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mandalhoerian · 1 month ago

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⸺ jill valentine x reader, 27K+

⸺ depictions of abusive relationships, supernatural horror, gore, cannibalism, dead dove do not eat

⸺ summary: Your predictable life with Jill Valentine unravels when she shows up in your house after the gory death of your abusive ex, bloody from head to toe, and starving.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3.

taglist: @uhlunaro @withonly-sweetheart @wxwieeee @official-cvntified-gay @ann1-the-s1mp

@m3dicals @jillsandwichsstuff @t0tallyn0t3rmy @esterphobic @justb3333

@wlwhorrorgame @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @misonesaturou

@lightning-hawke @sparrowguardian @cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @saturnzei

There’s something about the air in this town that feels like it never changes and is permanently stuck in the same one season. A weight lingers on your skin, like a fine layer of dust that’s settled over everything. It sticks to the cracked sidewalks, the rusting cars, the sagging rooftops of houses that haven’t been painted in years. It settles over you too, clinging to your skin like a second layer you can’t scrub off, no matter how hard you try. It’s the kind of place where you can't feel time passing, like every day is another step toward being buried under the same soil that has seen generation after generation repeat the same mistakes.

You can’t remember the last time anything changed.

The streets are as weathered as they’ve always been, buildings leaning inward as if they’re trying to close in on you, swallow you whole. The same bar on Main Street serves the same drinks to the same people who’ve been drowning their sorrows in it for as long as you can remember. You used to think that maybe you’d escape—that you’d be the one who made it out. But that was before the days started blending together, before you realized that running wouldn’t change the kind of person you are.

You don’t escape places like this. Places like this get inside you.

From your bedroom window, you can see the church steeple rising above the town like a watchful eye, casting long shadows over the graveyard that’s filled with more familiar names than you care to think about. You know the stories behind most of them. How they lived. How they died. Some of those names belonged to people you knew, people you grew up with. People like you, who thought they’d escape and ended up six feet under instead.

It’s been years since you’ve stepped foot in the church, not since your father’s funeral when you were nine. The priest spoke about salvation, about redemption. But that was a lifetime ago, before you started to understand that some people don’t get saved. Some people just survive long enough to die another way.

In the distance, the sound of a basketball bouncing echoes faintly from the park down the road, rhythmic, steady. For a moment, you close your eyes and you’re fifteen again, sitting on the bleachers with the sun hot on your back, watching Jill Valentine practice her free throws, her short hair slick with sweat and her smile always, always present.

Even now, the memory makes you smile, a bittersweet twist at the corner of your mouth. She was always the steady one. The golden girl of your tiny town. The one who people looked up to—admired. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t, too. But you admired her differently. You always had.

You think back to when you were kids, before things got... complicated. Back when you used to play “boyfriend-girlfriend” in your backyard, chasing each other around tree trunks with your cheeks pink and palms sweaty. Back then, Jill was always the one leading you by the hand. Always the one saying I do want to be your friend forever. The one insisting on piggyback rides and drawing silly little pictures of flowers you couldn't stop laughing at. And when none of the adults were looking, she was the one pressing her chapped lips against yours, tasting like strawberry ice pops under the afternoon summer sun. Both of you just mimicked what you saw on TV, giggling afterwards with blushing faces while you sat side-by-side, thighs pressed together, making a show of wiping your mouths so no one would ever catch on.

It had made sense back then. All the other girls kissed boys in movies, so why wouldn’t you kiss Jill? You liked her better anyway. Boys were yucky. They smelled and they made gross jokes about things that made you wrinkle your nose in distaste. Jill wasn’t like that. She was smart and cool and never did anything mean or dumb like the other boys in your class. Besides, Jill played harder than them. She could climb trees and jump fences and run faster than anyone you knew. And she was fun! So it only seemed natural that you two should share kisses too. Best friends should always do everything together, after all, including kissing. That's what you told yourself back then, anyway.

Besides, those kisses never really meant anything.

Except, it did.

Because you’d never kissed any boys. Only Jill. She was your first kiss. And your second. And your third. And when you kissed her again in middle school—at thirteen, after sneaking into a movie that was rated just a little too old for you—you could taste the soda on her tongue and feel the wet heat of her mouth. She felt different than the first time—her jaw was broader, her lips softer, though there was still something girlish about the bow of them—but somehow exactly the same: reassuring, familiar. But only because you practiced together; that was all. Like learning math problems and how to ride bikes: that was all. Because kissing boys was disgusting. You couldn't imagine doing it with someone else but her.

But she said, "I think I'm going to try dating boys now," and later she would confess quietly into the darkness of your bedroom, the kind of roommates you two still sometimes were, even though you weren't children anymore, and she'd say, "I kissed Bobby Martin, and I didn't mind it," and you pretended not to hear her.

Or maybe you really hadn't heard her; maybe you just chose not to acknowledge the tight fist clenched beneath your ribs, squeezing, squeezing until you felt ill. You ignored it, tried to push through it—and the feeling went away. It was just a stomachache; those happened from time to time, especially when your mom made chicken pot pie.

You two stopped kissing because of Bobby Martin, and you wanted to see what was that special about him that Jill wouldn't do that with you anymore. You still remember his sweaty upper lip and his braces digging into your mouth like a row of sharp teeth, snapping against your bottom lip. Ew.

A few days after the incident, you said, "Bobby Martin is gross. He kissed me. Bleh."

It was fine, they weren't dating. But Jill looked away and picked at the grass blades next to her tennis shoes, that were already soiled with dirt. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but for a second, her blue eyes seemed bright yellow as she glared down at the lawn like she didn't want to look at you. She said nothing. You couldn't even recall if she had nodded.

"At least I don't smell like old socks," you offered helpfully, thinking that was very insulting towards Bobby Martin, because you remembered seeing his big toe poking through his gym sock last month in health class, and everyone laughed—everyone except Jill, who never really took joy in picking on people. Still, you thought it was clever, so you kept going. "Plus, he has greasy hair."

"You have greasy hair too."

Well, maybe you did. But you could wash yours whenever you wanted. And hey, at least you didn't smell like old socks!

Things got weird between you after that. You two stopped talking, and Jill hung out with Bobby Martin instead. Your parents kept asking what happened, but you lied and said nothing because admitting you missed Jill—missed kissing her, missed telling her secrets that even your diary couldn't know—was embarrassing. It meant letting someone else win, and Bobby Martin was stupid; Jill couldn't possibly like him more than she liked you. No way!

But then high school hit, and things got more complicated. Jill started hanging out with more people, became the captain of the basketball team. She had that charisma that drew everyone in—girls and boys alike.

And suddenly, she wasn’t your person anymore.

The jealousy you felt back then was sharp, slicing through you like glass every time you found out about a person she knew but you didn't. When she would skip lunch with you increasingly often, choosing instead to eat outside with other friends. It wasn’t fair, and you knew it. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but that didn’t stop you from hating it. Hating the way she laughed with the other girls in the locker room. The way she made plans without you sometimes, like you weren’t the center of her universe the way she still was for you. You didn't have other people like she did. No one came before her.

The truth was, Jill was everything. And no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, you hated sharing her. You hated seeing her with other people, hated knowing that you weren’t the only one she spent her time with. But what could you say? “No, don’t hang out with other people? Only me”? It sounded ridiculous just thinking about it. What kind of best friend said things like that? How pathetic would that be?

So, you told yourself it was fine. She was still your best friend. She was still Jill. She might’ve had other friends, other people who hung around her, but at the end of the day, you were always first. At the end of the day, it was still the two of you together, running through the streets. Inseparable, untouchable. Best friends forever and ever. Until death do us part, you promised each other when you were younger. Because in that world, that was all it was. Girls kissing girls and boys being yucky and nothing changing, even as the seasons spun out around you both.

But real life was different than the fantasy in your head. Real life didn’t fit neatly into boxes or promises spoken beneath playground slides. Reality was messy and confusing and full of choices—choices you wished you hadn't made, but you had anyway. Choices that broke hearts and destroyed lives, choices that tore apart people's families. Choices you wished you could take back, but once they're made, there's no turning back.

When she kissed Bobby Martin on a warm August evening beside the community pool, your stomach dropped. There was a hollow emptiness in the pit of it. A hunger you couldn't quite name. You watched them for a minute, her mouth pressed against his, the glow from the streetlight bathing everything in amber and gold. It was a moment out of time. Perfect, frozen, fragile. Something you were not supposed to witness. Something private and secret. Like catching a glimpse of something you shouldn't—of someone naked, unguarded, exposed. When she finally pulled away from him, there was a dazed expression on his face, like he'd seen heaven. And maybe he had; you didn't know. All you knew was that it felt wrong, like you were intruding on something, like you didn't belong here anymore.

You turned away before she could spot you standing in the shadows outside the chain link fence encircling the park. A sob rose in your throat, burning like acid. Your eyes stung with unshed tears. Why did it hurt so much? Why was there a hole in your chest where there should've been only air? It was just a kiss. Just Bobby fucking Martin. Who cared about him, anyway? So what if Jill wanted to kiss boys? Kiss whoever she damn well pleased? Why should you give a shit about something as stupid as this? It wasn't your business. Wasn't any of your business. Didn't matter at all...

You tried to act like it didn’t bother you. You’d roll your eyes when she talked about him, laugh it off when she brought him to your movie nights, pretend it wasn’t a big deal when she chose him over you on Friday evenings. And sure, okay, maybe sometimes you imagined tearing out his hair follicles or slipping laxatives into his soda, but everyone fantasized about horrible things. Normal shit like that. Everyone got jealous over little things. Right?

It wasn’t long after that when you started dating boys too. Not because you wanted to, but because it felt like what you were supposed to do. Everyone else was doing it, and maybe if you did too, that hole inside you would finally close up. Maybe if you found someone who made you feel like Jill made you feel, everything would make sense.

But that’s not what happened.

You never found anyone who made you feel like she did. What you found instead were boys who were too much like the town you’d grown up in—stifling and suffocating, holding you down instead of lifting you up. You didn’t know how to pick the right ones. Or maybe there were no right ones. Not for you.

The first real boyfriend was Ryan. You were sixteen. He was older, taller, with a cocky grin and a swagger that made him stand out in this nowhere town. He had that edge that pulled you in, made you feel like he knew things you didn’t. But Ryan wasn’t gentle. Not with his hands, not with his words. It started small—flattering jealousy and flirtation that became possessiveness, comments about how you were dressing too much for someone who wasn’t going anywhere, which made sense at the time. It was true, wasn't it? So why did it sting so bad when he said it? You felt it anyway.

Eventually, the compliments faded, and the backhanded comments grew more frequent, for example, criticizing how loud you sounded (maybe you were laughing too much?), saying that the clothes you wore didn't suit your body type. At first, these comments felt helpful. They helped you change parts of yourself so you could look better, feel good enough. Eventually, the praise returned when he got what he wanted. But then those sweet moments would turn sour fast, as he began to berate you again, reminding you to be careful and keep your mouth shut because guys wouldn't want such a loudmouth girl—even if she was pretty.

He told you often, "I'm just trying to help you out here. I love you, and you should appreciate me more." You started hating his voice. His eyes, always looking at other girls in the halls at school. You hated how easily you cried when he yelled at you, making you promise you'd never bring it up again to anyone. This was something between you and him. It wasn't worth fighting. So you learned quickly how to fall in line. Keep quiet and do what he asks without causing trouble. Stay nice and innocent-looking around others. Don't ask questions. That's what couples do, isn't it? Do whatever it takes to make it work.

You let it happen, thinking it was love, thinking this was what a real relationship looked like. Jill never said much about him, but you could see the way she’d frown whenever she saw the two of you together. You could feel her disapproval. Being the one who didn't have the time to spare for your friendship this time around gave you some sort of sick satisfaction. And it only made you want to hold onto Ryan harder, like proving her wrong would somehow make you right.

But then came the first time he hit you. Not a slap, not a punch, just a shove against the wall when you disagreed with him. Your breath had caught in your throat, more from surprise than fear. You’d never seen that side of him before. But you didn’t leave. Not then. Because he was sorry and promised it would never happen again, and even though a voice in your head told you that he was lying, that voice wasn't as loud as his begging—the apologies spilling from his lips as he held your hand so tenderly afterward. He was used to being rowdy with the boys. Too excited and energetic to remember that you were smaller. Fragile, even. His mother taught him better, and he didn’t mean it. That he was only stressed, what with finals coming up and wanting to get into a good college.

It wasn’t long before his temper flared more often than it didn’t.

You learned to flinch at the sound of his voice rising, learned to make yourself small in a way you hadn’t before. And Jill? Well, she openly stopped approving. Told you that this wasn’t healthy, wasn't normal. That if you wanted to talk, she would listen without judgment. But you wouldn’t budge. Because he wasn't always like this, and it made sense if you thought about it logically—it was stressful for him. College applications and SAT prep courses eating away at his mental health. Making him forgetful; making him short-tempered, and you were of no help sometimes. Accidentally drinking all of the milk instead of buying more; forgetting your keys at home so he had to wait ten minutes in the car while you ran back inside for them. Little things, stupid mistakes, but you understood why they set him off. Anyone could have messed up like that—you didn’t need to hold it against him. Didn't want to punish him by running straight back to Jill like the last time, when he apologized in waves and hugged you so tightly. He needed you; he'd said it himself. So when he yelled and called you names, you reminded yourself of why you stayed with him—because it wasn’t the shouting that mattered; it was what came after. It was the warmth and affection, the sweetness that lingered despite the poison beneath. The reassurance, the safety, the tenderness, the vulnerability he shared only with you. It was everything underneath those storms, those moments of rage, those brief flashes of pain.

It lasted until that one random night Jill showed up at your door straight from taekwondo practice. Still wearing her uniform with hair slick and tied up on her head, sweat drying in the cool summer air, she looked exhausted but ready to take down anyone in her way, her face set in that way that said she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She’d marched into your apartment, taken one look at your bruised wrist, and told you you were coming with her. You’d fought her on it, tried to tell her you were fine, but Jill didn’t listen. She just pulled you into her arms and held you so tightly that all the resistance melted away because all along, all you ever wanted was to return back to this safe place you felt every time you fell asleep next to her in her bedroom.

You two had reconciled that day, watching movies in comfortable silence for the rest of the night. Then when you woke up to the sunlight pouring in through the window blinds, Jill was curled around you just like how you remembered her being five years ago. And for a split second, it was almost enough to believe you were kids again, except both of you wore bras and pants, which were much more mature than Barbie pajama sets (though there was nothing wrong with liking mermaids). So maybe not exactly the same but pretty close. Except for the part where she smelled different, sharper; less like bubblegum and cotton candy than the body spray and cologne, but still familiar. Comforting. Homey. Everything he wasn’t.

That's why it had come as an earth-shattering shock to walk in on her beating the shit out of Ryan in the middle of the street a week later. They went at it like wild dogs in front of a crowd of high schoolers, screaming obscenities at each other—shouting about you—and somehow neither ended up in jail afterward, though not for lack of trying on Ryan's part. But seeing your estranged best friend clock your then current boyfriend, and actually cause his jaw to dislocate, kindled something in you. Made you smile; made you giddy even. Nothing short of crazy-psycho-laugh-while-throwing-glitter level happy, really. Because she defended you when no one else seemed to give a flying fuck, because she hadn't abandoned you completely and maybe...just maybe...still cared. Maybe enough for things to fix themselves the way they always did whenever the two of you fought over stupid stuff when growing up together.

But things never changed for long.

It’s not glamorous, this role she’s taken on as your savior. Sometimes it’s dragging you from a bar at 2 a.m., other times it’s showing up at your door, tight-lipped and jaw clenched, after you’ve been thrown to the curb by yet another son of a bitch. And always, there’s that unspoken understanding: Jill will fix it. She always does.

You’re not sure when this cycle began, when Jill became your personal hero in shining Kevlar, but it’s been like this for as long as you can remember. And part of you knows it’s not fair—the way you lean on her. The way you rely on her strength to pull you out of the messes you keep creating. But then there’s that familiar warmth, the way her hand grips yours so tightly, her voice so sure and steady as she says, "Come on, let’s get you out of here." It makes you feel like you matter, like you’re something worth saving.

But Jill... Jill’s never needed saving.

From the very beginning, Jill was different. Stronger. Always one step ahead. While you were skipping school, smoking weed behind the bleachers, and sneaking into bars with fake IDs, Jill was valedictorian. Captain of the girl's basketball team. She had this aura about her, like she could handle anything life threw her way. You, on the other hand, were barely holding it together, crashing through life like a car with no brakes.

After Ryan, there was Rich, then Stephen, then James. Then... Well, it doesn't matter. Each one was worse than the last.

But Jill never left.

Even after she graduated and went to the police academy, even when you lost track of how many dead-end jobs and deadbeat boyfriends you’d had, she always came back. Always checking in, always pulling you out of the wreckage of your latest mistake. She wasn’t just your best friend; she was your safety net. You leaned on her in ways that made you hate yourself. But you couldn’t stop.

By the time you hit your late-twenties, Jill had become something else entirely—successful, reliable, and, most infuriatingly, still perfect. She had joined the police force, the golden girl with the badge, and everyone in town adored her. Even you couldn’t help but admire her, though the admiration curdled into something bitter. You weren’t proud of it, but the resentment was always there, bubbling beneath the surface.

You, on the other hand, were stuck. Stuck in the same dead town, stuck in the same dead relationships. Men who hit too hard, drank too much, and never stayed. You hadn’t had a real job in years, barely scraped by on part-time gigs and handouts from your mom, from barista to retail store worker, from secretary to sales associate...

There were moments when it felt like old times. When Jill would come by with takeout, and the two of you would sit on your couch, drinking cheap wine and watching movies. You’d laugh, talk about nothing, and for a few hours, it was like you were teenagers again, lying under the stars, dreaming about the future. But it never lasted. Jill would leave, go back to her perfect life, and you’d be left alone in the silence, wondering what you were doing wrong.

You hated the way she made you feel—useless, vulnerable, needy. Like a child. You resented her for it, even as you longed for her attention, her approval. In those moments, you despised yourself more than anything, hated that you let yourself become this broken shell of a person. But there was nothing else you could do.

A car engine revs in the alley below your window, pulling you back to the present. You look down and see Matt’s car. It’s not supposed to be there. Your stomach twists with a familiar dread, the kind that always comes before the fists, before the yelling. He’s supposed to be gone, out with his friends or drunk in a gutter somewhere—not here, not now.

And yet, the night begins just like it always does.

The last thing you remember clearly is the taste of blood on your lips. Your ring had connected with his mouth, splitting it open. Then a howl, a flash of white-hot pain across your face, and then you were on the floor, arms shielding your head from the flurry of blows raining down on you. This was normal, expected even. You had a type. The kind of man who used his fists to say “I love you” and would be back on his knees a day later, begging you to forgive him. This time wasn’t any different. Except it was. Because this time, Jill arrived mid-fight, probably because of the neighbors calling the police for the tenth time to complain about the noise.

You knew Matt would run when he saw the squad car lights outside. And Jill was right on his tail, tackling him to the ground before he could slip around the corner. At that moment, she wasn’t the same girl you’d grown up with. She wasn’t the same girl who used to climb trees with you or sneak into movies when you were twelve. Jill was a force. The man had barely turned before she had him on the ground, her knee in his back, arms twisted behind him in a position that left no room for movement. All you could do was watch, curled on the floor, nursing your ribs and swollen cheek. It was over in seconds.

He was gone before you could say a word, dragged out by Jill’s partner. You still couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The buzzing in your head made everything else feel distant, like you weren’t even there.

Jill pulled you up gently, her call cutting through the fog. “Come on, we need to get you out of here.”

And just like that, you were saved. Again.

Jill watches as they haul Matt away, his wrists bound in cuffs, his eyes glazed over with the same detached arrogance he’s had since the day she first laid eyes on him. Tall and thin like a stick, dressed in black from head to toe, his skin pale beneath the streetlights. He almost looks like a caricature, something out of a bad goth magazine, like he’s trying a little too hard to make the world believe he doesn’t care.

He's the type of guy who thinks the world is conspiring against him, the kind of guy who can talk about the system failing him when really it’s him fucking up and blaming everyone else. She can see right through his bullshit; she always could. He thinks he knows it all, thinks he has them all figured out, but he doesn't know anything. Not really. Not about the shit that matters. The stuff no one likes talking about: death and taxes and fucking the things they love.

Matt is just another asshole in a long list of assholes she's seen come and go, another face to file away in the back of her mind alongside the others: Rich the dealer, Stephen the abuser, and James the stalker.

Jill should be more satisfied than she is. But there’s no real victory in seeing someone like Matt brought down. Guys like him, they always come back, circling around the same mistakes like vultures, never really learning, never really changing. Still, seeing him taken away gives her a brief sense of relief. At least for tonight, you’re safe from him.

Her eyes shift to you, sitting on the edge of the couch, hands trembling as you hold an ice pack to your bruised cheek. You’re trying to keep it together—your face is set, lips pressed into a thin line, but Jill knows you better than that. Knows the small cracks in your facade; she can see them in your eyes—worried, uncertain.

She crouches beside you, brushing your hair back from your forehead. It’s greasy, matted with dried blood, but she ignores it. She just wants to get a good look at you, make sure you don’t have any other serious injuries. You lean into her touch, letting out a soft sigh. Something clenches in her chest, tight and painful.

"Want some water or something?" Jill offers, getting up.

You nod absently, still pressing the ice pack to your cheek. "He has beer in the fridge."

She walks into the kitchen, her boots clicking against the worn tile floor. The place looks worse in the light, cluttered with the kind of junk that accumulates in the lives of people who don’t have the energy to deal with it—empty beer bottles, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, takeout containers stacked in the sink. It smells like stale smoke and something sour, but Jill’s used to it by now.

The fridge door squeaks as she pulls it open. A few brown paper bags sit on the top shelf, along with some expired yogurt, half a jar of mayonnaise, and a bag of wilted spinach. She grabs a beer bottle, kicking the door shut with her foot. As she moves past the living room, the dull thud of music from next door pulses through the walls. Matt's neighbor doesn't seem bothered by the earlier disturbance. Or maybe he's just used to it—this is how things work here. The arrival of police officers is considered a minor inconvenience, one to be dismissed easily in favor of the convenience of a quick fix. There's a routine to this: call us when they break something, but try not to pay attention otherwise.

"Here," she says, tossing the cold drink at you. You fumble and catch the bottle, shaking it off before twisting the cap and taking a sip. Jill leans against the counter, popping the top off her own drink. Silence settles between the two of you, heavy and uncomfortable. She knows there are things she should say, words of reassurance, encouragement—but they don't come.

Matt’s place is as you’d expect it—cluttered, filled with mismatched furniture, posters of bands Jill doesn’t recognize plastered on the walls. There’s a stack of vinyl records in the corner, collecting dust. The dark curtains, the heavy, black candles cluttering the windowsill, the incense smoldering in its brass holder—it all lends itself to an air of drama that seems calculated to intimidate. It looks like a teenage girl's idea of goth chic mixed with a bit of Ikea modernism, cheap and disheveled. On the counter, next to an ancient microwave with a dent in it, sits a basket full of fruit. Strange choice, considering the rest of the interior. But the fruit bowl is almost empty, only a couple apples remaining inside—small red globes of waxed skin without even a speck of decay marring their glossy perfection.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jill finally asks, breaking the silence. She knows you’re used to her questions by now, the inevitable interrogation that always comes after she bails you out of these situations. But this time, she can't stop the edge, sharper than usual. "You told me you ended things with him."

You shrug, looking down at the half-empty bottle clutched between your hands. Jill notices your shifty knuckles are white around the glass neck. "I know, I just... Had stuff to take care of here."

There would be a dent in the metal if she was holding a can of beer instead of a bottle. "Stuff, huh? Like the dishes and laundry?"

Your jaw works wordlessly for a second or two before responding. "Jill, c'mon..."

To let out some restless energy, Jill walks over to a bookshelf, her eyes skimming over the titles. Most of it is typical goth fare—vampire novels, books on the occult, some Nietzsche thrown in for good measure.

“I don’t get it,” Jill says, running her fingers over the spines. “What the hell did you see in this guy? Yeah, he can hold a guitar, but Jesus Christ, that's about it."

“He wasn’t all bad, you know. He had his moments.”

“That goth broomstick couldn't have his fifteen minutes even with the help of god,” Jill mutters, picking up one of the sketchbooks. She flips through the pages, her eyes catching on a few rough drawings—mostly abstract shapes and half-formed figures. There’s talent there, but it’s buried under layers of arrogance and self-importance. She can practically hear Matt talking about his “vision,” about how he’s going to be the next big thing.

“He ever tell you about his grand plans to make it big?” Jill asks, settling down in the armchair across from you.

You snicker. “Oh, yeah. All the time. Said he just needed the right opportunity. Maybe sacrifice a goat or two, you know, to seal the deal with the devil.”

She pauses, looking up from the sketchbook. “Wait, what?”

You wave it off. “He was kidding. I think. He used to make jokes about it. Said he’d do whatever it took to make it, even if it meant some... satanic deal.”

Jill laughs, shaking her head. "I hope he didn't seriously believe in that shit."

"Nah, we both knew he didn’t mean it. Probably would have liked to meet some hot rock star babe though."

She flicks through the pages again. Most of the sketches are fairly standard—band logos, album covers, band photos with lots of dark makeup and shadowy poses. Some look like attempts at tattoo art, though the detail isn’t quite there. Nothing worth noting aside from the mediocrity of it all, the lack of originality. Typical shit one would expect from an amateur artist. "Let's get out of here. I want you to file that restraining order."

You follow without complaint, though she sees your brows pinch together. Your eyes flicker toward the hallway briefly, likely imagining all the chaos ahead. She knows this will be far from pleasant, the paperwork and court process, but she doesn’t budge.

It’s been a long day, and Jill’s still running on fumes when she pulls her car off the main road and into the quiet stretch of woods where she and you used to hang out as kids. The night air is crisp, cool against her skin as she steps out of the car, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth beneath her. She closes her eyes for a second, letting the quiet wash over her. No flashing lights, no chaos, just the sounds of the wind rustling through the trees. The woods have always been a refuge, a place to clear her head.

Jill leans against the hood of her car, her eyes scanning the tree line. It’s peaceful out here, secluded; she can understand why you liked it so much. Even though she knows you won’t be here tonight, it feels right to come to this spot. Somehow, being alone in these familiar surroundings helps ease the knot in her chest about the mess she had to clean up today.

The arrest, the paperwork, the endless questions about Matt. She shakes her head. The guy’s a disaster. Always has been. But she’s used to it by now—the aftermath of your bad choices, the inevitable fallout that always leaves her picking up the pieces.

She’s thinking about calling it a night when she hears a branch snap somewhere behind her. It’s a small sound, barely noticeable, but Jill’s instincts kick in. She straightens up, her hand automatically moving toward her side where her gun would be. But her holster’s empty. Of course it is. She’s off-duty.

“Hello?” Jill calls out, steady, calm. She’s used to strange noises in the woods. Could be an animal. Could be nothing. But something in the air shifts, and she can feel it—a presence, a weight, like someone is watching her.

Another snap, closer this time. Jill’s pulse quickens, but she keeps her composure. “This is a restricted area. Show yourself.”

It echoes through the trees, but there’s no response, just a rustling in the leaves like the forest itself is stirring.

Before she has time to react, something hard connects with the back of her head. The world tilts violently, and for a second, everything goes dark. Jill stumbles forward, her vision swimming, her knees hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. Pain explodes at the base of her skull, radiating outwards in sharp, jagged waves.

She tries to push herself up, but a boot presses down on her back, forcing her flat against the ground. The weight is crushing, and she gasps for air, her cheek pressed into the cold earth. She can taste blood, metallic and bitter on her tongue.

Jill’s mind races, her body struggling to catch up. She needs to move. She needs to fight back. But before she can gather the strength, she feels the cold bite of metal against her wrists, the familiar snap of handcuffs locking into place. Panic surges through her as she realizes she’s trapped, her arms twisted behind her back, her chest pinned to the dirt.

“Not so tough now, are we, officer?” someone sneers from above her, and she recognizes it immediately. Matt. The asshole ex. He leans down, his breath hot and sour against her ear, “Thought you could just waltz in, ruin my life, and walk away scot-free?”

His voice is low, shaky—nothing like the smooth, self-assured tone he usually carries. There’s something desperate about it, something unhinged. Jill clenches her jaw, trying to fight through the haze in her head. “Matt, you fucking idiot, what the hell are you doing?” she spits out, hoarse but defiant.

Matt’s boot presses harder against her back, and she bites back a grunt of pain. “I’m taking what’s owed to me,” he hisses, “You shouldn't have gotten involved. Should have left me be.”

Jill tries to twist her arms, to find a weakness in the handcuffs, but they are unyielding. She’s trapped, and the realization sinks in like ice in her veins. But she won’t give him the satisfaction of fear. “You think whatever you're planning will fix anything?"

She needs to stay calm. She needs to think.

She hears him pacing behind her, the dry leaves crunching under his feet. “You know, this wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.”

“Let me go, Matt. This isn’t going to end well for you.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, she hears him muttering to himself, his footsteps circling her like a predator stalking its prey. Jill forces herself to breathe evenly, to focus on the ground beneath her, the way the dirt smells like pine and decay. She can’t panic. If she panics, she's done for.

After what feels like an eternity, Matt crouches down next to her, grabs her by the shoulder and flips her onto her back. The world tilts again, the stars above blurring as her head spins from the impact. She blinks up at him, trying to focus, trying to get her bearings. His face looms above her, pale and gaunt, his eyes wild and frantic.

He’s holding a knife.

"You don't want to do this," she manages, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

He grins. It’s an ugly, shaking thing, a twisted mockery of a smile. "I don't?" he asks. "I really, really do. You see, I had everything planned out perfectly. And then you ruined it. So now, I have to improvise."

Jill's mind races. She has to keep him talking, buy herself some time. "So what's the plan now, asshole?"

His smile widens, and there's something wild in his eyes, something beyond reason. "Well, you're no virgin, but she also wasn't one, so I figured the ritual would still work. A little tweaking here and there. You'll do as well. Better, even, because I won't have to listen to your mewling about."

The knife glints in the moonlight as Matt waves it around. "You've fucked me over for the last time. I'm not gonna let you ruin my life again. This time, it's gonna be perfect. No more fuckin' up."

Jill's hands might be restrained behind her back, but she still has her legs. With a swift movement, she kicks out, aiming for his knee. There's a satisfying crunch as her foot connects, and Matt yowls in pain, stumbling back a few steps.

"You bitch!" he screams, clutching his injured leg. "Fuuuuuuck!" He lunges toward her again, but Jill is ready for him. She rolls to the side, dodging his attack.

Matt stumbles, falling to his knees in the dirt. He looks up at her, eyes filled with anger and hatred. "You're dead," he spits out. "Dead!"

With a sudden burst of strength, Jill manages to stand up. She's unsteady on her feet, but she knows she has to get out of there. She takes a few wobbly steps backward, putting some distance between her and the knife-wielding lunatic, but the blow she took to the back of her head has her dizzy, and she's seeing stars. Her vision blurs, and she feels like she's going to throw up. Those few seconds of pause are enough for Matt to tackle her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her lungs, the handcuffs digging painfully into her back, cutting the skin open. She can feel warm blood trickling down her spine, soaking into her pants.

He takes her by the hair and slams her head into the ground, over and over, making the pain worse, the world spinning and fading in and out of focus. Blood is now pouring freely from the back of her head, soaking into the dry, brown leaves below, as the kicking of her legs start slowing down, growing weaker, and then ceases entirely, her consciousness slipping away, and all she sees is the darkness closing in, the stars above blurring together until they are just pinpoints of light against the inky night.

The diner is busy today, louder than usual, the murmurs blending with the clatter of plates and the hiss of the coffee machine. It’s one of those days where the heat from the kitchen spills into the main dining area, making everything seem a little more frantic, a little more alive. You, the waitress with the pink uniform and the tired smile, moving from table to table, balancing trays and trying not to spill anyone’s lunch, taking orders and delivering meals with the practiced efficiency of someone who has seen this routine play out countless times before.

It’s the usual crowd. The regulars in their usual booths. The same old conversations about nothing, the same gripes about the weather, the same complaints about the town. And you, in the middle of it all, taking it in, nodding politely, pretending to listen. Pretending to care.

“Two eggs, sunny-side up, bacon crispy, toast buttered on both sides, and don’t forget the hash browns.”

“Make sure that coffee’s hot. None of that lukewarm nonsense.”

“The pancakes better be fluffy. Last time they were like eating cardboard.”

The orders come thick and fast, a barrage of demands and preferences, each one a little more ridiculous than the last. But you take it all in stride, a forced smile plastered across your face as you nod, jotting down notes on your worn pad.

You catch conversations in bits and pieces as you refill coffee cups and clear away plates, overhearing fragments that make your stomach twist into knots.

“... found him in the woods, just like that...”

“... they say it was a wolf, but...”

“... haven't had wolves around here for decades...”

"The poor bastard..."

You can’t help but listen in, your curiosity getting the better of you. You lean against the counter, pretending to clean up a spill, your ears straining to catch the conversation.

“... they found him hanging from a tree, gutted like a fish. Something tore out his throat, and the rest of him... well, let’s just say there wasn’t much left.”

Shit, has there always been that kind of animal in the woods you used to hang out around in the past? The thought makes a chill run down your spine. You think of Jill out there, patrolling those same woods, and a knot of worry settles heavy in the pit of your stomach.

You glance over at the table, catching the eye of one of the regulars. “Hey, what’s this all about? Some kinda bear attack?” you ask, trying to keep the concern out.

He looks at you with a mix of pity and excitement, the kind of excitement that comes from being the first to spread the news. “Nah, nothing like that,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “They’re saying it was some sort of ritual murder. He was only a couple feet away from the altar when they found him.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, your worry deepening. You don’t believe in any of that occult bullshit, but the idea of something out there, stalking the woods, is unsettling.

You swallow hard, the knot in your stomach tightening. It’s probably just small-town gossip, exaggerated over every telling. But you can’t shake the unease creeping over you. The woods were never dangerous, at least not in the way people are describing now. Sure, kids would scare each other with stories, but that was all they were—stories.

A scream of the coffee machine behind the counter jolts you out of your thoughts, and you give a small wave to the regular, who nods and goes back to his conversation. The rest of your shift passes in a blur of orders, coffee refills, and the low hum of town gossip that just won’t seem to die down. Every time you overhear a new piece of the story—“ripped apart,” “the altar,” “found him hanging,”—you feel your heart pounding harder in your chest.

You think of Jill. She’d usually brush off these kinds of stories, laugh at the town’s tendency to blow things out of proportion. But something about this feels different. You haven’t spoken to her since the whole mess with Matt ended, and the thought of her patrolling those same woods makes your skin crawl.

The clock ticks agonizingly slow as your shift nears its end. You keep glancing at the door, half expecting Jill to walk in and make a snarky comment about how she’s surprised you haven’t burned the place down yet. But she doesn’t show. And you can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

Finally, you toss your apron onto the hook in the back room and grab your jacket, your mind racing as you head out the back door of the diner. The cold night air hits you like a slap, but it does nothing to calm the growing anxiety gnawing at your insides. You pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts until you find Jill’s name. You tap it and hold the phone to your ear, listening to the ringing on the other end.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Your stomach drops.

Jill always answers her phone.

You stop on the sidewalk, staring down at your phone, your thumb hovering over the call button. Maybe she’s busy. Maybe she’s caught up in paperwork or on a call. But the longer the silence stretches, the more uneasy you feel.

You try again. Still nothing.

The street is quiet now, the distant hum of traffic barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. You shove your phone back in your pocket, and it feels heavy as a stone.

The walk home feels like it takes forever. Your mind races, replaying every bit of gossip you heard at the diner, every disturbing detail about the body found in the woods. You try to push it out of your head, but it clings to you, chewing at the edges of your thoughts like an overgrown worm.

When you finally get home, the house feels too quiet. Too still. You turn on the lights, hoping the brightness will chase away the dark thoughts swirling in your mind, but it only makes the emptiness feel more suffocating. You drop onto the couch, staring at your phone, willing Jill to call you back. But the screen stays dark.

Just as you’re about to try calling again, there’s a knock at your door.

You freeze. It’s late. No one comes by this late.

The knock comes again, louder this time. You force yourself to your feet and cross the room, your heart thudding in your chest as you open the door.

Two police officers stand on your porch, their expressions grim. One of them is Officer Mason, a guy you vaguely remember from high school, back when he was just another kid who never left town. The other is older, someone you’ve seen around but don’t know by name.

“Evening,” Mason says, clipped. “Mind if we come in?”

Your mouth goes dry. “Uh… sure.”

You step aside, letting them in. They don’t waste time with pleasantries, both of them standing stiffly in the middle of your living room, their hands resting on their belts.

Mason clears his throat. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Matt Rainer.”

Your stomach churns at the mention of his name. “What about him?”

The older officer steps forward, his eyes narrowing. “We understand you had a relationship with Mr. Rainer. We’d like to know if you’ve had any contact with him in the past few days.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I haven’t seen him since… since he was arrested.”

Mason nods, his expression unreadable. “We’re aware of that. But we’d like to know if he’s tried to contact you since then. Any phone calls? Texts?”

You shake your head. “No. Why? What’s going on?”

The two officers exchange a glance, and the older one speaks again, lower this time. “Mr. Rainer’s body was found in the woods earlier today. We’re still investigating, but... the circumstances are suspicious.”

Your brain malfunctions, stuck on the word—body. They say more stuff after that, but you don't process anything. Nothing but the single syllable rattling in your skull. Body, body, body. You knew something was wrong, but not this. Never this.

One of the cops pats your shoulder in a half-hearted attempt at comforting you. His fingers dig painfully into the meat of your arm, and he leads you somewhere—a room, a chair, the couch. When did you sit down? The world tilts on its axis, and everything moves in a sickening blur around you, reality bending out of focus. Someone turns the television off, cutting through the noise with clinical efficiency. Everything is muffled and hazy, like a dream. Or maybe it's already a nightmare.

You're shaking, your knuckles white from clenching your hands too hard. There's something wet on your face; you reach up to touch your cheek and find tears rolling down your cheeks. You wipe them away quickly, embarrassed. The cops aren't fazed by your sudden burst of emotion. They must have seen it enough times by now. Cops probably deal with this kind of shit every day in the line of duty—bringing bad news to unsuspecting victims.

"I don't... I don't understand, he... How did this happen?" you ask. Words feel sticky in your throat. Everything feels fuzzy and unreal.

Mason nods grimly. “We’re looking into it. But right now, we need to know if there’s anything you can tell us that might help.”

You stare at him dumbly for a moment, your mind struggling to catch up. Finally, you shake your head. You can feel tears pricking the corners of your eyes again, hot and bitter. "There's nothing. He was an asshole, but I didn't..." You trail off as a lump rises in your throat. You don't want to believe this is real. You don't want to believe he's really gone.

"Alright," the older cop says, his tone flat and professional. "Thank you for your time. We'll let you know if we have any more questions."

They both give you sympathetic looks, but you hardly register it. You can barely breathe through the tightness in your chest, the panic rising in your veins. They're already leaving, turning toward the door, and you follow them numbly, still in shock.

"Is... Can you tell Jill to call me after work?" you blurt out. Even though your thoughts are spinning, you don't want to be alone right now. You need her more than ever.

The police pause mid-stride, exchanging another look, and your stomach drops. The lead cop clears his throat.

"Jill wasn't in today," Mason says gently, almost apologetic. "She took some time off."

"Is she sick?" you ask. Panic threads through your veins, twisting icy fingers through every limb. Jill's never been one to miss a day of work. She loves her job more than anyone you know, except maybe Barry when it comes to making furniture.

"No idea," he answers honestly. His partner stands beside him, expression stoic. They're not here to chat; they want answers, and you don't have any to give. You'd hoped Jill would be able to shed some light on what happened with Matt, but it seems like you'll have to track her down yourself.

"Yeah, okay, yeah. I'm sorry for holding you up. Good day, officers."

You watch from the porch as they climb into their cruiser and drive away. You stand there for what feels like an eternity, staring down the now-empty road until finally, a chill sets in and brings you back to the present.

Anxiety slithers up your spine as you walk inside, mind reeling. You try dialing Jill again, but it goes straight to voicemail.

You must have fallen asleep at some point.

The TV is still on, casting a blue glow across the room. It flickers intermittently, causing shadows to dance across the walls like some demented puppet show. A commercial flashes across the screen, some ad for kitchen knives, before returning to static. You blink blearily, trying to adjust your eyes in the darkness. You haven't moved since you crashed here hours ago, slumped against the cushions like some discarded rag doll, and have no memory of closing your eyes, but now they’re heavy with sleep, your body stiff from the awkward angle you’ve been curled in for who knows how long.

It’s the noise that wakes you—the faint tapping of nails on glass followed by what sounds like something scratching along the side of your house. You sit up slowly, your heart already beating a little faster, your mind still half-caught in sleep, half in the waking world. It could be nothing. It’s probably nothing. Just the wind outside, or maybe an animal rustling around in the alley behind the house. But there’s that nagging feeling, that sense of wrongness that you can’t quite shake, crawling under your skin. That persistent urge to look.

You move quietly, making your way across the room toward the window nearest the front door. Every sound amplified by nerves, amplified by whatever adrenaline-soaked instinct makes you seek out what lurks in the dark corners of your mind. By whatever perverse curiosity forces your hand when everything inside tells you not to do it, not to look. You listen, pressing your ear against the cool glass, straining to hear anything over your pounding heart.

And then, again, louder than before, echoing through the night—that same scraping sound, the distinct clack of claws digging into wood, like someone scaling your house. Not stopping there either; the sounds seem to inch closer.

Shit, are you imagining things? You think about the cops you talked to earlier. About their words running over in your head again and again like an old scratched record skipping at the edges, stuck repeating the same note over and over until it becomes a broken chorus in your skull, grating on your ears until they bleed. Matt died in the woods, found hanging. Butchered, gutted like fish.

Your palms feel slick with sweat, and you have to force yourself to breathe evenly because right now? Right now, the air tastes like fear. It's sharp and metallic like blood coating the back of your tongue, and all of sudden you feel very small in this house, very exposed. Like prey caught unaware, just waiting for the teeth to close around its throat. And there's nothing, nothing outside but empty space waiting to swallow you whole.

You glance around the room, the shadows stretching long across the floor, the corners swallowed in darkness. Your heartbeat thunders loud enough for God himself to hear above it all—thump, thump, thump. Each beat echoes off your ribs until every part of you screams with it. You squeeze your eyes shut and listen, wait until you can hear the breathing coming from just beyond the front door, slow and deliberate. You're hearing things; there couldn't possibly be anyone there, and yet…

Every breath hitches in your lungs as it drags itself past lips too dry to move, each second punctuated with terror because what if—what if.

But when you finally manage to turn back toward the window once more, you find only silence filling the void around you. Not even the faintest sign of footsteps retreating into the night. You must have imagined it; the house is empty, the shadows playing tricks on tired eyes and nervous minds. Still, you stand rooted to the spot, fingers balled into fists by your sides until the last traces of adrenaline subside into nothingness.

Matt died today. It must have... it must have affected you more than you thought.

You exhale heavily, scrubbing both hands down your face with a low groan as tension seeps out of your muscles. It's ridiculous. Of course Matt's mutilated corpse wasn't standing outside your house at three in the goddamn morning, scratching at your windows like some freaky stalker. How fucking stupid.

"Fuckin' hell..." You mumble under your breath, stomping back to the couch and flopping down on the pillow, draping an arm over your eyes. The shadows lurch and sway behind your eyelids, leering over you as if laughing silently.

Creak.

Inside this time. Not outside.

The sound of something—someone—moving.

Your pulse quickens. The room feels too small all of a sudden, too quiet, like the air’s been sucked out of it. You swallow hard, trying to calm the irrational fear creeping up your spine. It’s just the house settling. It’s just your imagination playing tricks on you. You’ve been on edge ever since you heard about Matt, ever since the police came asking questions, ever since you couldn’t get ahold of Jill.

But there it is again. A soft scrape, like footsteps on the hardwood floor. This time, it’s closer.

Your breath hitches, and you hold it, frozen in place. It’s probably nothing. Probably. But you can’t ignore the way your heart is thudding in your chest, the way your hands are starting to tremble. Slowly, you swing your legs over the side of the couch, planting your feet on the floor, the cool wood beneath you sending a shock up your spine. You tell yourself to move, lurch for something to defend yourself with. All you can grasp is the remote. Shit. Well, it will do, but—

The sound is coming from behind you now. Closer, moving through the dark. If someone wanted to kill you, they already would have. So why aren’t they? Why hide?

You turn your head slowly, your eyes darting toward the hallway leading to the kitchen. The shadows there seem thicker, darker, like they’re hiding something just out of sight. And then, as your eyes adjust, you see it—a shape. Tall, still, hovering just beyond the edge of the room.

It takes a second for your brain to catch up, to process what you’re seeing, and when it does, you feel the blood drain from your face.

There’s someone standing there. Someone watching you.

Your heart pounds in your ears as you scramble backward, away from the figure looming in the corner of your vision. But before you can move far enough, before you can get your bearings, the intruder steps forward into the the light coming from the TV, and your breath catches in your throat because—

The relief that floods through you is instantaneous, but it’s quickly swallowed by confusion, by fear that lingers, sticking to your skin.

Jill stands there, framed by the flickering light of the television, her face half in shadow. Her hair is matted, clinging to her forehead like she’s been out in the rain, but there’s no rain tonight. Her clothes are dark, heavy with something you can’t quite place, the smell of damp earth and something metallic curling into the air between you.

“Jill…” comes out small, almost a whisper, but she doesn’t respond. She just stands there, her head tilted slightly to the side, watching you with those eyes—those familiar blue eyes that seem just a little too bright in the dim light. Something about her feels off, like the pieces don’t fit quite right, but you can’t put your finger on it.

You push yourself off the couch, your legs shaky as you take a step toward her. “Jesus, Jill, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches between you, confusing and unnatural, and it’s only then that you notice the way she’s standing—too still, too rigid, like she might shatter if she moves. And the smell, that godawful smell rolling off her like fog over a lake. It settles on your skin, makes your stomach churn. Her chest rises and falls slowly, each breath deliberate, controlled.

“Jill?” you repeat, your voice trembling now. You take another step toward her, but the closer you get, the more you realize what’s wrong.

Her clothes—her tank top and jeans—are soaked through. Not with water. Not with mud.

There, glistening in the dull glow of the screen, dripping fat droplets of something wet and shiny—something black as night, and thick as molasses. Darker red streaks run down her arms like veins, spidering across pale white skin that glows ethereal in the dim light coming from behind you. Her lips are parted slightly, stained the color of dried berries, in fact, her entire face streaked with something brownish and clotted at the edges, smeared around her mouth like paint. A thin line runs across her neck, just above her collarbone, not deep enough to reach bone but deep enough to ooze freely. Blood seeps from the wound, drip-drip-dripping onto the floor at her feet, each drop sounding deafeningly loud in your ears as it splashes against the wood beneath.

She looks like she bathed in a fucking fountain of blood. What the fuck?

“Oh my god…” The words slip out before you can stop them, half whispered, half choked as you struggle to breathe, and your arms reaching for her sway in the air.

She doesn't reply. Doesn't say anything at all, really; just stares at you with those glassy blue eyes that seem to hold nothing inside them now. No emotion, no recognition. Jill takes a step closer, her movements slow, deliberate. Her eyes never leave yours, and now that she’s closer, you can see the way they’re hollowed out, the way they seem to sink into her skull like she hasn’t slept in days.

“I’m hungry,” she says softly, low, barely audible above the faint crackle of static coming from behind her. "I'm so hungry." There's something there now—emotion, yes, but something twisted, something unnatural. The word drips with need, with desperation. It makes your skin crawl, makes your mouth taste sour with dread.

This is absurd, all so fucking absurd. Her in this state, somehow having broken into your house, talking about being hungry--you need to call an ambulance. She needs help. But the phone isn’t anywhere near you, and you don't know if you could reach it without passing her. Every nerve feels hyperactive, senses suddenly overwhelmed with...everything.

She’s standing just a few feet away from you now, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that you can see the way her lips part slightly as she breathes, like she’s barely holding herself together. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your hands are shaking, trying to tell yourself that this is Jill, that she would never hurt you, this isn't even about that, she...needs help.

"I'm gonna call an ambulance, okay? Just—" You cut yourself off when she takes a step closer, moving faster than before, her movements fluid like never before. Your body tenses, reacting instinctively, warning signals firing throughout every inch of muscle fiber.

You can smell it—blood, sweat, something rotten. Her eyes flicker down to your neck, and before you can react, she leans in, her nose brushing against your skin, sniffing along the curve of your throat. You freeze, holding your breath, waiting for her to back away, but she doesn't. Her lips graze along your jawline as she inhales deeply, the sound sending shivers through every nerve ending in your body, like she's drinking you in, savoring you like fine wine, her fingers resting lightly on your shoulders like spider legs touching delicate silk threads.

Her shaky breathing is amplified, and so is the horrifying sound of grinding teeth, her cheek still buried in your hair, your hands still clenched tightly by your sides because you've never seen Jill like this, never felt so uncertain of whether you're safe, whether anything around you is real.

"Are you scared?" she whispers, her lips just grazing your ear, and you nod faintly because it's true; fear crawls under your skin, ice cold and electric.

You don't know what the fuck is going on, but all your instincts scream danger at the contact, the uncanny valley making the hairs rise on the back of your neck, every muscle in your body pulled impossibly taut, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure she can hear it. Her breath is hot against your skin, and for a moment, you think she might bite, that she might sink her teeth into your flesh and tear you apart right there. But she doesn’t. Instead, she lingers, her lips hovering just above your neck, as if she’s waiting for something.

“Jill… please,” you whisper, barely audible, your body trembling.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting yours again, and for just a second, you see a flicker of something there—something familiar, something human. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same hungry, hollow look.

The next second, you find yourself pushed away so roughly that you stumble and fall, your tailbone slamming painfully against the floor. Your mind struggles to process the situation, but you force yourself to scramble backward, putting distance between you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her voice cracks, and for the briefest moment, she seems almost… lost.

Then, without another word, she turns and slips into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as she came. The front door creaks open, then closes softly, leaving you alone with the traces of blood on your floor, the scent of something foul and bitter clinging to your nostrils. You sit there for several moments, staring numbly at where Jill stood just moments ago.

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You sit there, staring at the door for what feels like forever, trying to make sense of what just happened. Jill was here. She was right here—standing in your house, covered in blood. The image of her pale skin streaked with red, speaking so hollow, it won’t leave your mind. You swallow hard, willing yourself to breathe normally, but the panic sits like lead in your stomach.

You reach for your phone again, your fingers trembling as you dial Jill’s number. Each ring feels like a punch to the gut, the silence on the other end suffocating. Still nothing.

Another ring. And another.

Stupid bitch, why are you calling her? Call the damn police.

Your eyes flicker to the bloodstains left behind on the floor, and your stomach churns. You can’t sit here and do nothing. She needs help. This isn’t just…normal. It’s not okay. She’s hurt, she’s bleeding, she needs someone. You force yourself to stand, the adrenaline giving you the momentum you need to move. You scroll through your contacts until you find the local police station, your thumb hovering over the call button for just a moment before you press it. You need them to check on Jill, make sure she’s safe, make sure—

The line clicks, and a voice answers on the other end.

"RPD, how can I assist you?"

“Hi, uh, yes—hello. I—I need to report… I think there’s been an accident. It’s my friend. She was just here, at my house, but she was… she was covered in blood, and I—” The words tumble out in a rush, shaky, breathless. You try to keep it together, but the fear is creeping in, the helplessness, the confusion.

"Slow down, ma’am,” the dispatcher says, her tone calm, professional. “You said your friend is hurt? Can you confirm her location?"

“I don’t know. She left. She didn’t say anything, she just—she was here and then she left. She’s not answering her phone. I don’t know what happened. She needs help,” you manage to get out, your thoughts running at a hundred miles an hour.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you can hear the dispatcher typing. “What did you say her name was?”

“Jill, Jill Valentine,” you falter, remembering her telling you to give as much information as possible to a dispatcher when you called, so that they would be of better help. “She’s an officer with the RPD.”

Since she was at your house just now and it's unlikely she could have gone far, you provide them with your own address, and go on to give them hers, just in case.

“We’ll send someone over to check on her right away. Do you need medical assistance as well?”

“No, no, I’m fine. I just… I’m worried about her.”

“Understood. Stay on the line with me, okay?”

You nod, even though she can’t see you, clutching the phone tight as you pace the room, your eyes darting back to the spots of blood. You feel the weight of it, pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe. You should have done this sooner. You should have sat her down the moment she stepped in here, all covered in blood and—

The dispatcher keeps you talking, asking questions about what Jill was wearing, what she looked like when she showed up. You answer as best as you can, but the details feel blurry, half-remembered, and it’s all mixing together with the dread about Matt, about his murder, everything colliding inside your head into this sickening mess. They probably got to Jill, whoever it was. Jill had to have escaped, hurt from the struggle. What were you thinking? Why didn't you call anyone sooner? Fuck!

The longer you talk, the more your mind drifts to worst-case scenarios. What if she’s hurt worse than you thought? What if something happened after she left? You should have stopped her, should have done something instead of just standing there in shock. The guilt twists like a knife in your gut.

A knock at the door jolts you out of your thoughts, and you freeze. It’s too soon for the police. Too soon for anyone, really.

The dispatcher’s voice pulls you back. “Ma’am? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you say, glancing nervously at the door. “Someone’s here.”

“Do you feel safe? Do you want us to send an officer to your location?”

“I—I don’t know,” you admit. You walk toward the door cautiously, peeking through the window. Relief floods you when you recognize the uniformed officer on your porch, but it’s quickly replaced by the gnawing anxiety that’s been eating away at you since Jill left.

The officer introduces himself, and after a brief exchange, he assures you that they’ll be conducting a welfare check on Jill immediately. He takes down your account of what happened, and though he tries to remain professional, you can see the concern etched into his features.

“I know Jill,” he says softly, trying to reassure you. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

But that’s the problem—you are worried. You can’t shake the image of Jill’s face, the hollow look in her eyes, the way she’d said she was hungry.

The officer leaves, promising to keep you updated, but once the door closes, you’re left alone again. The house feels too quiet, the shadows too deep. The bloodstains still cling to the floor like a reminder of how wrong everything is.

You collapse onto the couch, the weight of it all pressing down on you until it feels like you can’t breathe. You try calling Jill again, desperate to hear her voice, to know she’s okay, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

“Jill, please call me back. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m worried about you. Just… please, be okay.”

You end the call and drop the phone onto the cushion beside you, your hands shaking as you bury your face in your palms.

The next morning, the diner buzzes with the usual low hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware, the sizzle of eggs on the griddle. The world doesn't come to a stop just because yours did, and the routine of the morning rush goes on, the customers filtering in and out like a stream of ants marching to their daily duties.

But you? You feel out of place, like an alien dropped into the middle of this mundane scene. You move through the motions on autopilot, taking orders, pouring coffee, clearing plates. It's all a blur, really. Everything feels... off. Like the world is slightly tilted on its axis. You’ve barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, the image of Jill, drenched in blood, her hollow eyes fixed on you, haunted your dreams. When you did sleep, it felt more like passing out from exhaustion than getting any actual rest. And even though you washed the spots of blood from the floor until your hands were raw and red, you can still smell the metallic tang of it clinging to your nostrils, like a ghostly reminder of what you can't quite comprehend.

You found yourself in the emergency room after that to see if Jill had been brought in. She hadn't. The police said they’d update you, but there’s been radio silence. You check your phone every five minutes, but nothing.

You try to focus on work, to lose yourself in the simple tasks, but you can't shake off the dread that's settled in the pit of your stomach. Every time the bell over the diner's door chimes, announcing a new customer, you can't help but look up, hoping—praying—that it'll be her walking through that door. That she'll sit down at the counter, order a plate of bacon and eggs with that easy smile of hers, and assure you that it's all going to be okay. You imagine that so vividly, it hurts when the door swings shut without Jill stepping through it.

Instead, it's just another stranger. Another face in a sea of faces that blur together.

"You alright, kid?" the waitress calls out from behind the counter. She's been here longer than anyone, and her voice carries a rasp that only years of smoking can give. She's looking at you with that concerned, maternal gaze she often does when you're at your lowest. "Ya' haven't touched yer' coffee."

"Fine," you manage to say, forcing a smile that you hope looks more genuine than it feels.

The waitress arches an eyebrow but doesn't press further. She returns to filling up coffee cups, the sound of the stream hitting the ceramic almost drowning out the low chatter around you. Almost.

And then, the bell above the door jingles yet again.

You don’t look up right away, too focused on wiping down the counter, trying to keep your hands busy. But you hear it—the unmistakable sound of boots on the tiled floor, the shuffle of someone sliding into the booth at the far end of the diner.

You glance up, and your heart nearly stops.

It’s her.

Jill.

She’s sitting there, looking as calm and composed as ever, her blue eyes fixed on the menu, a slight furrow in her brow as she reads. Side-part brown hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and no uniform, but the same leather jacket you’ve seen her wear a thousand times.

There’s no blood. No hollow eyes. She looks like she always does, like everything is fine, and you’re frozen in place.

For a moment, you stand frozen, staring at her like she’s some kind of ghost. Maybe you’re still dreaming. Maybe this is just another twisted nightmare, another hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much fear. But no—she’s real. She’s there.

Your feet move before your brain catches up, and suddenly you’re walking toward her, the damp rag in your hand forgotten. Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which make it past your lips as you approach her booth. You stop a few feet away, uncertain.

She looks up at you then, her blue eyes meeting yours, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. She smiles, and it’s so normal, so familiar, that it throws you off balance. It’s the kind of smile she’d give you on any other day. “Hey,” she says casually, as if nothing is wrong. As if last night was just a bad dream.

Next thing you know, tears start streaming down your face, and you're practically sobbing. You barely reach her before she stands from her seat to catch you, and you throw your arms around her, holding tight.

Jill’s arms wrap around you, her hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. She smells different—like the woods after a heavy rain, with a hint of smoke and something else you can't quite place. But her touch is familiar, reassuring. “I should have come to you instead of those two, I told them hitting you with the news out of the blue would be... Shit, the patrol and paperwork were insane after the last call…” she says into your shoulder, soft and apologetic. She pulls back slightly to look at you, wiping a tear from your cheek. “I'm sorry, I really should have been the one to let you know."

You don't understand any of what she's saying, it's entirely irrelevant to appearing in the middle of your house like a final girl from a horror movie. "I don’t—" You sniffle and try to compose yourself, but the words just come tumbling out. "Where the fuck did you go? Why didn't you pick up your phone? Are you okay? What happened to you?"

Your barrage of questions hangs in the air, and the noise of the diner fades away as you focus solely on her. The other patrons seem to disappear, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of tension. You notice the way her brow furrows, a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Just then, your manager, a gruff man with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, appears next to the booth. “You’re on the clock, kid. No chit-chatting. Get back to work.”

You shoot him a look that’s part desperation, part defiance, but he’s already walking away, his heavy footsteps echoing off the linoleum floor. A moment of silence passes between you and Jill. You can hear the hum of the refrigerator units, the distant clatter of dishes in the back. But your focus remains on her, on the way her expression has shifted, a mask of calm slipping over any trace of vulnerability.

She clears her throat, breaking the silence. “Look, we can talk later, okay? When you’re off work. Let’s not make a scene here.” She glances around, and you follow her gaze, noticing the curious glances from other customers, the waitress behind the counter eyeing you both warily. You feel the tension in your shoulders ease slightly, knowing that at least she’s not going to leave without explaining anything, but the knot in your stomach is still there.

You manage a small nod, your eyes still searching her face for answers. “Promise?” you whisper, hating how small you sound, hating how desperate you feel. Jill’s hand, warm and familiar, squeezes your arm reassuringly.

“Pinky,” she says firmly, and for a fleeting moment, the comedic seriousness makes you feel like everything is back to normal. Like you’re still the two of you against the world, secrets shared under the cover of night, laughter spilling out between breathless kisses that mean everything and nothing all at once.

But then the manager appears again, his face stern, gruff. “Back to work,” he barks, his eyes flicking between you and Jill. “I don’t pay you to socialize.” His words are like a bucket of ice water, dousing the warmth that had started to thaw the cold knot of worry in your chest. With a sigh, you break away from Jill, the cool air of the diner replacing the heat of her body as you step back.

That last look Jill gives to the man makes you uneasy. Her gaze lingers, not with the usual warmth, but with something else. Something darker, sharper, like the glint of a knife in the moonlight.

When your shift finally ends, you step out into the cool night air, the neon glow of the diner's sign casting a harsh luminescence against the inky blackness. Your muscles ache from hours of running back and forth, your legs threatening to buckle beneath you as you drag yourself away from the fluorescent lights. A gentle breeze blows through the alleyway, caressing your skin with its cool touch, cleansing it from the sticky humidity that clings to you like an unwanted lover. You take a deep breath, reveling in the scent of wet concrete mixed with old grease and cigarette smoke that fills your nostrils.

And then you see her—Jill, standing there like a vision under the flickering light of a streetlamp, her silhouette dancing against the shadows that seem to embrace her like old friends. Her eyes follow you as you approach, those icy blues seeming to bore into your very soul despite the darkness that surrounds you both.

"There she is," she sighs, pushing off the wall with a fluid grace that sends shivers down your spine despite the warmth of the night air. She moves like water flowing over stones, smooth and effortless. "I thought I missed you."

Your heart leaps into your throat as you cross the distance between you two, fingers brushing along the supple leather of her jacket as if it were a lifeline. "Jill," you whisper hoarsely, "what happened last night? Where did you go?"

But Jill's smile falters, her brow furrowing in concern. "Whoa, slow down. What are you talking about?"

Your stomach drops faster than a lead balloon, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at her in disbelief. "What?" You ask brokenly, searching her eyes for some kind of recognition or understanding. "I thought... I thought whatever happened to him got to you too—"

She moves closer then, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder as if calming a skittish horse. "Hey," she murmurs soothingly, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. "Breathe. Look at me." There's a frown tugging at her lips now, but it doesn't reach her eyes - those icy eyes still burning with concern for you. "I'm okay," she reassures softly, drawing strength from somewhere deep within herself to offer comfort when all she seems to feel is confusion and fear. "I don't know what you're talking about but I'm okay. I called sick yesterday, slept most of the day after dealing with the double homicide on 4th." She pauses, her gaze steady, almost gentle. “Are you sure you didn’t just have a bad dream? I mean... after everything, it's not hard to see why you might have nightmares."

"No," you shake your head furiously, feeling hot tears pricking at your eyes again because she's lying, you fucking know she's lying. You cleaned her blood off your floor. You saw her. You felt her.

“I didn’t dream it. I know you were there, Jill. I called the police. They looked for you. They said they’d do a welfare check because I told them you were hurt.”

"So that was you," Jill sighs, running a hand through her hair, a tired look settling on her face. "They came by this morning, Asked me some questions. I told them I was fine. And I am." Her tone turns impatient then, not unlike that of a teacher trying to explain something obvious to their student. "But you... I think you might be a little shaken up."

"You're calling me a liar?"

She lets out a sigh again, like she's exasperated already, and walks over, grabbing your arm gently but firmly, leading you further down the darkened alleyway away from prying eyes, into the path that leads to your home. Away from the streetlights, with only a sliver of moon hanging above you. Birds have gone quiet, and the only sound left is the chirping of crickets singing in the tall grass growing along the edge of the asphalt. "I didn't say that, I just think that maybe you're stressed. I know it couldn't have been easy for you, knowing about what happened to him."

"But you were covered in blood, I—"

"Enough of this for now, c'mon. Let's get you home."

Something doesn't feel right. She's too calm, too confident, and the grip she has on your hand is too tight.

"You were bleeding, you had this...cut on your neck and—"

This is wrong. The way she's speaking, the way she's acting, it's all wrong. She's Jill, yes, but not the Jill you know.

"Jill, I'm serious."

"So am I." She leans in, and the scent of something metallic, like copper, hits you. "I think I'd remember being at your house, drenched in blood."

You swallow hard, your throat feeling dry as sandpaper. You want to believe her, you really do. But something about the way her eyes linger on you, the way she seems to be studying you, makes your skin crawl.

"I cleaned up all the blood you left behind." Your words are firm, but there's a slight tremor in them that you can't hide, a fear that's been growing since last night, a creeping suspicion that there's more to this than just a shared nightmare. "You're telling me all the bloodied rags and towels were from a nosebleed?"

Her gaze narrows and she takes a step back, the shadows seeming to cling to her like a second skin. “I legitimately don't know. It could be. Or it could be a break-in. If you're this sure, we could... Police came by to your house, right? Did you let them in? If you're talking to me like this, you haven't... Why didn't you? They would've collected the blood as evidence!"

"Because—" You falter, unsure of your own reasoning. Because she was your friend? Because you didn't want to see her hurt? Because you weren't sure what to believe?

She's really talking like it wasn't her and it's really starting to freak you out. The idea of some stranger in your home, bleeding everywhere, is a horrifying thought, but the idea that the one in your home was a bleeding Jill who refuses to admit to it is somehow even more unsettling. Anxiety is building in your chest like the pressure of a steam engine. "You were there," you finally say, "You were there, and you were covered in blood."

Jill shakes her head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. One side of her face is lit up by the faint moonlight, the other cast in shadow. Her eyes seem to reflect that same light, an eerie mirror of the pale glow from above. "Come on," she pulls you lightly, "We really need to get you home."

The walk back feels suffocating, each step heavier than the last. Jill’s hand stays locked around yours, just firm enough to keep you close but not hard enough to hurt. The night wraps around you like a shroud, the faint chirp of crickets the only sound aside from your own ragged breathing.

She walks a step ahead of you, guiding you through the dim alleyway, but her movements feel strange—too fluid, too deliberate. As if every step is part of some careful choreography. You keep trying to pull your hand away, just to test if you can, but Jill holds fast, her grip unwavering, it becomes almost like a game during your silent walk.

Her “Almost there,” blends with the night air. “We’ll get you inside, and everything will feel better.”

The path to your house looms ahead, bathed in shadow. Your house is just another silhouette in the dark, but it feels miles away, and every step toward it drags you deeper into some unseen pit, as if the very ground beneath your feet is pulling you in.

You try again to wrestle your hand free, but Jill’s grip tightens—not painfully, just enough to make your pulse jump.

“Jill,” you say, voice brittle with fear, “you need to cut the bullshit and tell me what’s going on because I'm not falling for any of this. What happened to you?”

“I’m fine,” she insists, but there’s something hollow in her words, like she’s reciting a script.

You finally yank your hand away, the sudden break in contact leaving you feeling cold, exposed. Jill stops, turning slowly to face you under the moon’s pale glow. Her expression is unreadable, a mask of calm that only makes your skin crawl.

"Why are you acting like this? I saw you. I know I saw you."

Jill’s gaze darkens, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, she seems... off-kilter, like she’s struggling to hold on to something slipping through her fingers.

Then she takes a step closer, and you instinctively back away, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

"Stop fucking with me," you whisper.

Jill's head tilts, the corners of her mouth curling into the faintest of smiles—like she finds your fear... amusing.

"You always were a little jumpy," she huffs, almost affectionate.

Something shifts in the air between you, thick and charged, like the calm before a storm. And then, so quickly it’s almost imperceptible, Jill lunges—not toward you, but past you, toward the house.

Your stomach drops. You spin on your heel, chasing after her as she strides up the front steps like she owns the place, throwing the door open with a casual ease that makes bile rise in your throat.

"Jill, wait—"

But she’s already inside, her silhouette swallowed by the darkness of your entryway.

The house feels colder than it did before, the shadows thicker, more oppressive. You follow her inside, flicking on the light switch by the door, but the light flickers once, then dies with a soft pop, plunging the room back into darkness.

Panic claws at your throat. You stumble forward blindly, your hands outstretched, until you find her standing in the middle of the living room, her back to you.

"Jill. Please."

She turns slowly, the moonlight spilling through the window catching the edges of her face. For a fleeting second, you swear you see something—her smile stretched too wide, her eyes reflecting too much light, like the face of something wearing her skin.

"I told you," she says softly, almost a purr, "you’ve got nothing to be afraid of."

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, you’re not sure if she’s trying to comfort you... or warn you.

You stumble back inside, slamming the door shut behind you, your chest heaving like a bellows. The night outside felt too alive, and the house—too still. Cold air clings to your skin, though the room is sweltering. The lamps overhead buzz faintly, flickering like they might die at any moment, throwing jagged shadows against the walls.

You don’t bother to take off your shoes or throw your bag on the counter as you usually would. Instead, you march straight toward the back room—toward the place where Jill had stood, dripping in blood just last night. The room feels darker now, even though nothing’s changed. The curtains are still drawn, the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the thin fabric. But something about the room feels oppressive, as if it knows the secrets it holds, as if it’s waiting for you to uncover them.

The bloodied towels, the ones you hastily stuffed into the corner of the laundry basket—they should still be there. They have to be there. You drop to your knees, fingers scrabbling through the dirty laundry, feeling the rough fabric of jeans and old t-shirts slipping between your fingers, but... nothing.

They’re gone.

Your heartbeat stumbles in your chest. You dig deeper, half-expecting the fabric to appear somehow, like it’s hiding at the bottom, but all that meets your hands is more useless, mundane cloth. You shove the basket aside and rush to the trash can, flipping the lid open. The garbage bag is there, tied neatly as if nothing’s out of place. Your hands tremble as you untwist the knot, breath coming in short gasps. You tip the can over, spilling its contents across the floor—crumpled wrappers, old takeout containers, the usual mess of your life. No blood. No towels.

Nothing.

Your breath quickens, chest heaving. The room spins for a second, the edges of your vision blurring as you stumble back. You grab onto the edge of the counter to steady yourself until you slide down safely to sit on your heels. Where are they? Jill was here, she was bleeding—you cleaned it up. You remember the sticky warmth of her blood on your hands, the awful metallic tang clinging to your fingers as you scrubbed it off the floor.

But there’s no proof now.

You feel the ground shift beneath you, like the rug’s been yanked from under your feet. Your pulse races, pounding against your ribcage as panic sets in.

Jill must have cleaned it up.

There’s no other explanation. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would she cover it up? And how could she have done it without you noticing?

Your mind churns with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Was it even real? You shake your head, pushing the thought away. No, no, you’re not losing it. Jill was here. She was covered in blood. It was real.

The ground beneath your feet feels like it’s shifting, like the very foundation of your reality is crumbling away. Jill—what did you do?

The floor tilts beneath you, and suddenly you’re stumbling to your feet, scrambling for the bathroom. You barely make it to the sink before you’re bent over, dry heaving, your stomach twisting violently. Nothing comes up, but the spasms wrack your body, each one more painful than the last. You gasp for air, clinging to the edges of the sink as your legs shake beneath you.

The image of Jill, bloody and broken, flashes behind your eyes, and you squeeze them shut, trying to block it out. Trying to make sense of it all. Jill did something. She has to be hiding something.

You force yourself to breathe, gulping down air until your chest aches. The world is spinning out of control, and all you can do is hang on, hoping that the pieces will fall back into place.

But they won’t.

You straighten up, your hands gripping the edges of the sink so hard your knuckles turn white. You have to go to her. There are no more answers here.

You leave the bathroom, not bothering to clean up the mess you’ve made. You grab your coat, your mind a blur of frantic thoughts as you head for the door.

The sky outside is a hazy slate, the kind of early twilight that swallows everything in shades of gray. It stretches thin across the town, bleeding shadows into corners and down alleys. The streets are quieter than usual, but your heart won’t stop hammering, adrenaline urging your legs forward, each step heavier than the last as you approach Jill’s apartment.

You’ve crossed a line, you know that. This isn’t something friends do—not something anyone in their right mind would do—but you can’t stop. Not now. Not when the pieces are dangling so close, just out of reach. You need proof. Proof that you’re not crazy, that what you saw was real, that Jill... Jill isn’t lying. Or worse—that she doesn’t remember.

Her apartment looms ahead, the building silent under the dull hum of the streetlights. You scan the windows for signs of life—none. She’s not home. It’s a calculated risk, but the idea of waiting, letting this simmer, makes you feel like your skin is peeling away inch by inch.

You slip through the entrance quietly, heart pounding in your ears. Jill’s apartment is at the end of the hallway, third door on the left. The key beneath her doormat hasn’t moved—it’s exactly where it’s always been. She trusted you enough to know where she keeps it.

It twists in the lock with a soft click, and the door swings open.

You step inside, the door shutting behind you with an unnerving finality. It’s too quiet in here. The air feels stagnant, as if something is lurking beneath the surface, waiting to slither into your mind the second you let your guard down. You flip the light switch, but the glow is dim, making everything look a little off—a little wrong.

Her apartment is too neat.

Jill’s always been tidy, but this is different. Everything feels staged, like she put everything exactly where it needed to be, not just to live but to erase something. The cushions on the couch are fluffed, the coffee table wiped clean of fingerprints. There’s not a single piece of clutter—no gym socks strewn across the floor, no water bottle half-forgotten by the door.

It’s... sterile.

And that, somehow, makes it worse.

Your shoes are silent against the hardwood floor as you start moving through the apartment, your hands brushing over surfaces, your heart thudding faster with each step. There’s nothing unusual in the living room, nothing hidden beneath the cushions. Nothing personal.

You slip into the kitchen, the metal gleam of the sink catching the faint light. It’s spotless. Her fridge is stocked with a few water bottles and leftovers—nothing strange. No sign of... of anything. No blood. No Matt.

But that makes sense, right? There wouldn’t be blood here. It doesn’t make you feel any less like you’re spiraling, though, your mind playing tricks on you as you search, imagining what could be hidden in these ordinary objects.

You move to her bedroom.

The door creaks as you push it open, the faint scent of Jill’s body wash lingering in the air—something clean, citrusy, familiar. You exhale slowly, grounding yourself, but the knot in your stomach only tightens as you glance around the room.

Too perfect. The bed is neatly made, the closet doors closed. You step inside, careful not to make a sound, and head straight for her dresser, your trembling hands prying open each drawer one by one.

Everything seems ordinary—socks, folded t-shirts, nothing out of place. But then your fingers graze the edge of something solid, something not meant to be there. Your heart skips a beat as you pull it free from beneath a pile of clothes: a black gym bag.

You set it down on the bed, your breath hitching. The zipper feels stiff under your fingers, reluctant, like it knows what’s waiting inside. You tug it open.

And that’s when you see them.

Matt’s things.

They’re tucked carefully into the bag like souvenirs—a necklace you recognize as his, still tangled in the same chain it always was. His phone, the cracked screen smeared with what looks like dried blood. A wallet, black leather, with a folded receipt poking out of the side pocket. Blood crusts the edges, faint but unmistakable.

Your breath hitches, cold air slicing through your lungs like a knife. Your pulse pounds in your ears, your body screaming that this is wrong—so wrong. Jill shouldn't have these things. Why would she? Why would she keep evidence?

The floor tilts beneath you as panic flares hot and electric, sending a jolt of nausea through your gut. Your brain scrambles for answers that refuse to come, twisting like thorny vines around the fragile framework of your thoughts. This isn’t right. Jill is a cop, for god’s sake. She wouldn’t hold onto shit that ties her to Matt’s death—would she?

Your hand trembles as you drop the wallet back into the bag, and the faint scent of dried blood clings to your fingertips. This isn't real. This can't be real. You try to make sense of it, but the pieces don’t fit. Not like this.

And then the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate—cuts through the suffocating silence.

You freeze. Every muscle in your body locks tight, and you feel the air seize in your throat as the door creaks open.

Jill steps inside.

The dim light from the hallway spills in behind her, casting her figure in jagged silhouettes. Her shadow stretches long across the floor, warping unnaturally in the fractured glow from the streetlights outside. She looks different—off—in a way that makes your skin prickle with unease. Her hair hangs loose, damp strands clinging to her pale cheeks like ribbons. Her eyes catch the faint light—too sharp, too focused, like a predator locking onto prey.

For a moment, she stands there, completely still.

Her eyes sweep the room before settling on you, her gaze slow and deliberate. You see the flicker of recognition, the slight twitch of her lips—but it’s not relief that settles there. It’s something closer to resignation.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says quietly, a low rasp that scrapes against the silence. There’s no anger in her tone—just a weary kind of sadness, as if she already knows how this ends. "But I guess it was only a matter of time."

“What the fuck, Jill?” you manage, cracking under the weight of fear and disbelief. “Why do you have these?"

She steps further into the room, her movements slow and deliberate, too fluid to be entirely human.

The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and jagged like broken glass cutting your throat on the way up. The crime scene descriptions are blending together with the amount of blood that was on Jill that night. You can't stop the pieces from pulling themselves together. "Did you... Did you kill Matt?"

For a split second, her expression falters.

The mask slips. And underneath it is... exhaustion. Regret.

"Oh god." You choke on the feeling of rising bile, staggering back and covering your mouth at the same time. Your other hand doesn't know what to do, flailing for a moment before you drop it to your side. "Oh, fuck. I—Jill, what have you done?"

“It wasn’t supposed to go that way,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. Her hands hang limp at her sides, her posture slouched like someone carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. "I tried to stop him. I did. But..."

"But what, Jill?" Your voice rises, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "You killed him. Jesus Christ, you killed him, and now—"

“He... he ambushed me in the woods, okay? He tried some kind of... ritual or whatever, like he knew what he was doing. But he didn’t. He fucking found it on the internet.”

The words come out in fragments, disjointed and unsettling, but the more she speaks, the more her story begins to take shape—a horrifying shape.

“I tried to stop him,” she says, as if the memory itself is cutting her from the inside. Her eyes are darting around, as if she’s seeing the scene play out in front of her all over again, and every word is punctuated by a sharp inhale. "I tried to talk him down. I tried to stop it." She pauses. “But... he already had the knife.”

She stops, her breath hitching. Her hands shake as she brings them up, staring at her palms like they’re stained with something only she can see. Maybe they are.

“And then I woke up,” she continues. “I should’ve been dead, but I wasn’t. I was... different.” She looks at you then, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I didn’t mean to... but it was too late. Matt was already... He was there and I was fucking starving.”

Starving. You feel it settle deep in your bones, curling around your ribs like barbed wire.

A slow, creeping horror crawls beneath your skin. This is Jill. Jill, the person who’s always saved you, always been your rock—and now she’s standing here, telling you she killed... ate someone because she couldn’t help herself.

"I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t know how. I thought... I thought if I stayed away, maybe it wouldn’t get worse. But I couldn’t—" She scrubs a hand down her face, fingers trembling, you see that her nails are digging into her skin, leaving red half-moon marks. "I ended up at your place because I was scared, okay? I still am.”

You stare at her, disbelief and horror warring within you. “Jill...” you breathe, but you don’t know what to say, how to fix this. The room feels too small, too close, and all you can see is Jill, transformed into something you don’t recognize.

She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. “I can’t stay here,” she says softly, and the words hang in the air between you, heavy and final.

Your chest tightens, panic clawing its way up your throat. “What are you talking about?” you demand, taking a step towards her, but she holds up a hand, stopping you in your tracks.

“This...” she says, gesturing to the room, to herself. “This isn’t me anymore. I can’t—” Jill swallows hard, her eyes meeting yours. "You don’t get it,” she says, soft and cold, like ice running down your spine. “It’s not just about Matt. It’s going to happen again. It’s already happening, even now.”

Her eyes meet yours, dark and intense, and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Jill takes a step forward, her breathing growing heavier, her hands twitching at her sides. You step back, instinctively.

“I don’t want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt anyone,” she declares, but the hunger in her eyes tells a different story. “But I don’t know how to stop it.”

She takes another step forward, her movements slow and deliberate, and you can see the way her body shakes with the effort to hold herself back. Her eyes are locked on you, dark and glassy, and for a moment, you think she might lunge. Might tear you apart right there.

Your throat tightens as you struggle to find words, but all that comes out is a strangled whisper. “Jill...”

She reaches for you, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity through your body. You can feel the tension in her, the struggle she’s fighting—and losing. Her lips part, and you can hear her breathing, sharp and ragged, like she’s on the verge of snapping.

“I can't leave you," you say, trying to hold onto whatever remnants of her you can still see. "I won't leave you. We can figure something out! Please—"

But before you can finish, Jill lunges. Her hands are suddenly on your shoulders, pushing you back with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. Your back hits the wall behind you, and you gasp for breath as she presses against you, one leg sliding between yours to keep you in place. The movement is almost too quick for your eyes to follow, one second she is pulling your hair back and the next she is biting your shoulder.

Your scream is lodged in your lungs, the pain searing and blinding. You can hear her teeth grinding against your skin, tearing through the flesh, the sound of it wet and terrible. There's a sickening crunch of bone as her jaw locks around your collar, her teeth scraping against the bone, and you can feel every inch of her mouth on you.

Your body jerks against the wall with the pain of it, trying to get away, but she doesn't move. Her grip on your shoulder is iron tight, and her nails dig into your skin, drawing blood. She bites deeper, harder, and your vision blurs with the agony of it, eyes rolling back in your skull.

You can smell your own blood, hot and coppery, filling the room, and you can feel the warmth of it running down your chest. You can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stare at the ceiling, your body wracked with shudders as you try to process what is happening.

Jill is eating you, and all you can feel is a deep, terrible ache. It's like she's carving out a piece of you, her teeth tearing into the soft meat of your shoulder, ripping away chunks of your flesh. You can hear her breathing, feel her chest rise and fall against yours, and you're sure that she can hear your heart pounding in your ears. She pulls away for a moment and licks your blood off her lips, mouth smeared crimson. There's so much of it everywhere, drenching the both of you; you've never seen this much blood before. You swear you can see strands of meat caught between her teeth when she smiles at you, almost wistful.

You are sliding down the wall, losing strength, but she's holding you in place, pinning you there with her hips. "I wanted to taste you," Jill breathes, rough, hungry. Her hand slides down your stomach, pushing under the hem of your shirt, nails scratching along your skin as if trying to find a softer spot to sink into. "I've always wanted to."

"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop yourself.

There's no answer. At least not a verbal one. Jill leans forward, pressing her mouth against yours, her kiss desperate and devouring—a clash of teeth and tongues that leaves you reeling. Your hands scrabble for purchase against her arms, her back, trying to ground yourself as she steals the breath from your lungs. There's nothing pleasurable about it, your body is spasming from shock, blood pooling in your mouth as Jill continues her assault. Then there are fingers digging into the bite wound on your shoulder, making you gasp into her mouth. The pain is sharp and immediate, flooding your senses, sending your mind spinning. You feel lightheaded, dizzy, like you might pass out—and maybe that would be a mercy right now.

Jill pulls away with a low moan, a string of pink saliva and blood hanging between her swollen lips. You see it glisten under the faint streetlights streaming through the window; your spit mixed with hers and mingling together like this moment is something forbidden or sacred. Or both. Her eyes flash red as they meet yours, filled with longing—hunger—but there's something else there, too. Something human. A part of her fighting for dominance over whatever dark urges drive her now.

You stare at Jill, transfixed and terrified, waiting for what happens next. Will she attack? Kill you outright or continue toying with your emotions? Part of you wants her to rip you to shreds so that your misery will finally end, while another part yearns desperately for the familiar closeness that seems so far out of reach.

Whatever happens, whether it hurts or kills you, won't bring her back completely. Your heart aches at the realization, tears welling in your eyes as you remember everything that was lost. It feels like someone is tearing at your insides, clawing at your chest and squeezing until you can't breathe. But despite everything—all the pain and suffering Jill has inflicted on you—you still love her more than anything, despite knowing that she may never be able to reciprocate those feelings again. You swallow hard against the lump rising in your throat. "I'm sorry… Forgive me."

Jill freezes then, blinking twice like she isn't sure what just happened. She stares down at the spot where she bit into your shoulder, her nostrils flaring slightly, and you're dropped unceremoniously when she lets go and staggers back. For a moment, time stands still. Your blood on her lips, and a look of confusion etched across her face like she'd forgotten where she was or why she was doing this, almost makes you want to laugh because it's ridiculous. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, and the red smear remains even after multiple swipes; the contrast between her pale skin and the stain reminds you vaguely of paint spills spreading across white tiles. Jill shakes her head like she's trying to clear some fog.

"No," she chokes out finally, as if she's seeing something in front of her she couldn't possibly fathom existing before, "No, no—I told you to run!"

You manage a smile through clenched teeth, your vision blurring with unshed tears. The pressure you're trying to hold down to stop your shoulder from bleeding keeps building up in your chest, threatening to explode. It's agonizing, but all you care about now is her: the only person you've ever trusted. Your best friend. The one you promised forever, even though she didn't ask for it and probably wouldn't have accepted it when you were young and naive enough to believe it would last forever. You should hate her right now for destroying what could've been more than just friendship over the course of many years without knowing any better, but somehow, all you feel towards Jill is sympathy. A crushing pity born out of helplessness, like watching someone fall off a cliff. Knowing that there's nothing either of you can do, that it'll never be the same again, except worse: far worse.

It's then when she notices her hands covered in blood—your blood, specifically—which turns them scarlet instead of ivory white. They shake visibly, but not out of fear or disgust; rather, her entire body trembles like an animal waiting for release. Her eyes flutter shut momentarily, mouth twisting in a grimace before falling open slightly with heavy panting that soon becomes louder and more erratic until finally erupting into short gasps, followed by several sharp exhales. Finally, a scream pierces the air, piercing and desperate and angry, so unlike Jill who has always been calm, rational, collected.

The scream lingers in the air, sharp and jagged, ripping through the quiet space like glass shattering against stone. Jill crumples to her knees, her hands clawing at her own hair, as if she can somehow peel away the monster she’s become. Her body convulses, wracked by sobs that come in heaving gasps, each one more desperate than the last.

You slump against the wall, your shoulder throbbing with every beat of your heart. The pain is unbearable, searing through your body, but it’s nothing compared to the agony on Jill’s face as she stares at her hands, trembling and stained with your blood. Her gaze flicks between her hands and your broken form, her eyes wide with guilt, horror, and something deeper—something darker that you can’t quite name.

She chokes on her breath, as though her lungs refuse to work, the weight of what she’s done crushing her from the inside out. "I told you... I told you to leave."

Her voice is small, cracked and pitiful, the kind of sound you'd expect from someone who’s just realized that no matter what they do, they’ve lost everything.

But you can't leave her. Not like this. Not ever.

You drag yourself upright with a pained groan, the blood on your shoulder hot and sticky, seeping into your clothes. Your knees threaten to buckle, but you catch yourself against the wall, forcing yourself to stand. You have to get to her. You have to stop her before she slips away completely.

You stagger toward her, each step a monumental effort, your breath hitching in your throat. Jill stays on her knees, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts, her whole body quaking as if the thing inside her is trying to tear free.

When you finally reach her, you drop to your knees beside her. You don't think. You just act, wrapping your arms around her trembling frame and pulling her close despite the agony it causes you. She feels too small, too fragile in your arms, as though she might splinter into pieces if you squeeze too hard.

“I’ve got you,” you swallow, strained but filled with as much reassurance as you can muster. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jill goes rigid in your grasp for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Then she collapses into you, burying her face in the crook of your neck. She sobs quietly, her body wracked with shivers, and you can feel the wetness of her tears mixing with the blood on your skin.

“I... I don’t know how to stop it… I can't do this. I can't... I don't know how to live like this."

Her words slice through you, sharp as a blade. You can’t lose her. Not like this. Not to whatever darkness has taken root inside her. There has to be a way to save her—you just have to keep her close.

“It’s okay,” you mumble into her hair, rocking her gently as if that will somehow make it true. “We’ll figure it out. I promise, Jill. I’ll help you.”

Her arms tighten around you, a desperate, almost bruising grip, like she’s afraid that if she lets go, she’ll vanish into the void entirely.

"You can’t. It’s too late. I tried to fight it, but... it’s stronger than me. It’s always going to be stronger."

You pull back just enough to meet her gaze, cupping her bloodstained face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don’t care," you tremble with a raw, dangerous desperation. "You’re not going anywhere. I won't let you."

Jill’s expression flickers, a war raging behind her eyes. Fear. Longing. Hunger. Guilt. She wants to fight it, but you can see the exhaustion in her—she’s drowning, and every second that passes drags her deeper into the abyss.

And that’s when the decision solidifies in your mind.

You can’t let her go. You can’t let her spiral beyond your reach.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you press your forehead against hers, grounding both of you in the moment, in the here and now. Your hands tighten around her face as you murmur, “It’s okay. I’ve got you, Jill. You’ll never have to fight this alone.”

Something shifts in her. You can see it—the flicker of hope warring with the darkness inside her. But then the hunger flashes again, sharp and insistent, and you know that if you give her an inch, she’ll disappear into that hunger and never come back.

And you can’t—won’t—let that happen.

In a flash, your plan forms. It’s insane, but it’s the only thing you can think of.

You shift your weight slightly, your heart pounding in your ears, and before Jill can react—you move.

Your hand shoots to the inside pocket of her jacket, where you know she keeps her pills—sedatives. You’ve seen her use them before, nights when the stress from the job became too much. You fumble for them, your fingers slick with blood, but you manage to grab the small bottle and twist the cap off with a sharp flick.

“Jill,” you whisper, your hand trembling as you bring the pills to her lips. “Just... just trust me, okay? You need to calm down.”

She blinks, confusion clouding her face, but before she can protest, you press the pills to her mouth and gently urge her to swallow.

For a moment, nothing happens. Jill stares at you, wide-eyed and bewildered. You two sit there, holding each other until her body starts to relax—too much. Her breathing slows, her eyelids drooping as the sedatives take hold.

Her grip on you loosens, and she slumps against you, her head resting heavily on your shoulder.

"I... don't want to hurt you," she says again, slurring as sleep pulls her under.

"You won't," you whisper, brushing your fingers through her hair, your heart aching in ways you can’t begin to describe. "I’ll make sure you won’t."

"How..." She trails off, her breath slow and steady, rising and falling against your chest. Her body relaxes fully now, sinking into sleep as the sedatives take over. You ease her onto the floor, cradling her head gently, keeping watch over her as she drifts off.

You sit there, cradling her against your chest, your breathing ragged, your heart thudding dully against your ribs. The night hums around you, the quiet hum of city noise seeping in through the cracks in the walls. The faint drip of water leaks from the faucet in Jill’s kitchen. It’s a cold, indifferent kind of silence, the kind that presses in on you like damp air, heavy and clinging.

And then it hits you.

You could call the cops. You could tell them everything. You could hand Jill over to someone—anyone—and let them deal with whatever the hell this is. You could leave her here and walk away. She’d wake up eventually, and someone would find her. It would be someone else’s problem.

But you won’t. Because you can’t.

The thought grips you with terrifying certainty, a cold realization that snaps something deep inside you like a piano string pulled too tight. You aren’t letting her go. Not after everything. Not now. Not ever. This time, it’s your turn to save Jill.

The air tastes bitter, like copper and ash. You glance down at your shoulder, the torn flesh throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. Blood soaks through the fabric of your shirt, sticking it to your skin, hot and wet. The edges of the wound are ragged, like something wild had chewed through you, and your arm hangs useless at your side. But the pain is distant—something you can compartmentalize, shove into a corner of your mind for later.

Right now, there isn't room for anything but Jill.

Your hands still tremble, though whether from fear or anger you can't say. All you know is this: You have to do something, anything to get through to Jill before she slips away altogether.

"I'm sorry," you choke out, your entire body violently shaking with a raw, desperate urgency. "You have to forgive me."

You look down at her again, at her pale face, streaked with blood and sweat. Her hair clings to her forehead in damp streaks, her lips parted in soft breaths. She looks so small, so fragile, like the Jill you used to know—the Jill who always picked you up when you fell, who always fought your battles when you couldn’t fight them yourself.

And now? Now it’s your turn.

Your hands tremble for a moment, but you force them to steady, gripping Jill tighter, cradling her like something precious. The manic thoughts swirling in your head slow, narrowing into a razor-sharp focus, as if some survival instinct you didn’t know you had takes over. The panic dissolves into adrenaline-fueled clarity. The shaking turns into intermittent tremors, vibrating beneath your skin, rippling through every nerve and fiber. Something settles deep in your bones—a kind of calm that isn’t natural. A cold certainty that this is just the beginning—and maybe this is exactly what you needed.

Because you have never wanted anything more than her. And now you might finally be ready to fight for it.

The first thing you need to do is stop the bleeding.

You stumble into Jill’s bathroom, your shoulder ablaze with pain, each breath shallow and sharp, threatening to spiral into hyperventilation. Blood trails down your arm in thick, hot rivulets, soaking into your clothes and leaving sticky patches against your skin. You strip off your jacket and shirt with trembling hands, wincing as the fabric pulls at the mangled flesh. The bite wound is worse than you thought—deep, ragged, with torn muscle fibers peeking through the gore.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror is ghastly—eyes hollow and wide, face pale as moonlight. Blood streaks down your neck and shoulder like macabre war paint. But you shove the horror aside, your mind narrowing to what needs to be done.

There’s no emergency room for you tonight. You can’t afford prying eyes or questions about how you got chewed up like an animal.

You rummage through the cabinets, throwing aside half-empty shampoo bottles, tampons, and dental floss, until you find what you need: a bottle of prescription-strength painkillers and a first-aid kit that’s seen better days.

The pills rattle like dice in your hand. You pop the cap, shake out five or six, and swallow them all dry. They scrape down your throat, and your stomach churns at the bitter aftertaste, but you don’t care. You need to dull the pain, and you need to think clearly. There’s no time to wait for them to kick in.

You clean the wound as best you can, hissing through clenched teeth as you pour peroxide over the gash. White foam bubbles and fizzes, and the pain is so blinding that your vision swims. But you keep going, keep pressing, wrapping your shoulder in strips of gauze, layer after layer, until it’s tight and secure. The bandage is sloppy, but it’ll hold. It has to.

You lean against the sink for a moment, head hanging low as the adrenaline wanes, leaving exhaustion in its place. Every inch of your body screams at you to stop, to rest, to give in. But you can’t. Not yet.

So, you drag your ass back into planning.

The apartment smells like sweat, blood, and copper. The place is a mess—your blood pooled on the floor, streaked across the walls, splattered over the couch. You’re leaving behind a trail that will scream forensics the second the cops decide to search Jill’s place.

You can’t let that happen.

Your mind churns through the possibilities, balancing the delicate weight of risks and solutions. No one can know you were here. No one can know Jill’s missing. That means no trace of blood, no signs of struggle. Everything has to disappear.

Fire.

It’s the only solution—quick, clean, and indiscriminate. The kind of blaze that reduces evidence to ash and embers, rendering DNA into nothing. But fire takes time. It needs a fuse, a buildup—something that will let you vanish before the inferno swallows the place whole.

Your eyes lock on the stove, the shape of an idea forming in the haze of painkillers.

Staggering into the cramped kitchen, you drop to your knees by the gas line under the stove. Your shoulder screams with every movement, but you shove the pain down. You twist the valve hard, releasing an invisible flood of gas into the room. The metallic-sour stench fills your nostrils, thick and oppressive.

You crank open all the burners, just enough for a slow hiss to join the growing cloud of fumes. No flame. Not yet.

Your gaze falls on an old toaster on the counter—one with a broken timer knob that sticks. A grim smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Perfect.

You drop a scrap of oily paper into the toaster slot and push the lever down. In about fifteen minutes, the coil inside will spark as the toaster tries to heat the paper—and that spark will turn this place into a funeral pyre.

For a moment, you think there’s no way in hell you can carry Jill the whole way to your apartment in your condition. Your shoulder feels like it’s going to tear clean off with every movement, and your legs are shaky from blood loss and adrenaline.

But you don’t have a choice.

Back door. No cameras. North alleyway, avoid the Main Street, and then…

The front door creaks softly as you nudge it open, a sound that reverberates in the quiet of the two-story house like the first nail being driven into a coffin. The familiar scent of laundry detergent mixed with stale air surrounds you, clinging to your senses, oddly comforting. It’s a cruel reminder of normalcy—a twisted echo of how things were just hours ago. The life you lived before everything snapped in two.

You push the door closed behind you with your foot, the lock clicking into place, sealing both of you inside. Jill’s weight is a burden you barely notice now, your arms aching but numb from overexertion, the injury in your shoulder pulsing like a second heartbeat. It throbs beneath the layers of gauze—messy, improvised, and already soaked through—but you ignore it. There's no room for pain right now. Not when so much still needs to be done.

Jill is a dead weight in your arms, her body sagging against you as you make your way towards the stairs, aiming for the spare room. Her breathing is shallow, barely audible above the drumming of your pulse in your ears, and you grit your teeth against a rush of fresh panic. Keep it together. You can do this. One step at a time.

It was supposed to be an office, once, for Matt—the room upstairs, tucked away and forgotten, half-converted but never quite finished. Soundproofed, recording equipment scattered across the floor like abandoned relics from a life gone by. A remnant of a dream never fully realized—a dream Matt had once chased, before settling for whatever scraps came his way. Before he'd decided he'd rather just drink himself into oblivion instead of trying anything real.

The windows have been boarded up, planks nailed into the walls with care, every crack sealed tight. No light gets in. No noise gets out. The air inside is stale, thick with the scent of sawdust and fresh wood polish. The walls are stripped bare—no posters, no shelves, no personal touches. Just cold, empty drywall that presses in from all sides, amplifying the silence.

There’s a bed pushed against the far wall, a sturdy frame with a worn mattress covered by a faded blanket. One pillow. A small lamp on a battered bedside table. Nothing more, nothing less. It looks impersonal, clinical almost—like a hotel room or an unused hospital ward.

You'll fix that soon enough. You'll...

You carry Jill to the bed, your steps slow and deliberate, and lower her down as gently as possible. Her skin feels clammy beneath your hands, her body slack, lifeless but not dead. For a moment, you find yourself brushing her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a strange tenderness.

The house is silent, except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Jill’s breath. Sedated, lifeless, but alive. You stand in the doorway of the spare room, your hands braced on either side of the frame as if you need the walls to keep you upright. The dim light barely touches Jill’s sleeping form, sprawled across the bed like a rag doll, her skin pale in the thin sliver of light from the hallway filtering through the door.

Your shoulder throbs. It’s not just a dull ache—it’s a deep, gnawing pain that pulses with every beat of your heart, a reminder of the teeth that tore through your flesh. The bandages are soaked through already, sticky and warm against your skin.

You thought you had more time. You were wrong.

Your legs buckle, and you collapse onto the hallway floor, your back pressed against the cold wall. The pain is sharper now—a hot knife twisting deep inside the wound. The adrenaline that carried you through the night evaporates like steam, leaving you weak and trembling, the full weight of your injury crashing down on you all at once.

You tilt your head back against the wall, your breath coming in ragged gasps. This is bad. You know it. The blood loss, the bite—it's too much. You need stitches. Proper ones this time. Antibiotics. Something.

But you can’t go to the ER. Not like this. Not with Jill drugged upstairs.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing your good hand to your forehead, trying to stave off the dizziness creeping in. Every option you have feels impossible. The idea of explaining your injury to a nurse is absurd. The idea of leaving Jill alone here is worse.

The room tilts, the edges of your vision blurring. You have to act. If you pass out here, it’s over. Jill’s sedated, sure—but what happens when the drugs wear off? What happens if someone finds her? If someone finds you?

You shake your head, forcing yourself to stand. Your knees shake beneath you, but you grit your teeth and push through. Pain is just another obstacle, another problem to solve.

There’s only one answer. You need help, but not from strangers.

Your mind latches onto the only person you can think of—Kendo. He’s seen worse. Hell, he’s patched you up before. No questions asked. No hospitals involved.

You fumble your way to the kitchen, using the walls to keep yourself upright, and grab your phone from the counter. Your fingers are slick with blood as you scroll through your contacts until you find his name. You press “call” and bring the phone to your ear, swallowing down the bile rising in your throat.

It rings twice before he picks up.

“Who the hell—? It’s the middle of the night.” His voice is groggy but familiar. Safe.

“It’s me,” you croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper. “Kendo... I need your help.”

There’s a pause. The kind of pause that stretches a lifetime. Then:

“Jesus Christ. What happened?”

You close your eyes, leaning heavily against the counter. The room spins, tilting dangerously. You clutch the phone tighter, your knuckles turning white.

“Don’t ask. Just... come over.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “Please.”

There’s a rustling sound on the other end, the shuffle of sheets and the creak of a bed frame. “You sound like you’re about to pass out. Stay awake. I’m on my way.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and end the call. The phone slips from your fingers, clattering onto the counter. You stare at it, dazed, until the sound fades into the background hum of your thoughts.

You sink to the floor, your back against the cabinets, your injured arm cradled against your chest. The throbbing pain is relentless, dragging you closer to unconsciousness with every passing second. The world blurs at the edges, the dark corners of your kitchen closing in.

But you keep your eyes open. You have to. If you close them now, you're afraid won’t wake up.

The next thing you hear is the front door creaking open. The sound is distant, almost dreamlike, as if it’s coming from underwater.

“Where are you?” Kendo’s cuts through the haze, sharp and urgent.

You force your head to lift, your eyes sluggishly finding him standing in the doorway. His face blurs, but the concern is clear.

“Jesus.” He drops to his knees beside you, his hands gentle as they lift your arm, exposing the mess of bandages beneath. The blood has soaked through, bright red against the white fabric.

“You’re lucky you called when you did,” Kendo mutters, pulling supplies from a bag slung over his shoulder. "Did a bear take a bite outta you? What the fuck is this?"

You almost laugh at that—the irony. If only it was a bear that had tried to rip out your throat. That might be more understandable. But no, this mess you dragged yourself into is something else entirely. Something he wouldn’t believe even if you told him.

"Doesn’t matter," you manage, gritting your teeth as he carefully peels back the bandages. The air is cool against your wet skin, but there's no relief from the burning pain that rips through you. Each touch feels like knives scraping against raw nerves. You breathe hard through your nose, focusing on anything other than what he's doing. But when you see the state of your wound, everything else goes out of mind.

The gash stretches from just below your collarbone, down toward the soft spot where your neck and shoulder meet, a mess of torn skin, muscle fibers glistening beneath.

"This is bad," Kendo murmurs. His tone is quiet but firm. It's the voice he uses with customers looking at pricey goods—the voice that brokers no arguments. "If you'd gotten to a hospital sooner, maybe—"

You cut him off. "Can't."

He glances up at you, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean 'can't'?"

"Just..." You shake your head, wincing as the movement sends a jolt of fresh pain through your arm. "Don't ask."

His lips press together into a thin line, his expression stern and unreadable. For a moment, you're afraid he might refuse—that he'll get up and walk out, leaving you bleeding out on your kitchen floor. Then he sighs, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about stubborn idiots.

"Alright," he says, reaching into his kit, "we're going to need more gauze. This isn't exactly a quick fix." He pulls out a fresh roll of gauze and some scissors, placing them on the counter next to him. "I'll sew this shut after we clean it properly."

You nod weakly, your shoulders slumping with relief.

Kendo's brow furrows. He's still annoyed, but at least he isn't walking out. Not yet.

He grabs one end of the bandage and begins unwrapping your shoulder with a careful, practiced hand.

With each layer, you see more of the gash—the mangled flesh and torn tissue. The sight makes your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat, threatening to send everything surging up your gullet.

You turn away, forcing yourself to look at the far wall instead, steadying your breathing through clenched teeth. It takes all of your self-control not to vomit right then and there.

Kendo grimaces, hissing air through his teeth in a sharp exhale as the last strip of fabric peels away from your skin. He stares at the wound for a moment, as if appraising a damaged weapon. Then he reaches over to his kit, pulling out a large needle fitted with suturing thread.

You don't remember anything after that.

When you finally drift back to consciousness, your entire body aches with dull, persistent pain. Your throat burns like you've swallowed acid, and your head feels like someone stuffed cotton inside your skull. But beneath it all is a sense of calm—the comforting assurance that Kendo has put everything back together again, just as he always has before.

You try opening your eyes and wince at the bright light filtering in through half-closed curtains. Your eyelids are heavy and sticky with sleep. Everything feels groggy, muted. As if your body has wrapped itself in a thick layer of insulation. You shift slightly, wincing when you realize your shoulder is held firmly in a sling. You must have made a sound because Kendo reaches you from somewhere nearby:

"Hey, hey, hey, no moving."

His footsteps approach, soft but steady across the carpeted floor. When your vision focuses enough to make him out clearly, you find him sitting at your bedside with his usual frown.

"Welcome back," he grumbles, though his gaze flickers with something akin to relief. "I thought I lost you there for a while."

You swallow past your dry throat, clearing it quietly. You're tired—not physically tired, but bone deep and aching—and your brain struggles to piece together coherent words.

"Thank you," you say after a few seconds. "For..." You trail off, gesturing vaguely toward your shoulder. "All this. I don't—"

"Which one of your assholes made his dog chew on you like a bone?" Kendo asks bluntly, cutting you off. He leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together as he watches you intently. "The scrawny one or that creep?"

His expression says he already knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway—maybe just so he can berate you about it for being an idiot later. That can definitely work in your favor, though, anything to stop this from being connected to Jill at all. So, you give him an easy enough lie, hoping to slip away quickly.

"The guy with the piercings," you reply softly, dropping your gaze as if ashamed. "Guess he wanted payback from the grave."

That part isn't technically untrue; you just left out the fact that he sacrificed Jill to Satan himself, but it's not like it would be any easier to explain that. Kendo sighs heavily, his eyes narrowed in thought before glancing down at his bag. He hesitates briefly but seems to decide something before lifting up a ziplock bag filled with white pills, passing it to you.

"Here," Kendo offers gruffly, "painkillers. You know how these things tend to get infected easily. These'll take care of that."

You nod mechanically, accepting the medicine and stuffing it into your pocket. Your throat still burns painfully, making speech difficult. Everything in you hurts—your shoulder, your heart... you can hardly tell where one ache ends and another begins.

The house is quiet, except for the ticking of your father's old watch hanging on the wall. It ticks rhythmically, counting the seconds like droplets of blood falling from a wound.

"Wish he was alive so I could grind his face in the teeth of his own dog," Kendo spits. "Fucker should have known better."

It takes every bit of your resolve not to break down there, collapsing into a puddle on the floor.

The room smells of paint. It clings to the air, mixing with the scent of fresh wood and varnish, and you can feel it coating your lungs with each breath. The dresser, stolen from your own bedroom, sits awkwardly in the corner of Jill's new space, and a mismatched lamp casts a weak, flickering glow. The bed is pushed against the far wall—a simple mattress with freshly laundered sheets that smell faintly of lavender, a touch of something homely amidst the nightmare unfolding.

Your shoulder throbs beneath the sling, the pain buzzing like a low, relentless hum. It keeps you tethered to your body, to the reality of what you’re doing. Every time you move wrong, the wound pulls, reminding you that this is all real—every twisted choice, every step deeper into the dark.

You pause by the nightstand, smoothing out the folded blanket you brought in. It’s small, soft—a pale pink thing from the closet, far too cheerful for the room it now occupies. But Jill will need warmth. She’ll need comfort. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

The feeding tube snakes out from under the bed, carefully hidden from sight, leading to the IV pole you rigged up by hand. You’ve kept her asleep with a steady drip of sedatives, just enough to keep her body slack, her mind drowned beneath the haze. The effort to keep her under is precise—too much, and she could stop breathing; too little, and she’d wake up before you were ready.

The room isn’t finished yet. Your shoulder is slowing you down, and each trip up and down the stairs feels like a marathon, every task an endurance trial. But you’re patient. Careful. It’s all part of the plan.

You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, smearing dust across your skin. The walls are still too bare, so you pin up a few photographs—ones from before all of this, ones of Jill laughing, sun-kissed and free. You need her to remember those moments.

The knock at your door two days ago nearly shattered everything. You can still feel the weight of it, echoing in your bones. The fire spread fast—faster than you planned—but it did the job. Jill’s apartment is nothing but charred rubble now, her belongings reduced to ash. You remember standing at the window, watching the plume of smoke rise into the sky like a dark omen, your heart pounding with the kind of excitement that made you nauseous. No more evidence.

When the police called, they didn’t ask questions at first—just wanted to know if you’d heard from Jill. She’s been listed as a missing person. Matt’s death already left the town on edge, and now with Jill gone and her apartment burned to the ground, suspicion falls on you. An uncomfortable amount of scrutiny hovers over your head now, your neighbors whispering about rumors, theories—all the things they want to believe are true.

The media is another beast entirely. Newspapers speculate about links between the deaths, calling it a series of crimes unlike anything seen before in the region. TV news crews crowd around local bars and pubs, eager to interview anyone with even the smallest snippet of gossip to share. It's almost laughable how everyone assumes the worst of you. Almost.

The officer's voice was polite but cautious. They want you to come in for questioning. It’s routine, they say. Just a formality. But you can hear the weight of suspicion buried beneath their words—a missing friend, an ex-boyfriend dead, and you standing in the center of it all.

You hadn’t said much. Just enough to satisfy them. But that’s when the idea struck—the room needed to be hidden. No matter how careful you were, there would come a day when someone would come knocking. You couldn't risk it. If they search your house, everything crumbles. So, you set to work.

You know jack shit about building secret compartments, but luckily you know someone who does. A neighbor—he likes fixing broken things, patching up old furniture, restoring antiques. That hobby gives him plenty to talk about with strangers like you, eager for conversation that isn’t quite so stifling.

He shows you his favorite trick for hiding spaces—a clever system of hinges that folds a piece of furniture inward, opening up an entire panel inside.

"See?" he says, showing you how it works. "Hidden away like magic."

The words echo in your head. Hidden away, indeed. Magic—more like a nightmare.

And for the first time, it truly sinks in—this is really happening. There's no going back from here, not with Jill upstairs, not with you planning to hide her right under everyone's noses. All of your options evaporate into thin air. Now there's only one way forward: the road straight to hell.

Anything for Jill, you tell yourself. Anything for Jill.

Weeks pass. The house begins to change. Bit by bit, you bring things into Jill’s room—small touches, pieces of comfort. A chair from the living room. Books she used to like. A few scattered records from your old collection, tucked away on a shelf you built into the wall. Pillows, blankets. Soft things. Comforting things. Things to remind her of who she used to be.

You keep her asleep. Some days it gets harder than others. You don’t always have fresh stock on hand, so you wait. Take longer breaks in-between each dose. Sometimes she wakes up while you're putting saline into the IV port, half-lucid and confused, moaning incoherently. Your heart hammers each time this happens, terrified she might wake up fully, lash out in fear and hunger—but she never does. She never asks where she is. Never asks why you won't let her wake up. If she ever understands what happened to her, it isn't clear. Maybe her mind is too fractured to put it all together. Or maybe she just doesn't want to face the truth of what she's become. What she's done. Either way, she doesn't struggle against her restraints when you're there, content to remain in this fuzzy, dreamlike state, somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

The more Jill goes without food, the sicklier she seems to grow. Her skin becomes pale, almost paper thin, her cheekbones jutting sharply beneath. You know regular food wouldn't help anymore, so you refuse to test it.

You need to let her wake up soon, and feed her properly for the first time. But you've been putting it off, delaying it with excuses: finishing the room, keeping the drugs steady. A week turns into two, then three. When your trips start running dry, you decide to steal, taking supplies from the local hospital whenever you can find an excuse. Every day you spend more time preparing and less time searching for answers. Any path you could have taken to fix Jill has been reduced to one option: waiting until she starves long enough that feeding her will be worth the risk.

By the time you let Jill wake, the room feels almost lived-in. Almost normal. There's art on the walls—stuff from your collection, posters and photos that remind Jill of who she used to be. It's not real yet; you feel that every time you look at her, knowing what needs to happen. How she'll feed and go back under, locked behind these four walls like a fairy tale curse coming true.

Jill’s first breath sounds like a gasp. You stand by the doorway, arms crossed, watching her as she stirs beneath the covers. It takes a moment for her to orient herself, her body sluggish from the long sleep.

Her eyes blink open, slow and glassy, confusion etched into every line of her face. She’s disoriented, like a swimmer breaching the surface of cold water for the first time.

“Good morning,” you say, like you’re talking to a wounded animal.

Jill’s eyes find you, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence between you. Her gaze is heavy, weighted with a thousand unspoken questions. She shifts slightly, realizing the restraints holding her wrists and ankles to the bed. Her body tenses, a flicker of panic flashing across her face.

“Relax,” you say, stepping closer, your tone gentle but firm. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Jill pulls against the restraints, the leather biting into her skin, but she’s too weak to do much more than squirm. "What the fuck?"

Her voice is hoarse, the words thick on her tongue. She sounds groggy. Confused.

A memory flashes through your mind—Jill laughing at something you said, sunlight filtering in through a car window as she drove you home. Simple. Happy. Easy.

Your stomach clenches, nausea rising in your throat. That was before, you tell yourself. Before things changed. You take a slow breath, steadying the rush of emotions threatening to pull you apart. Keep calm. Keep steady. Stay in control. You owe it to her.

"What happened?" Jill croaks, blinking hard as if to force away sleep, and then her attention lands on the sling around your arm. It seems to bring her back to reality—her eyes widen, pupils shrinking in shock.

"Oh God, I..." She trails off, realization dawning on her features. Her lips press into a thin line, shame glinting in her gaze. Shame—and hunger. She looks away quickly, turning her head toward the pillow, but you've already caught the telltale flash of yellow. "Was it me? Did I hurt you?"

You nod, wincing at the movement. "Don't worry about it." It's meant as a reassurance—it wasn't you; I'd never blame you; you know I'm here for you—but your tone makes it sound like a dismissal. You bite back an apology. Nothing you say will make anything easier right now. "How are you feeling?"

She stares down at her wrists, flexing them under the restraints, testing the limits of how much they'll let her move. You watch as she shifts on top of the mattress, assessing her options.

She exhales loudly through her nose and shakes her head. "Terrified," she admits, looking up at you. For a second, you're not sure what to think. Then, softer: "Of myself."

That last sentence knocks the wind out of you. She meets your gaze, unflinching. You see it written all over her face, etched into every line, plain as day—the realization, the weight of the knowledge. Somehow, she knows what she's capable of now. The horrors she could unleash without a moment's hesitation.

Without thinking, you cross the room to the nightstand beside Jill's bed. There's a bowl waiting for you—plastic, with an opaque lid, filled to the brim with fresh cut meat. Lamb. Uncooked. "If you're hungry—" you start, reaching for the plastic. Jill recoils instinctively, pressing her body deeper into the mattress, as far away from you as possible.

"Stop! Just... stop." She shakes her head, her teeth clenched against some unseen pain, a tear running down her cheek. Your hands freeze, suspended in midair, the metal bowl dangling lightly from your fingers. "What are you doing?"

You blink at her, baffled, unsure what else to do except respond truthfully. "I'm trying to help."

She scoffs, shaking her head again, but this time, there's a hint of sadness in her expression. Something bitter and resigned, like defeat. "This isn't helping."

"You might be right," you reply carefully, not wanting to make her angrier than she already is. Your hand rests lightly against the edge of the nightstand, hesitant to continue. "Dead meat might not be it. Is it only humans?"

Jill watches as your hand lifts the lid, peeling it back to expose the raw cuts of flesh below. You watch her face, looking for any sign of disgust, revulsion, but she simply stares blankly. Blankly—like an empty space, devoid of feeling. Like she's done with all the feelings and moved onto emptiness.

"That's fine," you assure gently, hoping your voice sounds soothing in some way, despite the situation. "We can work with that."

Jill frowns, a crease forming along her brow. She looks down at the plate of raw meat and then back at you again—and maybe it's because you're tired, or maybe it's because you've never been able to handle her disappointment very well, but either way, there's an uncomfortable tightness spreading across your chest as you reach for the discarded plate and shut the lid firmly closed again.

"What the fuck does that mean, we can work with that? Work with what exactly?" She snarls angrily, yanking against her restraints like some trapped wild thing, a beast captured by hunters. "The only way this will end is with me hurting someone—most likely you. Look at us," she bites out bitterly, her expression twisting into something between self-loathing and contempt as she tugs on her restraints, "look at us. What the fuck is even happening? What are you doing?"

Her words hit you with the force of a freight train, the weight of their truth settling heavily on your chest. You swallow hard, feeling your heart thudding against your ribs. You’ve always known what this was, deep down. Always known that you couldn’t just “fix” this. But now, hearing it come from Jill—hearing the hopelessness, the anger—it makes you feel like you’re sinking into quicksand.

"I'm doing this for you," you say, though the words come out weaker than you intended, like an apology more than an explanation.

"For me?" Jill hisses, raw with disbelief. Her eyes glisten, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "You think locking me in here, keeping me like this, is for me?"

You take a step closer to her, but she recoils again, the leather restraints creaking with the tension. "You don't understand," you murmur, more to yourself than to her. Your head pounds, the pain in your shoulder radiating through your entire body. "I’m not going to let this—whatever this is—take you away from me."

Her laughter is harsh, brittle. It cuts through the room, echoing against the bare walls. It’s a sound that chills you to the bone. "Take me away from you." And for a moment, the sadness returns—vulnerable and unguarded. "I'm already gone."

Those words twist something deep inside you, but you can’t afford to let them pierce you. Not now. Not when you’ve come this far.

"That's not true." You force yourself to keep yourself steady, though it flickers at the edges.

Jill falls silent, her chest rising and falling with sharp, angry breaths. Her eyes are burning into yours, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. You can feel the weight of her gaze pressing down on you, searching, assessing. "This isn’t saving me. You know that."

Your throat tightens. "I can’t let you be.”

There’s a beat of silence, a terrible silence, and then Jill speaks again, softer this time. Too soft. Too calm. "What's the plan here, then?"

She already knows, but you still give it voice anyway: "You stay here. I get you food."

"You mean you hunt down innocent people so that I can feast." Disgust flashes across her face, along with the disbelief that you're even offering her this like it's nothing. "Are you out of your mind? Do you hear yourself right now? We aren't... we aren't animals!" She breaks on the last word, and turns away, eyes squeezed shut.

She's remembering Matt, no doubt.

"Don't worry," you place your good hand on hers gently. The touch makes her flinch, but you ignore it. "You won't have to do anything like that ever again." You squeeze lightly before pulling away. "I'll take care of it. Take care of you. Promise."

You try to sound reassuring. Like everything will be fine if she just lets herself fall apart. Lets you take control. But you've never seen her so fragile before—so shattered. A porcelain doll teetering at the edge of a shelf, threatening to tumble off with one misplaced breath.

"And what happens when you’re not enough?" she asks quietly. Her eyes gleam in the low light, and the hunger that’s been lurking beneath the surface starts to show itself again. "What happens when you can’t keep me satisfied? What then? Will you just watch as I tear you apart?" She laughs bitterly, shaking her head as she turns away. "We're fucked. Completely and utterly fucked."

A beat passes, stretched out by silence. She seems smaller than before, diminished somehow. Lost. Broken. "Let me go," she whispers finally, resignation bleeding through the words like poison. She sounds so tired, so defeated. And part of you wants to pull back, to withdraw this nightmare altogether. But there's still a flicker within—the last ember of her old flame burning stubbornly against reason. So instead you lean close, resting your forehead against hers as your grip tightens around her hand. Because maybe this time, it'll make a difference. Maybe if you hold onto her hard enough, she won't slip away entirely.

"You'll have to kill me," you murmur softly against her skin, hoping she understands what you mean. That it isn't a threat but a promise: even if the worst comes to pass, even if this breaks you both completely, you're never letting go.

Never.

"Until then," you say, leaning in to steal a kiss. It's brief—too brief—but enough for now, reminiscent of the ones you used to share in the safety and innocence of your childhoods. "Just let me help you."

Jill looks like she has so much to say. One second her expression says 'They'll catch you immediately when people start disappearing, you've got so many eyes on you already,' and the other it turns into 'You couldn't even catch a cat if you wanted to and you're talking about hunting humans.' But you pretend to look at ease and offer a comforting smile, brushing your fingertips against her cheeks and jawline. Your palms come to rest atop the curve of her neck, cradling the back of her head gently. This woman whom you know best, better than anyone else. And maybe she does know you best too. Maybe you two truly did grow together. Because before you can finish mentally preparing your argumentative list on why you're capable and ready to help her, she lets out a soft sigh and relaxes into your touch.

Jill leans forward until her forehead bumps against yours. Her eyes flutter close, lashes fanning across flushed skin. You inhale deeply and stare at her profile, memorizing each detail because God knows how long this will last. How long you can hold onto her. If only forever could really be that simple.

So instead of saying anything, you pull her into a hug—a tight embrace, squeezing every inch of air from between you—as though letting go might mean falling apart entirely. Maybe it would.

"I love you," you say quietly. The words seem hollow when whispered into empty space without warmth or pressure behind them. Without touch, smell, taste, sight; all the little details that make a memory worth treasuring.

She doesn't say it back, but you know she's thinking the same thing.

Why else would she pretend to be too powerless to leave the cage you've worked so hard to create for her when it's clear she's stronger than ever?

#jill valentine x reader #jill valentine x you #jill valentine x y/n #jill valentine #resident evil x reader #bloody endings

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