamed and bolted again. This time it didn’t wait. It lunged.

It clipped your back, sharp fingers slashing across your shoulder. You fell hard, rolling against the grass and roots bumping up. The pain was instant—hot, ragged coils of uncomfortable shock coursing through you. You crawled forward, heaving through air and tears. Your nails dug into the earth, pulling at tufts of grass as you drug your body against the ground.

“No—no, please, please—”

It crept forward slowly, shifting between two and four legs, inspecting your movements. You pushed yourself up, dizzy and bleeding through the torn fabric of your shirt. You felt the gush down your spine, the muscles of your shoulder blade twisting and separating in all the wrong places. It had gotten a deep gash, at least deep enough to feel the cool breeze of the night against the wound.

You reached back, trying to cup the wound and stop the bleeding with the shaky press of your palm—but it was no use. Your hand came away slick with blood. Too much blood.

The Rake paused a few yards away. Its head tilted with childlike curiosity. You thought it might pounce again—but it didn’t. Not yet. You stared at it, heart hammering so loud you could feel it in your teeth. And for the first time in your life, you knew true fear. Not adrenaline, not nerves, not the fear of losing a suspect or screwing up a report.

This was fear. Animal fear. Prey-and-predator fear.

Your mind ran wild. What the hell was this thing? You’d seen monsters in movies, you’d chased killers and psychos and men with dead eyes, but this—this was something else. This wasn’t a man. This wasn’t even right, it was never meant to exist in the same world as you.

What else is out here? You thought of the mansion. Of the others—Masky, Hoody, Toby. All of them dancing like puppets on strings, pulled by something ancient and evil. Your chest tightened. What the hell did I get dragged into? What else is hiding in those walls? In these woods?

A sob slipped from your throat. Your vision swam. You’re not going to make it to morning.

You clutched your chest, trying to suck in air, your back pressed against the wet bark of a tree. Your mind scrambled for a distraction, anything you could use. Could you throw something? Hide? Make a noise and bolt the other way? But there was nothing, no tricks left, no more fight in your legs.

The Rake took another step closer. You saw every line of muscle shifting under its sickly skin. It sniffed the air, stretched the gap of its mouth, and you broke. Your body crumpled forward and you began to cry—quiet at first, then deeper. Raw, painful sobs that wracked your already-wrecked frame. You pressed your face into your hands, begging something—anything.

Please. Please, don’t let it end here. Don’t let this be it. Please. You pleaded, hiding your face in your hands.

Thud. Your head snapped up. Another step, but not from the Rake.

Thud-thud-thud.

Heavy and purposeful, two sets were coming from beyond the treeline. The Rake froze, its entire body twitching like a hound catching the scent of something new. Its head turned toward the sound, its smile slowly curling into something less amused, less playful, and more agitated.

You blinked through your tears, heart lurching toward hope and horror in equal measure. You didn’t know if it was rescue or another nightmare come to join the hunt, but they were close.

You didn’t wait.

Whoever—or whatever—was coming, it didn’t matter. You weren’t about to sit still and gamble on who arrived first. With every ounce of strength left in your trembling limbs, you staggered upright and pushed off from the tree. Your legs howled in protest, knees threatening to buckle. You grit your teeth, blood dripping from your back, hot and heavy as it soaked into your waistband and down the backs of your thighs.

Move. Just move.

The creature’s head snapped back to you. You froze. Its eyes narrowed, then let out a guttural sound, low and almost disappointed, like a cat watching a wounded bird try to limp away. But then—it moved.

It was fast. Too fast. You turned and ran.

Branches snapped against your face. Thorns tore at your arms. The world swayed as exhaustion and hunger dragged on every part of your body. You didn’t care. You couldn’t afford to. The only thing that mattered was putting as much space between you and that thing as you could. Your breath wheezed ragged in your lungs. You tripped over a root and barely caught yourself, scraping your palms raw against the forest floor. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

But then—gunfire. Cracks split the night.

You screamed, then ducked instinctively. Bullets tore through the trees just behind you, close enough to hear them snap past your ears. The Rake shrieked behind you—an unholy, metallic screech of anger and pain. You risked a glance over your shoulder and saw it dodge one shot, the next tearing straight through its arm. It reeled but didn’t fall. Its body jerked unnaturally, then launched itself forward again. Its claws tore through the ground, earth and dirt flying up behind in its wake, leaving a mess wherever it went.

Another volley of bullets exploded from behind, muzzle flashes lighting up the clearing like lightning. You screamed again—not at the Rake this time, but at them. Masky. Hoody. The gunshots were too close. Way too close. Were they aiming at the creature or at you? The panic clogged your throat, and the next step you took was too slow, too sloppy. Your foot snagged on something, and you went down hard, shoulder-first.

Before you could get up—it was on you.

The Rake tackled you like a freight train, its claws pinning your wrists down in the dirt. Its legs straddled your hips. The weight was unbearable, its body pressed so close you could see the sinew beneath its skin and smell its rancid breath as it opened its mouth and screamed in your face. The stench of rot and dead earth surrounded you, clogging your thoughts.

The sound made your vision go white. You shrieked, thrashing, the creature’s face inches from yours, saliva dripping from its yellowed teeth. Its claws dug into your arms, slicing clean through skin. You felt warm blood ooze down to your elbows. You kicked, bucked, did anything to get it off—

But it was too strong. Its claws raised. It was going to end it.

“Hey, ugly.”

A blur slammed into the Rake’s side.

You heard the impact before you could register it—flesh against flesh, then a sickening crack. The weight was gone. You sucked in a ragged breath and rolled onto your side just in time to see Toby—his usual wild grin gone—drive his hatchet down into the creature’s back. The Rake screamed again, high and desperate, lashing out and slicing across Toby’s chest—but he didn’t even flinch. Not once.

He laughed. An unhinged, manic sound. It was scary.

Toby yanked the hatchet free and slammed it down again—over and over, until the creature’s writhing turned to twitching. Until the shrieks were replaced with wet gurgles. Until the forest was silent, except for the sticky squelch of metal meeting flesh. You lay there, too stunned to scream. Blood sprayed across your face—hot and thick—mixing with tears you didn’t even know you were crying. It was everywhere, on your clothes, your lips, your hands. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away.

The Rake's body convulsed one final time, and then it was still. Toby stood over it, chest heaving. His hatchet was slick and dripping, his eyes wide and unfocused, like he hadn’t really come back from wherever he’d gone to kill it.

He looked at you.

You flinched.

But he only blinked, wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, and grinned. The grin you’d seen before. That too-wide smile. That wrong smile. Your only saving grace from absolutely losing it was the mask covering the lower half of his face, covering the inhumanity behind it.

“Man,” he said, as if they’d just finished a football game, “that was fun.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The adrenaline was fading and leaving nothing but pain and fog in its place. Your arms trembled where the Rake had pinned them. Your lungs stuttered with shallow, broken breaths. You weren’t sure if you were safe now, or if you’d just survived one monster to be dragged back to another.

And Masky… Masky hadn’t said a word, but you felt him watching. You could feel his rage from here. You didn’t know what scared you more—the Rake’s claws, or the look in his eyes when they met yours.

Hoody wasn’t far behind, footsteps soft over the blood-dampened leaves. He crouched briefly beside the Rake’s remains, his head tilting like he was studying it—like he was already trying to commit the damage to memory. Then he looked at you.

Your body throbbed.

The ache flared all at once, like it had been waiting for your mind to calm just enough to notice. The gash in your back burned. Your arms shook under their own weight. Your legs were shredded and trembling. You could feel fresh blood seeping down your ribs, sticking your torn shirt to your skin. You reached up to your head and felt wetness there, too—had you hit it when you fell?

Everything started to swim. The forest tilted.

The air sounded too loud and too far away at the same time—Hoody saying something in a low voice to Masky, the crunch of Toby’s boots as he wandered off into the brush, humming under his breath like a psychopath. Even the wind through the trees had a static edge to it, like it was pushing in on you.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

Your breath hitched.

You tried to speak, but no words came. Just a shaky wheeze. Your knees buckled again, this time for good, and the world tilted in slow motion as you dropped to the forest floor. You barely registered someone lunging forward—boots and jeans and a mask—before hands grabbed your shoulders to steady you.

Masky.

He didn’t say anything, but you saw the way his fingers hovered near your back, hesitating. You looked up, barely able to lift your head, but it was enough. Just enough to catch it—that flicker of expression behind the eyeholes. Concern. He masked it quickly, tilting his head away like it hadn’t happened, like you didn’t see it.

But you did. And that scared you, too.

You tried to breathe, tried to hold on, but the trees blurred, and your vision tunneled. The last thing you saw was Masky’s white mask swimming above you in a haze of black and red and forest green.

You heard the muffled call of your name, then everything went dark.

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