those born to nothing (x oc)

by deadheartdaydream (offscottfree)

Summary:

A survivor of a massacre, seven years on, with events relived behind tightly shut eyelids and a burning under the skin. Wyn Sterling found normalcy, he found safety, he found the kind of life you could use to forget the past.

And then he watched it all happen again.

Notes:

crossposted from quotev, the oc/canon version of my xreader fic (because yes it can be both :) )

Heads up disclaimer: Toby in this story is more of an amalgamation of his original story and the reimagining by David Near! There is just no Toby Adams tag :(

Chapter 1: Off Kilter

Summary:

An introduction.

Saturdays were Wyn's days. A brief reprieve from the chaotic hustle and bustle of online education and his in-person contributions to the capitalistic cycle that was his way of living. He would come home from the end of his 9-to-5 the day before, the one day pause from a Monday to Friday of on and off schooling, and he would barely be able to muster the energy to do much more than prepare himself a hastily put-together meal of either the night before's leftovers or instant noodles; either way, he was in bed, near dead to the world, by 6:30. If he couldn’t sleep, he was mindlessly scrolling through social media or distantly watching the same Netflix show he'd seen a million times as he dozed in and out of sleep he desperately needed. No time for hobbies, or much socialisation— just a barely-there zombie in and out of dissociation

        But Saturdays were his- completely free of work and school obligations, barring one or two easily done elements of coursework due on a tight deadline (which, if it started piling up, he had an easy pass for an extension. He'd once pushed several assignments to the brink of time, then hauled ass and completed it all in one night.)  He decided what he was going to do, before being thrown back into the doghouse on a Sunday, of all days. With the world at his poorly-funded fingertips, what was Wyn Sterling going to do with his valuable free time?

        Absolutely fucking nothing.

        Wyn lived in a nowhere town in a nowhere city, the only mildly interesting time-passer being either one of three dingy dive-bars, or a somewhat obscure metaphysical store on the corner of town. The latter was much more interesting to him, but his roommate Nadia was one of the sale assistants, and even though Wyn had a mild interest in her practice and her outlook, today wasn’t the day he wanted to explore spiritualism. Whatever fragment of motivation he had held onto throughout the week, put into reservation for today, was snuffed out like a candlelight when he realised the date: October 25th.

        The idea of leaving the house made him queasy. The day brought up unsettling memories, ones that crept across the edges of his vision. Wyn was good at burying it deep, as deep as he could, but every damn year he was hit with a reminder in the form of  brazen news articles singing the song of the North Wellway Massacre like some shitty cabaret show, playing the same tune he had listened to day after day.

        It didn’t matter, but it did at the same time. October 25th was just another day, that’s what Wyn told himself every year. Another shitty day that he'd have to keep weighted on his back for the rest of his miserable little life, but another day nonetheless. He had survived through five of them now, six if he was counting the date of the incident itself, and god damnit, today was gonna be lucky number seven.

        Wyn just wished it hadn’t been on one of his valuable Saturdays.

        ..There wasn’t much else to do but get out of bed, finally, after two hours had seemingly blinked through his bleary eyes in mere seconds. Had it not been for the growl of his stomach, he didn't think the notion to start the day would have occurred to him for another two, at least, letting 8:15 fall away in favour of 10. But he needed to shower, to rid himself of the smell of baked pastry and sugar. It was nice for the first week working at the bakery, but the sweetness had started to make him feel sick, and sick was the last thing he needed to be right now. Pulling himself from the comfort of his plush, patterned covers, away from the warmth and into the bitingly cold air of his room, Wyn was starting to regret not closing the skylight window- but the air last night was too stuffy to manage ten minutes beneath a thick duvet.

        His room was just opposite the bathroom, one of three in a line for the three unlikely misfits living under one dingy apartment roof. As Wyn made his way across the hall, the door to the bathroom swung open and a gentle curl of steam unfurled from it. Standing there, towel around his waist and shoulders, was Kit. His fading blonde-to-black hair curled in its naturally soft waves as he dried it roughly with the shoulder towel. He was always so chipper-looking in the morning, a sight that Wyn couldn't help feel bitter over, and today was no exception as he ducked beneath the doorframe and swerved around him, making his way towards the door to the right of his. “Left the shower running for you, sleepyhead, good morning-!” He hummed.

        “There better be hot water left or I’m gonna clock you.” Wyn half-jokingly grumbled- he got a hearty laugh in response, and his hope for a warm shower dwindled somewhat as he shut the door and locked it. He didn’t need to, necessarily, privacy in this 'home' was respected more than Wyn thought possible, but habit was habit left unbroken, and one he wasn't keen on breaking any time soon.

        Lucky for him, there was, indeed, hot water remaining after Kit’s endeavours in his near daily thirty minute shower. Nadia, the oldest of the three of them and arguably the one with the dirtiest mind out of the trio in apartment 6-E, would have made a choice of jokes on what could have possibly taken him so long- but as early as a riser Kit was, Nadia was out of the house long before he showered, leaving Wyn to the exclusive Broadway-level performances he would throw his heart into, using Wyn's conditioner (never his, selfish bastard) as a microphone. There were days he would sing a duet, and he would give himself to the second part between the wall that divided the hall and the shower. Sometimes off key as his voice still riddled itself with sleep, sometimes surprisingly on point, impressing the two of them into a morning of chatter and theatrics.

        The neighbors definitely hated them, but no noise complaints were ever made, so Wyn kept the tradition ongoing out of sheer spite to the possibility of one ever coming up. 

        The warm stream of poorly pressurised droplets hit him and enveloped him in a somewhat easing embrace, the knots in Wyn's shoulders that had tightened due to his restless sleeping that night unwinding just enough that he felt a mild form of relief. He began to wash away the thin layer of grime from his skin, the smell of glaze and cinnamon replaced with pine and 'sea-breeze'. Not the best smell, not the worst, but definitely preferable to smelling like another day at the bakery. He turned his back to the stream and gritted his teeth as the warmth cascaded down it. His back always felt disgusting, marks and scars from that godforsaken day still not healing right, leaving him with pain every time he leaned too hard against something. There was no nerve damagem so he blamed it on a phenomenon like phantom pain, and he blamed it more today as the pain felt worse than it did the rest of the year.

Though under the water, it began to intensify, a little more than he was used to- the pain spreading from his lower back to his freshly tightening shoulders, up the sides of his neck, landing at the base of his skull and spreading around his head. Like a swarm of bees infesting his skin, thorns of stingers digging into the crown of hi scalp. Wyn felt something warm cascading down the sides of his head, thick, heavy— and in a moment of heart-skipping fear he snapped open his eyes and touched the path he felt the drip following. It was just water. A part of him expected blood, expected to see washed out crimson intertwining with the water, and he.. He wasn't sure why. Wyn felt his shoulders twitch back, clicking in their sockets, and the sudden movement combined with the lingering pain in his back only served to overwhelm the fleeting relaxation he had found himself holding onto, replacing it with that all too familiar tension.

        At least he was cleaner than he was when he stepped in. It was a positive that Wyn held onto as he turned off the now much colder water and stepped out onto the bathmat, drying his feet as he reached for his towel. Looking down at his hands as they brushed against the fleeced matieral, he stopped, noticing his fingers were slightly pruned. Weird, he thought, he'd only been in there for a few minutes. Wyn brushed it off and took the warm towel away from the radiator, ridding himself of the lingering water across his skin and in his hair. Smart enough to grab clothes before he left his room, Wyn slipped on a too-large hoodie and too-large sweats, having no energy to present himself as more than a moving mass of a fabric void.

        His stomach growled again, accompanied by a sharp and unexpected pang of hunger that near stabbed clean through his abdomen. Food was a must, and he all but raced into the shared kitchen.

        “Nice of you to rejoin civilisation.” Kit remarked as Wyn crossed into the tiled threshold, “Thought you’d slipped and busted your brains on the tile. I was gonna check on you, but I don’t think you’d appreciate me seeing you naked.”

        The choice of wording made him grimace, but the comment that followed brushed it out of his mind, “You’re right, I wouldn’t’ve.” He smile tiredly and found himself at the pantry cabinet, hastily reaching for the half-empty box of Lucky Charms that the whole group had no problem in letting him devour by the handful straight out of the packaging. He continued through a mouthful of dried pink and blue marshmallows and toasted oat, “I wasn’t in there that long, come on.” He swallowed the cereal, wishing he'd opted for being normal and going for the milk, as Kit looked at him with a quirk of an eyebrow.

        “Mmmman hour thirty is a long shower, even for me.”

        An hour what?

        “..Huh?”

        Wyn stood stiffly and let his eyes flick to the oven time, always a few minutes off, but never hours. 11:47.

        “..Kit that ain’t funny, come on.” Wyn laughed dryly , but trailed off as Kit's amusement faded to concern, “..Nah, I was in there for five, it can’t have been that long.”

        There was a look in his eyes, Wyn had seen it before. He'd seen it from both of them, that look they gave him every year when the 25th rolled around. It was pity, remorse and apology for something that they pretended not to know about for his sake. When some things about him were just a little off-kilter from normal day to day living. It was a look so brief, so momentary, but Wyn caught it and Kit knew he did. That didn’t stop him from replacing it with a mask of jovial teasing, “Eh, a shower is like a liminal space, it’s normal to lose yourself in it.”

        Kit was lying through his teeth, but Wyn accepted it, more for his sake than his own. Kit was a nice guy- not exactly close enough to be a 'best friend' but was for sure up there, and in rooming with him for the better part of two years, Wyn learned a few things about him:

        1. He was allergic to every nut except peanuts, and it was an allergy that developed later in life. Long enough that his favourite candy became Reese's.

        2. He was a surfer boy stuck in a non-coastal town, with no drivers license and a job that gave him enough to pay rent and his share of bills, but not for the bus fare to the nearest beach.

And, a detail evident in this moment and in many moments before,

        3. Kit Rillings always spoke faster than his brain could catch up with. Fast enough that he would talk himself into a hole, and in all attempts to talk his way out of it, would dig his proverbial grave even deeper. Doing so would riddle him with so much guilt, you’d think he were a kicked puppy.

        He was doing his best, though, and Wyn gave him that benefit of the doubt. 

        An awkward air of silence settled around the two of them, tight and tense in a way that Wyn knew would be gone by tomorrow, but would linger throughout the rest of today. At least until Nadia got home, which wouldn’t be until much later. But to Wyn's regrettable relief, Kit had work, and with a final chug from his chipped, blue coffee mug, he stood and made his way for the door. He gave his hair a gentle rustle, a welcome touch but one that twinged the reminder of the crown of thorns sensation he had felt in the shower. Wyn didn’t let it show, he smiled, and he wished him good luck for his day.

       He was alone in the apartment, and would be for the next few hours. The awkwardness was suddenly something he missed, finding it much more preferable to the hollow silence that ran through the empty space. It was frustrating, a knot forming in his chest that made it a little harder to breathe than he would like. This was supposed to be the one day of the week where Wyn could properly relax, with no expectations, and yet he found himself pacing the length of the apartment, once, twice, three times, from tile to carpet and across the divider that separated them, the cold of the linoleum against the coarseness of the fabric that always annoyingly scratched his feet when he would walk on it without socks. It used to be an annoyance he found consistent and welcome in his day to day life, it was, but in the moment he found himself in now, the sensation made his skin crawl, made his hands shake and fwip as he shook them, like he was trying to shake away the sensation.

        Wyn eventually caved and jumped onto the couch, probably the most expensive thing in the whole place just for the extra comfort. A shitty game of the floor is lava, and Wyn was playing against his repulsion to the sensation and the creeping anxiety in his chest. He managed his breathing, just like his therapists had told him- In, hold, out, a routine he had done hundreds of times. It didn’t work completely, but after a few passes, he felt less on edge. The soles of his feet were buzzing, pins and needles gripping them like shitty cotton socks that fit like slip-on pumps. A distraction. That’s what he needed. Badly.

        Fumbling around a little haphazardly, his fingers graced the buttons of the silver remote that connected to the second-hand TV him, Kit and Nadia had all pitched in to buy. The power button stuck when he tried to press it the first time, and the second time, but the third—

        ‘—ay marking the seventh anniversary of the North Wellway Massacre, where local residents—”

        Wyn's skin pricked and his hair stood on end, blood running cold as old crime scene photos flashed on the screen. All blurred, of course, but the images crystal clear in his mind from his own front-row seat to the bloodshed. He tried to turn it off.

        The button stuck.

        His eyes couldn’t tear from the screen, even as the noise drowned out with muddied ringing, garbled speech, echoes in the back of his mind. Images of blood and viscera, hacking and slashing, laughter. Fucking laughter. His skin was buzzing, his head pounding with the beginnings of an ugly migraine he wouldn’t see leaving any time soon. The images kept flashing.

        The button kept sticking.

 

—

 

        When Wyn heard any movement in the apartment again, he was in his room, huddled back beneath blankets and comforters with a pillow clutched in his vice-like grip. The top of it was damp, the fabric nearest to his eyes, and there were small fraying tears in the case where his teeth had continued to dig into the meat of it. His throat felt dry from crying, from stuffing his mouth full of pillowcase in an attempt to stifle his scream-like sobs. It worked, he thought it did at least— but if it didn’t, no one in the surrounding apartments came to check or reported the noise. Maybe they knew it was him. He hoped not.

        The sound of knocking at his door made him flinch, if only due to the break in the partial lull of silence. He lifted his head from his cave, eyes catching the display on his barely charging phone. 4:27pm. Practically seven hours had gone by in a haze, but he'd rather not keep today pieced together in his mind.

        “Wyn?” Nadia’s gentle voice was like a reprieve, hurting him with the comforted edge of caution and pity, but he loathed the idea of being alone for another minute. Wyn groaned out half-permission for her to enter, and she did.

        The door creaked with how slowly she opened it, and the light that poured through the opening gap made him grimace as it hit his right eye. Though he was quick to adjust, and through her silhouette he could make out her dimly lit features; thin and groomed eyebrows furrowed with worry behind  her mess of pin-straight, long brunette hair. There was a slight kink to it, and Wyn assumed that she had only just pulled it out from her typically tightly smoothed ponytail. As she made her way further into his room, sitting beside him on the bed, he could smell sandalwood and sage. Unlike Wyn and his pastry-shop aroma, he didn’t care if Nadia brought work home like this. It was a comfort to him, and she knew it.

        She rested a gentle hand on the spot where his shoulder was, and carefully pulled the blanket away. Nadia didn’t need to ask what happened, there was always something in her eyes that spoke what words she left unsaid.

        “..News report.”

        There was a hiss through her teeth as she gently patted his arm, the reaction making him smile even under the heavy weight that had settled over him. Something told Wyn that she was smiling down at him at the break in his numbness, and it made him feel better. Just a bit. “Well, TV’s off, channel was changed far away from news channels, and I got salmon and potatoes cooking in the oven. How about we get you up and get something more than cereal in you, hon?”

        Much like living with Kit had allowed Wyn to pick up on traits and habits, knowing Nadia for roughly the same amount of time generated the same effect:

        1. She was the best cook Wyn had ever met, pulling no punches with experimentation when it came to spices, herbs and new combinations.

        2. She was afraid of dogs, avidly so, but passionately and fervently stated she would rather face her fear than care for a tank full of betta fish like she did when she was 12.

And right now, stronger than anything else,

        3. Nadia Ventrosa was the most motherly woman on the planet, and cared more about others than she ever did herself. Maybe to her detriment.

        It was a trait that usually frustrated him, Wyn wanting nothing more than to have her focus on herself and her wellbeing instead of his or Kit’s, but he would be a complete liar if the offer of her hand to pull him up and out of his spiral wasn't the most welcome sight.

        Wyn took it, gratefully, and she pulled his dead weight up with ease. Despite the conflict it brought him and his morning routine, he was glad he showered this morning and put on clean clothes, else she’d be pushing him towards the shower and laundry hamper before he could protest (and the thought of anything else on those scars made him feel nauseous). That wasn’t the case and he, instead, was pulled back to the kitchen and all but shoved into one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs.

        Uncomfortable, but normal. Normal was what he needed. 

        Kit was seated, cross-legged opposite him , arms folded in front of him as he moved his head in odd directions- Wyn followed his eyeline and saw the glass salt shaker on the table, and caught the flickering glimpse of light refraction within it. He pieced together that he was making it move, testing the angles, pretending this morning didn’t happen. A thankful detail.

        Neither were expecting him to be talkative, but in the conversation that bubbled between the two of them as Nadia prepared food, they were leaving it open enough for him to jump in when he felt up to it- and he did, occasionally quipping in with a quiet comment or jab to make them smile or roll their eyes. Nothing was forced. Things felt better.

        Food came and went, praises sung for the star-studded meal. It was Wyn's favourite, and part of him thought that’s why Nadia made it in the first place; something simple, home-cooked and comforting. He wanted to save some, have a little pick-me-up to toss in the oven and reheat tomorrow, but his hunger got the best of him and nothing was left on his plate.

        More compliments were showered over Nadia, largely on behalf of Kit, only encouraged by Wyn's quite laughter and vague nodding. He felt disconnected from the whole experience, and had since Nadia pulled him from his room. Most of their banter and the experience of being around them went like a hazy blur, like he was looking through frosted glass, but Wyn let them think things were alright for the night. Things would be tomorrow, anyway, he would be back at work, back knee deep in distractions and familiar routines.

        He reassured Nadia of this as the two of them headed to their respective rooms, Kit having retired a little before either of them. “I’ll be as spry as ever tomorrow, you’ll not be able to shut me up.”

        She laughed, but it was forced, “I.. I know, but-.. You know you can talk to us about it, right? That night?”

        Her mentioning ‘that night’ made his chest hurt. False hope had him believing he'd be able to skirt around the topic for the rest of his life, never having to tell them details they already knew through shitty true crime reporters and news articles pasted all over twitter. She’d refrained from looking, Wyn knew she did, but there’s only so long someone can go without getting curious.

        Wyn really didn’t want to talk about it. In all honesty, he would have preferred to go the rest of his life without the mention of it ever again. But he reached up to his hand as it held his shoulder, squeezing it with a fake reassurance, “One day. Not today, but one day.”

        It never took much for her to get the hint- in this case, the hint to drop the subject, forget today happened, and go on with our lives pretending that October 25th was just another day. He was glad she took it, patting his cheek with motherly softness. There was part of him that wanted to claw, scream, reach out and spill his guts about every gruesome detail, collapse in hers and Kits arms and have them tell him lies about how it’ll all be okay.

        But they parted, and Wyn retreated once more into the suffocating stuffiness of his room. Opening a window was tempting, but there was this sick paranoia in his gut, and he locked the windows, the skylight, the bedroom door. He dove into bed, hiding under his sheets like a child scared of the monsters in the dark.

        There were no monsters, not tonight. Just the painful drumming of his heart, and the pins and needles buzzing in his hands.

 

Chapter 2: The Repetition

Summary:

A perfectly normal day.

Notes:

Content Warnings: Gore, Mutilation, Blood

Wyn wished he could say his sleep was dreamless, as dreamless as his brain had ever been able to allow, at least. Luck wasn’t on his side, and he felt himself running through the woods. Heart beating heavy in his ears, breathing choppy and erratic, he knew that something was chasing him. Something nameless and faceless, yet even still continued to haunt him. Cacophonous footsteps were on his trail, one, maybe two pairs, scuffing the dirt and kicking it back and away as their heels dug into the ground. With each leap, each bound, a primal urge to hunt and chase drove them closer to him. Wyn's feet could hardly find traction in the ground as he ran- his life depended on it, that was an absolute certainty.

        Screaming for help was useless. No help would come for him, no one would come to pull him from their line of sight, save him from the gruesome fate waiting at the cusp of his heels. The only witness to the chase was the blood red moon high above his head, a ceaseless watcher who took his fear and drank it in, drop for drop.

        Something whizzed by his head, narrowly missing Wyn's neck and catching a lock of his hair, severing it with a metallic cut. From the tree in his path stuck a hatchet, held together with ragged fabric and rope, stained with so much dried blood that he couldn't even begin to convince himself was just rust. Wyn staggered back from it as from the bark dripped a slow and steady dark stream, crimson that looked black and viscous like sullied sap. He wasn’t in a forest, he was in a room, and he wasn't front of a tree, he was in front of a door. In his haste to escape from the monster behind him, Wyn's hand shot for the handle and pulled it-- unlocked, it opened, and he was flooded with the sight of an unfamiliar room, filled with unfamiliar figures. All near faceless, laughing and joking through telepathic echoes that made his head split. Something warm dripped from his nose, but he didn’t have time to care about it. His eyes caught onto the closet- thin, and rickety, hardly able to hold more than three pairs of shoes.

        The footsteps grew louder, more hurried behind him. Wyn didn’t have much more of a choice, and the logic behind diving from the window into the garden below didn’t even begin to occur to him. It was like muscle memory. He turned, and He hid amongst the dust-ridden jackets and old, worn shirts. They smelled like sugar. It made him feel sick.

        Wyn held the doors shut with bated breath, stifling the noise of his panic as best he could. A twisted game of tag turned into morbid hide and seek, and he was the sorry son of a bitch stuck as the runner, the hider, with no fucking clue who his seeker was. What his seeker was.

        The room’s door swung open with a loud bang against the wall- iron willed with a hand over his mouth, Wyn only allowed his body a small flinch in reaction. If he screamed, they’d find him , and if they found him--

        From outside of the closet, he could hear the beginnings of carnage. One pained scream followed a harsh impact, the sound of flesh tearing and blood squelching, spraying, creating a domino effect of horrified cries and yells of fear and disgust. There was mania, frantic scrambling to flee-- but the more they ran, the faster the hunters struck. Bodies fell to the floor with sounds of convulsed agony, screaming only silenced with thud, after thud, after crack, after squelch, after splatter. One of them began to claw at the closet, nails scraping and scratching into the wood as they begged for salvation, and Wyn had to fight to keep it shut against their iron grip and pull. For a moment, a sliver of the figure was visible through the gap it created, the gap he promptly slammed shut. Chunks of their shoulder were missing, blood seeping into the fabric of their clothes as exposed bone and muscle glinted in the empty light of the open window. Another open; there was someone behind them, hatchet poised above their head, he slammed it shut. One more open, just as the blade bisected down the centre of it’s skull, spraying out blood and viscera, matter hitting the exposed fraction of his face through the gap. It dripped down into his eye, smearing the right side of his face in gore. Wyn didn’t need to slam the doors shut again, the corpse’s dead-weight landed in such a way that it created a blockade, trapping him inside. He prayed to God that the hunter didn’t see him in here. Whatever merciless, omniscient being there was, however many, however few, he prayed to them that it didn’t see him.

        A beat. Two. Three, the outside encased with a lifeless silence. Wyn was almost relieved, maybe it was gone? Maybe it truly hadn’t seen him? But the silence felt too heavy, too strung tight for him to allow himself an illusion of safety-- even still, with his split second relief, he let out the breath he were holding.

Wyn didn’t expect to gasp.

        Wyn didn’t expect the door to be pulled from his grip, splinters breaking into his fingers.

        Wyn didn’t expect to see the static like figure above him, hatchet held high. There weren’t any features, just a mangled silhouette, but he knew it was grinning, and its blade came mercilessly swinging down.

----

        Waking suddenly, drenched in sweat, throat scratched raw, Wyn wasn't surprised in the least that he felt like he was going to vomit. It took an iron will to keep it down, telling himself over and over that it was just another nightmare, a manifestation of his shitty mental psyche and remnants of resurfaced trauma. Hiding in a closet away from the murder, a dead body blocking his escape from the slaughter-- he wasn't an oneirologist, but he thought he got some kind of deeper message it was conveying. Maybe the memories of the massacre were keeping him shut in, isolated, and the bodies piled up in his mind were trapping him in his own mental spiral.

        Or maybe he was just traumatised, reliving the memories in twisted reimaginings, with none of those more intricate bells and whistles. That sounded more like it, plain ole’ fashioned trauma.

        Either way, it was Sunday, the start of his week while it was the end of someone else’s, and Wyn had to go to work. Stomach down the trembling, the tics, mask himself to fit into the crowd enough to get through the day— that was an easy enough plan and one he had succeed in time and time again. A repeat of yesterday, Wyn clawed out of bed, and as he did he gave himself a mental pat on the back for shutting the window last night. If the room was cold like it was in his nightmare, he might’ve retreated back into bed for the rest of the day and lost out on the fresh air and the money that got him through the rent.

        Wyn reached for the handle, yet stopped as he tried the door, confused as to why it wouldn’t budge open. A feeling crept along his shoulders, the thought of a corpse on the other side of the door, blocking him in whilst a monster clawed up the six stories to bash his window open—

        ..He twisted the lock and it opened just fine. He'd forgotten that he had locked it in his panic last night, and he laughed at himself, a little embarrassed at his own quick assumption. It was just a dream.

        Part of him half expected to be met with silence, yet were surprised to hear the shower running. It couldn’t have been Nadia, she always showered at night, but was Kit really awake this early on a Sunday? The one time a week he could hardly get him up before noon? It was odd. Wyn struggled to recall if Nadia got a chance to shower last night, he didn't remember hearing her leave her room after she settled into bed, her hair wasn’t wet when she came in to retrieve him for food, and he never heard her comically loud bickering with Kit when the water ran ice cold on her and she’d let out a shrill scream of discomfort.

        Maybe she was just getting the jump on him today, making sure she got her fair share of the warmth. Wyn hardly blamed her, but he really needed to brush his teeth. The door likely wasn’t locked (neither of them really locked their doors, apparently comfortable entirely around each other like that,) but he still knocked, “Nads? Naaadia, I need to brush my teeth, will you be out soon?”

        There was quiet, no response through the running water. He heard it impacting something, though, but it was safe to assume she was wrapped up in her own thoughts. Wyn didn’t really need to brush his teeth, anyway, he had plenty of chewable toothbrushes in his bag for when he had to rush out of the house in time to catch the bus, he would just have to double-tackle the task when he got home.

        “..Alriight, I’ll see you when I get home from work, okay? I’ll bring you some apple pastries as a thank youuuuu-'' Wyn's fingernails skitted across the wood of the door as he smiled and made his way through into the kitchen.

        He had no clue how to iron, which is why Kit had to do it for him. He was thankful to see that after he got home yesterday, he had done just that- leaving a little note on the top of the neatly folded clothes:

        ’Yum Yums as payment’

        The man didn’t know what the hell a Yum Yum was, but Wyn had given him a layout of the bakery stock one day a few years ago and every now and then, he’d change the ‘payment’ to something new. Looks like today was Yum Yums- it was British, a donut-like thing, and the source of the sickly sweet smell of his uniform. Wyn did the math in his head as he took the clothes and the note and scuttled back into his room, avoiding as much carpet as possible. The pastries, the yum yums, deducting his discount- Maybe only five dollars. Money wasn’t ridiculously tight, he could probably get them both something else for another five, they deserved it. He had his plan. And he owed them a thank you for getting him through yesterday.

        Changing was a quick task, he had grown numb to the feeling of the itchy polyester shirt that rubbed at his back a little too much, but he'd long since cut the tag at the collar after it would nick his neck every five seconds until he was too overstimulated to think, so the uniform was more bearable. He slid his apron into his bag, alongside his wallet, emergency case, and one of his fidgets.

        Deep breath in, slowly out. Yesterday was in the past now, Wyn didn’t need to think about it. All he had to do was focus on his job.

        He kept his light on as he left the room and shut the door behind hin. With a final call out to the rest of the apartment, he exited the front door and locked it behind him. There was little debate between stairs or elevator, and he pressed the down button, mimicking the little ding that it made.

        It wasn’t more than a minute until the doors slid open, and Wyn stepped inside the warm-yet-dingily lit elevator. He pressed the ground floor button, fingers flicking over the braille momentarily as he waited for the sliding clunk, and the little leap his stomach did as it began to descend. Six to five, to four, to three. A stop, one he was a little annoyed about as he wasn't exactly keen on sharing the tight space after the night he'd had.

        But Wyn didn’t have much time to prepare for the new individual as the metal parted and opened. The man- the very tall man- stepped into the elevator in a little too much of a hurry, hands balled in the pockets of his black denim jacket. He looked at the panel of buttons, making a move to reach for it, but seeing that the ground floor was already selected seemingly allowed him to settle himself.

        ..Okay, Wyn couldn’t help but look him over- mainly because he'd never seen him in the building before now, and Wyn had seen everyone at least once. Broad shouldered, with messy and short dirty blond hair that barely grew over his ears. He was morbidly curious about other small details, the people watcher in him going nuts trying to figure out if his eyes were brown or black, when those very eyes flicked in his direction to meet his gaze. “Can.. Can I help you?”

        Wyn felt his ears warming in embarrassment as he immediately broke the eye contact- he didn’t even remember the distinction of the colour, his recon worth nothing, and he began to stammer out an apology, “Sorry- So sorry I thought I recognised you-” Wyn didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. He was pretty sure he saw cleanly through his lie anyway, as he heard a somewhat quiet chuckle. It sounded forced, it reminded Wyn of what he would do in awkward social interactions like this, and it made him feel even worse.

        “I get it. People watching.” He said, and it was seemingly all he wanted to say, preferring to keep conversation brief and abrupt. Wyn nodded, quieting himself despite his internal monologue repeating stupid, stupid, stupid-

        Though through it, he felt something off. Wyn felt that creeping weight on his shoulders, like fingernails trailing from the blades to the top, over his sleeves, up his neck, gripping the sides of his skull with buzzing palms. It sent shocks through his brain, a dull ache growing, reminiscent of last night’s migraine… but in thinking about it, which he tried not to do, Wyn realised that it had started as soon as he'd stepped in the elevator. It was an oddly comforting realisation, because it meant he could pin it on his hearing, how it was just picking up on the sound of the electricity fuelling the lightbulbs above him and the mechanisms hoisting them down. Wyn had had had a shitty 24 hours, and he was oversensitive to sound. It was just the electricity. It was just the electricity.

        The doors opened in front of him just as he'd reached into his pocket to retrieve his headphones- and he continued to do so as he exited, sparing no glance back to the man inside of it in an attempt to drown out the still bubbling shame Wyn felt from that far too awkward interaction. Wyn faintly heard the door slide shut again as he slipped in the buds, thumbing his phone to put the first playlist he could find on shuffle- as he did, he saw the time, and he was thankful the bus stop was just outside the complex. 8:43, he had two minutes, but with how time had felt for him recently, Wyn was sure it wouldn’t be a drag of a wait.

 

        And he was right, it took the bus no time at all to reach the stop, and Wyn readied his digital ticket to save unneeded attention on his anxious fumbling. He almost tripped over his feet as it began to drive off, still standing, but lucky for him, he caught himself before he looked really stupid, and his seat was found with no further issue. Music drowned out the agonizing growl of the engine, but the vibrations that ran through his seat (of course, he was sitting right over a motor or something,) reminded him of that static-y feeling under his skin from the shower, the elevator. It hadn’t come back, it was just reminiscent of that sensation. He hoped it wouldn’t bother him during his shift.

        In the ten minute bus ride from the complex to the bakery, Wyn was becoming convinced that there was something very different about his surroundings. It was a little crowded, with the beginnings of those like him employed in the centre of town making their commute from their homes, but that wasn’t uncommon. The seats felt a little different, a little rougher on his palms than he was used to it being, but looking down he noticed the off colouration, his seat being a darker blue to the one beside him, and with a brief glance around the bus, he saw that there were other seats just like it; He remembered hearing a while ago that some kids brought their cigarettes on board once, hidden in their pockets, and the sticks burned clean through their jeans and onto the seats they’d crowded around. It was just repairs, different fabric. But there was nothing else it could have been, no obvious alterations in his environment that should be contributing to the steady forming paranoia in his gut that didn’t seem to allow him to drown it out with the music pouring into his ears.

        Wyn sat anxiously, tapping the side of his phone case, and with no other idea on what he could do, he opened his messages and started to text Nadia. There was only one feasible thing that could be causing this, even though it had never caused him this much trouble before, but an overwhelming need hung heavy on his heart.

        Wyn **i think i need to talk about what happened but i dont wanna ruin the vibes by just dropping everything on you and kit at one. just a heads up for when i get back

        Wyn **idk if im ready but im not sure i can manage another day dealing with this onmy own.

        The bus came to a halting stop as he sent the final text, making sure that it was delivered before he slipped his phone into his back pocket. Wyn stood, regained his balance, and left through the aisle as calmly as he could with how tight his throat felt- the driver getting a meek ‘thank you’ as he struggled for eye contact. The stop was just down the street from the bakery, a little home-run business that everyone botched the name of (even him.): Maralanes, which might’ve been a play on Marilyn’s, or Maryland’s, he still wasn't sure even after two years there. But if he said either quick enough, customers weren’t able to tell the difference at all. Wyn needed that kind of shorthand socialisation today.

        Especially with that damn creeping feeling on his shoulders.

——

        Unsurprisingly, the day had gone by in a complete, customer-service possessed blur. Plenty of people had come in and out, likely spending their days off rewarding themselves with a ‘home-baked’ pastry and a machine made coffee, but Wyn couldn’t point out a single noteworthy experience from the whole day. No faces, no orders, no nothing-- no one he was particularly fond of working with took the Sunday shifts, either, so it was a haze. A bored, muscle-memory filled haze that had gone by all too quickly.

        That sick creeping hadn’t gone away either, and it only grew worse the closer he got to the apartment complex. Nadia hadn’t texted him back, though she had seen his message, which provided a slight ease on his weighted chest. Finally ripping off the bandaid, telling them the story as Wyn remembered it, not how anyone else did, would at the very least give him some weird sense of closure. Too broke for the therapy the state had promised him at this point, roommates were his next best option. And he was thankful as the familiar stop came into view, thumb pressing the stop button, standing ready to exit.

 

        Wyn fumbled for his keys long before he reached the inside of the building, holding them in his hands ready to walk inside and practically crash into Nadia’s arms. He hadn’t forgotten her pastries, he'd grabbed a few extra for the trouble he were about to put her and Kit through. The buzzing snuck up his spine again, and he rushed to the elevator. One, two, three, four, five presses of the up button, it was quick to arrive. The man from earlier was in there, and he narrowly side-stepped Wyn as he took his place in the empty space. He pressed the six, and caught the man's eyes again as the doors shut. Brown. They were brown. And they looked almost hollow, staring into him, through him, like he could see the static building in his skull, sending pins and needles through his arms, back to his hands.

        ..Something was off. Deeply off.

        Wyn blinked and he was at the top of his floor, sparing no time in dwelling for another second on his recent tendency to lose time. He had to get inside, somewhere safe, somewhere he knew he was secure. He barely registered that his walking had turned into near sprinting down the empty hall, and Wyn recalled the feeling of dread he felt in his nightmare. The game of tag under the blood moon, the heels digging into the dirt. He had a horrible blossom of fear in his chest that he'd have to play hide and seek with those monsters in the dark again, hiding under his covers like they would protect him from them.

        Wyn slowed once he reached the door, barely avoiding running head-first into it. A shaking hand slid the keys into the door, turning, unlocking it, pushing it open.

        “Nadia-? Kit-?!”

        All but slamming the door behind him, Wyn called out desperately. Arms hugged around his torso as he squeezed a rationalized comfort, despite the underlying shepherd's tone rising in his ears. There wasn’t a response. There was always a response. Always a call back to him, half coherent, half asleep, but a response nonetheless. There was nothing.

        Then he heard it.

        The shower was still running.

        Wyn could hardly breathe, hardly consider the possibility that it was Kit having a late shower, or that it was Nadia, even though he was certain it was her this morning. The thought of bursting in on either of them mortified him, but in the back of his mind he had a nagging, unshakable feeling that he needed to open the door. He needed to make sure that it was just his anxiety taking hold, that it was just a trauma response, that everything was fine.

        Legs moved on their own, each footstep sending sharp pangs through his calves. It was like walking on searing coals, setting his nerves on fire with its embers. Wyn's heart was loud in his ears, beat irregular, breathing drawn sparse. It made him feel lightheaded.

        He tried the handle, it was unlocked. He tried to push it open. Something was blocking it. He remembered the body hitting the closet door in his nightmare.

        Break it down.

        Wyn took a step away from the door, still holding onto the handle.

        Break it down.

        He readied himself, biting back the feeling of bile rising in his throat.

        Break. It. Down.

        With a sharp lunge forward, he drove his shoulder into the wood of the door, pushing it open with the force of his body weight. It swung open with a measure of resistance, but enough of a gap was made that allowed cloud after cloud of hot steam to expand out from the room and into his eyes. It stung, misted his vision, and the sound of the shower hitting the tile melded and meshed with the growing static, a white noise hell that he found himself in the centre of.

        “Are you guys here? This really isn’t fun-”

        Wyn's words trailed off into nothing as his eyes cleared and he bore witness to the sight in front of him. Three mangled forms sat propped up against the tiled wall opposite the door, pinned and posed like a gift wrapped welcome home. He first recognised Nadia, hair matted with blood and brain as her skull caved at her right temple, eye socket empty and pouring with dried, oxidised crimson. Her jaw hung limp, broken, permanently frozen in a constant, numb scream- arms hacked and slashed, bludgeoned and bruised, stained with red from fingertip to shoulder. Her right leg was missing, the white of her thigh bone and the muscle encasing it sitting exposed like a sick dissection. Then there was Kit, who’s left arm had met the same fate as Nadia’s leg, still dripping blood down into a puddle that had spread so far across the ground, Wyn wasn't sure how it hadn’t pooled out of the cracks beneath the door. There were chunks of his abdomen that had been cleaved and cut, creating unnatural concaves in his sides and his stomach, and his head.. Pinned, propped up in two halves, butchered horizontally between his nose and lips. His jaw was held in place, keeping the two halves together, but the upper half of his face sat hammered through the centre of his forehead. His eyes were clouded, vacant, and with the way the pupil fell, he was staring directly at Wyn.

        Between them was another. An armless, legless, headless corpse, bullet holes riddling their chest like they were used as target practice. Smeared in blood above the neck, blood that stemmed from the grim splatters and splashes either side of it, were two lines, an arc beneath them, and a date and time above it all. A smile. October 25th, 11:56pm.

        This happened last night. This had happened while Wyn in the house, door and windows locked tight. Kit and Nadia had been butchered, beaten, put on display for him to find, and it took Wyn almost sixteen fucking hours to do that. He had gone undisturbed as they were massacred two rooms away, as monsters came and went from their home as they pleased. He didn’t need an autopsy report to pin their times of death, their killer did that for him.

        But Wyn had locked his doors. These two never locked their doors. This third corpse tucked between them, unidentifiable, was supposed to be him.

        The static grew louder, splitting in his skull unbearable, and had it not been for the tearing in his throat, Wyn wouldn’t have been able to tell he were screaming bloody murder.

Notes:

i did not kiss the brick before i threw it, no

Chapter 3: Off The Record

Summary:

He couldn’t believe it had happened again.

Notes:

Content Warning: Brief description of mutilation

 The downstairs neighbors, residents of 5-C, were the ones who made the call to the police. Ascending the stairs, rushing to the sound of screams, they burst into the apartment as Wyn was doubled over in front of the bathroom door, hands gripping his hair, coughing and sobbing inconsolably. That’s what Beth told him , at least. She was the one that found him, and was the one that sat beside him in the back of the ambulance with a shock blanket over his shoulders, and a cup of untouched water in his shaking hands. She was an older woman, soft spoken in all the times he had crossed paths with her in the hall, and she remained as such as she rubbed circles on his back. Wyn wasn't sure if that was her name, she never actually gave it to him, but at some point in the past, it was what he had landed on calling her.

        The movement from the apartment to outside was sudden and jarring to him, and Wyn regained his sense of self as they were escorting him towards a police car. Beth protested, insisting he were unfit for the journey alone, and that’s how he found himself watching the three gurneys be pulled out from the sliding doors leading to the lobby. Wyn assumed that he had missed the appearance and disappearance of any kind of crime scene investigation, but he couldn't say he was surprised with his recent bouts of disconnect and dissociation (it must have been a while at the very least, as the slowly setting sun had almost disappeared behind the rows of houses around and on his street.) There were flashing lights, cameras, pointed directly at the front of the building in the hopes of catching a glimpse of something newsworthy. The few reporters that were in town had already dragged out their crews to the scene, word spreading far too fast and far too wide. Their voices were muddied, distant in his trembling and his still throbbing panic. Wyn were thankful that the police were keeping them away from him. For now.

        “--Less than 24 hours after the sixth anniversary of Wellway Street’s infamous tragedy. This reporter can’t help but speculate the possibility that somewhere within this upcoming investigation, the deaths of Christopher Rillings and Nadia Ventrosa could be connected to the murders of--”

        Kit hated when anyone called him that. Christopher. That wasn’t his name, none of these people knew that. None of these people would care, though, reporters in their dry lull of news flocking to their oasis, taking in their career-saving fill of a story with lips stained with the blood of the victims they would use as their token into a bigger industry. Nadia would have hated them, hated how she was being used as their ticket out of traffic report. She was more than a story, none of these people knew that.

        None of these people knew them. But Wyn did. And he had half a mind to tear this blanket off, throw his water on their fancy equipment, and--

        Beth reached over and touched his cheek gently, gasping, “Oh- Sweetheart, your nose-”

        He blinked, eyes and thoughts coming back into focus as her other hand dug around her cardigan pockets to pull out a small tissue. She leaned forward and dabbed at the space between his nose and lips- where Kit had been half-decapitated and stuck to the wall- “You’re bleeding- are you hurt? Let me see if I can flag down one of those paramedics.”

        “..No- No it’s alright.” Wyn took the tissue gingerly from her hand and looked down to it- Sure enough, blotches of red stained the crumpled white, and he noticed that his previously untouched water held curls of drops that had fallen without him even realising. The sight of it made his stomach turn more than it already was- he hadn’t had an actual nosebleed in years, but the ones he used to get were so frequent and so heavy he remembered needing to get cauterised. Great. Wyn had seen enough blood for his lifetime, he really didn’t want to see more of it. He held the tissue back to his nose as Beth pried the cup from his hand and muttered something about getting him some fresh.

        As he sat there with focus adamantly away from his surroundings and pinpointed on stopping the flow of blood, something flickered at the corner of his vision- “Excuse me?”

        The voice was familiar, nasally, with an air of pride that made him feel sick. In the six years it had been since Wyn had last heard it in person, it hadn’t changed in the slightest. Eyes flicking up from the ground, he was met with a reporter with an audio recorder held firmly in her hand— thankfully with no camera, but knowing her, she likely had one hidden within the folds of her pinstripe jumpsuit. She smiled, pink painted lips thin and falsely sympathetic, “Valory Marks, C42, you-” She stopped in her tracks as a glint of recognition hit her,“...Wyn Sterling, survivor of the North Wellway massacre-”

        “..You documented the whole case front and back, Ms Marks, I’m surprised you didn’t already know I live here. Lived here.” Wyn tried to sound bitter, somewhat spiteful, but his voice was hoarse and shakey as he spoke. “Can-Can you give me more than a few hours to grieve before you shove that mic down my throat? Please?”

        She sighed, and she clicked off her recorder- she also pressed something on one of her lapels, and pulled out a wire of some kind. He fucking knew it. “..Off the record, I’m sorry for your loss.” Her words were hollow, performative. He was her unamused audience.

        “If you were sorry, nothing would need to be on record, would it, Valory? You could just-” He cut himself off, biting his tongue. He didn’t want to get into this with her, preferably ever, but definitely not now. Be the bigger person, even though he thought he more than deserved to go the fuck off. “Just..  Leave me alone.”

        There was nothing else she could say without trying her luck, he saw it in her eyes and the way her eyebrows tilted down in a furrow. Wordlessly, she tucked her recorder away into her pocket, and walked away- just as a detective came and took her place. Wyn didn’t care as much, at least they had a more genuine reason to talk to him. He sat beside him, disposition gentle and patient, “Excuse me, Mr Sterling? I’m Officer Mariott, how are you feeling?”

        “..Tired. Really.. Really fucking tired.”

        “I can imagine, you’ve had quite the night,” He gave you a small, reassuring smile- Wyn would give him one back, but his lips barely twitched upwards, “Biohazard cleaners will be in by tomorrow, and your apartment should be clean by the end of the day- until then, is there anywhere else I can take you tonight? Do you have any other friends or family that live nearby?”

        Wyn held his breath as he thought for an upsetting amount of time- the coworkers he liked marginally more than the others were either sick or out of the country, Kit and Nadia were his only actual friends, and his family… “..No. I-I don’t think so.”

        He nodded, “Well.. I need to take you to the station for a statement- You and Mrs. Hollis. While you’re there, we can figure out where you’re gonna be staying for the night. How does that sound?” At his hesitation, he continued, “It won’t take long, a handful of questions, then we’ll find you somewhere.”

        “..I won’t be able to afford the apartment after this.” Wyn mumbled, folding away the tissue in his hands. He was sure his nose was still a little bloodied, but it was hard to care about that, “I need to speak to our- my landlord, maybe- maybe she can rent me a one-room, or help me find somewhere that will-”

        “We can figure that out.” Officer Mariott rested a hand on his shoulder, trying his best to reassure you, “Are you ready to go?”

        He wasn't reassured, and he definitely wasn't ready, but there wasn’t exactly any use prolonging the inevitable. Wyn stood, shaking off the numbness that had spread through his legs due to the lacking use, and he nodded. Officer Mariott got to his feet, and began to lead him to one of the squad cars away from the direction the press were swarming. He couldn’t hear anyone following them, the sound of the rabble growing a little quieter, muffled as he sat with the door shut. Beth- ‘Mrs. Hollis’ - must have been going in a different car, because the ignition clicked and the engine whirred to life. Officer Mariott began to drive him away from the complex, and he watched out of the tinted window as the ambulances, the crowds, and the bodies of his friends grew further and further away.

-----

        Ashlow County Police Station was a familiar and unwelcome scene- popcorn ceilings housed an odd number of long, dust-riddled utility lights, one of which was flickering irregularly just outside of Wyn's peripherals, and he wasn't sure whether or not it was meant to be a method of torture. The room was loud with electrical buzzing, scuffing heels on square-floor tiles pacing the room, moving from this desk to that, and he was sitting with balled up fists fidgeting anxiously in his lap. This was all bringing back far too many painful memories. He wanted to go home.

        ..Go home to what? His now lifeless six rooms? Hollow halls no longer echoing with laughter, a kitchen that will never again be used to its fullest extent? He'd be returning to an absence of morning shower singalongs, afternoon Netflix binges, mutual words of encouragement and consolation. He'd be returning to a reminder of unfulfilled dreams and aspirations, of unspoken stories, of too many things left unsaid.

        His home wasn’t home anymore, not without Nadia or Kit, and he was never going to get them back.

        “..And you found them exactly as they were at the scene, yes?”

        Wyn nodded as Officer Mariott transcribed his responses on his beaten laptop, “Yes- I.. I was paranoid, I heard the shower running just like it was when I left the house at around 8:40. They were open people, both of them, and I’d had moments like this in the past.”

        “Moments where you believed them to be in danger?”

        Another nod, another set of typing, “So when I tried the door and it didn’t budge open, I shoved it- Did.. Did they find out what was blocking it? The bathroom door?”

        He looked confused, “..There was nothing blocking the door.”

        ..What? Wyn thought back to the memory, the weight he felt on the other side, “No- There was something in front of the door, I swear I remember there being something there.”

        Officer Mariott looked at him closer, typing stopped, “..Are you sure?”

        ..There was something about the tone of his voice that made Wyn feel as though he was being watched closer than he had been before this point. There was something accusatory within it. “.Maybe- My memory hasn’t been great recently, but it’s not-”

        “..Do you remember going to bed the night of the murders, any details between that and leaving the house?”

        “I- I’m sorry, I’m not sure how that’s relevant to-” Wyn felt your heart drop in his chest, skipping more beats than healthy as his gut twisted into knots. Feeling his words catch in his throat, he stammered, “D-Do you think I did this-? Why would I do this to them- to anyone, I-” He laughed, “I have problems, a lot of problems, but paranoia, losing time, it- it doesn’t make me a fucking killer-”

        Why was he getting so defensive? He was scared, fucking terrified, in the past six hours he had discovered the corpses of his only friends with a third body he could only assume was meant to represent him, and were being considered capaple of it. It stung, like a knife to the chest, and the way that Officer Mariott didn’t deny it only twisted it deeper, “..You seriously think I did it, don’t you?”

        “It’s a possibility I’m considering-“

        “Considering-”

        “But not as a priority suspect. Not yet.” He took a glance around the room, huffing lightly before scooting his chair closer to Wyn. He wanted to move back away, but he lowered his voice and seemingly began to explain, “There are.. I don’t need to be the one to tell you the similarities between this and the North Wellway case. Other people will see them too, if they haven’t already, and the one common denominator is you, and-”

        He cut off his own sentence, whatever he was going to say clearly something he shouldn’t be. But it was too late, it looked like he knew it was, “..And what, Officer?”

        “..A symbol.”

        ----

        “IT HURTS- PLEASE, STOP, LET ME GO-!!!”

        Wyn felt the blade dig deeper into the flesh of his back, capillaries and veins bursting and seeping blood. A pool had begun to form on the wooden flooring beneath him as he kicked and screamed, but the man keeping him down had pressure in enough places that he was left immobile, and the open wounds on his arms and legs were making him feel weaker and weaker. Even still, his nails digged into the ground as he tried to claw away, “L-LET ME GO- MOM- DAD-!!!”

        “They’re dead.” He said, voice garbled and pitch-changed, but the pain consuming him made it hard to identify the abnormality of it at all, “They’re lucky to be.”

        Wyn screamed louder, shriller, and the man continued to carve.

        ----

        In front of him, on Officer Mariott’s desk, was a photo of the exact carving in the flesh of Wyn's back, a bloodied, crossed out circle painted on the inside of his apartment’s bathroom door. It dripped in streaks, smeared and smudged- likely because of the condensation that was building in the room for hours. “…It was found marked in  your home October 25th, 2018, and in your apartment today.” He said, cautiously, “..Do you have any idea what it means?”

        Wyn didn’t respond, staring blankly at the symbol. He could feel a near sudden sense of dread filling his body, tightening his chest and locking his throat. “..N-No. It— It kind of looks like a calculator symbol- An Operator?”

        “Has it recurred anywhere else in your life?”

        Wyn didn't say a word. Officer Mariott shut the case file at his silence, taking it as a wordless confirmation that he didn’t explore further, “That symbol connects these two cases with several others across the country, a case I am.. closely invested with. Off the record, Wyn, this will mean that these cases are going to be hidden under the covers very quickly. No one in Ashlow County wants anything to do with Rosswood Park. Except for me.”

        The name Rosswood sent a shiver down the back of his spine, yet he wasn't completely sure why- maybe it was something he had heard of before, a long time ago, and had just buried it down along with the handful of other things he had done the same with. Wyn continued to say nothing, so he continued, “I’m going to.. Take what you’ve told me, and I’m going to pass it along. Thank you for your cooperation so far.”

        Wyn didn’t want to be any part of this for any longer, but he felt as if he didn’t have much of a choice anymore. Capability to be verbal beyond hums and stammers failed him from that point on, and Officer Mariott set aside questioning in favour of finding him somewhere to stay the night. Wyn gave him the number of his landlord, and was thankful when he handled the phone call for him. Allowing him temporary relocation until something more permanent came up in her complex, she had given him a place with a colleague of hers. The idea of sleeping under an unfamiliar roof made him feel anxious, but Wyn had a feeling that anxiety would never shake, and being in the same house as the murder would have left him even worse off. He was pretty sure he couldn’t stay there, anyway, what with his bathroom being an active crime scene.

        The movement from station to car, car to road, road to apartments, was quick and sudden, each stage only getting a blink in his memory. Something was in his hand suddenly- his bag, and considering he didn’t remember packing one, Wyn would have to empty the contents and review whatever was inside. Officer Mariott got out first, opening the door for him and he was thankful to stretch his legs outside of the cramped back seat of the car. It was the most recent time he remembered getting fresh air since before the station, and he felt like the deep breath in and out he took helped to ease him. As much as he could feel at ease, at least.

        Standing at the front of the building were two people- one an older woman, who at the sight of the car pulling up had pulled her jacket closer around her and made her way closer. She tried her best to smile, “Hi, you must be the tenant my sister was telling me about- I’m Tina, I own the building.”

        The small detail that landlord-ing was a family business made Wyn want to laugh, despite how silly it was to be amused by that. Either way, it explained how he managed to land something on such short notice. Tina held her hand out for him, and though he hesitated to shake it, he did anyway. His voice was shaky, and his words stammered, “..Wyn St- Wyn Sterling. I'll.. try not to be too mmuch trouble while I’m here.”

        “It’s not a problem- take all the time you need here. I’ll be drafting up a temporary lease for you tonight, get things arranged for you to discuss things more tomorrow.” She looked at Officer Mariott, “I can take things from here, Officer, he's in good hands.”

        Officer Mariott gave her a curt nod, and gave Wyn a small look. It was reminiscent of the one he had given him at the station when showing the symbol, when revealing his underlying suspicions of him- and Wyn was suddenly very thankful that Tina had dismissed him. As the car drove off into the distance, she squeezed his hand- it was a lot more reassuring and comforting than the officer had been earlier. “You’ve had such a long day, you must be starving. My wife is inside cooking, how about we get you settled and get you some grub, huh?”

        Wyn had no appetite after today, but the idea of food possibly lessening the twisting of his stomach sounded too tempting to refuse. “..What do you.. have?”

        “You’ll see. If you aren’t a fan of it, we can get you something else no problem.” Her smile was the most calming thing he'd seen all day, and he was perfectly content having her lead him to the front of the building- this is where that other individual stood, bags at his feet and a cigarette lit and glowing in his hands. The closer he got, the more details Wyn could make out within the washed out street lights. He looked exhausted, dark hair lying flat and a little greasy partially covering his eyes- he couldn't make out the colour of them. He didn’t want to be caught staring for the second time that day, so he tore his eyes away and focused on the ground.

        It didn’t last too long, though, as Tina stopped beside him and rested a similarly gentle hand on his shoulder, “You take care of yourself, alright Tim?”

        Despite his hardened exterior, the man smiled. It seemed she had a similar effect on everyone around her, and Wyn couldn’t help but wonder how ‘Tim’ had ended up here, or where he was going next, “..I will. And if you find that box-”

        “I know what to do.”

        Her answer seemed to leave him content, and he took another drag from his cigarette. Wyn's eyes scanned up again as a glint entered his vision, and he saw Tim holding it out to him as he exhaled. “You look like you need it.”

        Wyn didn’t smoke, and if he wasn't having the day he was already, he would have told him such verbally with a small ‘thanks anyway-‘ but a growing pressure in his skull made talking feel very suddenly difficult. Wyn raised a hand, trying to non-verbally indicate a polite refusal. Tim shrugged, a ‘suit yourself’ motion, and took it away from him as Tina led him inside. The pressure began to ease.

        Wyn didn’t have time to unpack that, or the feeling of eyes still on him as the door latch shut.

 

Chapter 4: Final Girl

Summary:

Maybe work would make him feel better.

Notes:

Content warning: Brief emetophobia

 

Adaline’s cooking was nothing like Nadia’s, but not in a bad way. Wyn hated to compare the two, the thought of her was pouring salt into his still bleeding wounds, but it was nearly instinctive. He could only describe Adaline’s cooking as warm, her specialty evidently within the realm of baking and soup-making. She had found a good balance between her spices, everything coming together in a way that tasted.. Nice. It was nice. It wasn’t mind-blowing, it wasn’t an explosion of flavour that knocked him out of the water, it was nice. Nice was what he needed.

        “You look like you’re enjoying it.” She smiled as she watched Wyn savour her food, soup-dipped bread held almost to his lips. He looked up at her with a silent look of agreement, and thanks, and took another bite. “Good, there’s plenty left over. I still need to deliver some to the folks in 1-B, but the rest of it’ll be getting frozen and stored up.”

        “If they don’t take another bowl straight off the bat, hon.” Tina laughed and walked over to her, kissing the top of her head, “I gotta run a few last-minute errands, will you show Wyn back to his room when he's all done here?”

        Adaline nodded and wished her wife a small goodbye as she headed out of the room. The sound of the door opening and closing told him she had left in a slight hurry- though he was dropped here very suddenly, he can imagine that she had to do things at the last minute. Adaline rested her chin on her palm as she looked Wyn over, “..I’m so sorry, today must have been hard for you.We’ll make your stay here as smooth a transition as possible okay?”

        ...Ok..ay.” He croaked out quietly- his voice had seemingly lost itself to the stress, and he had maybe only said one or two words to her the whole time he had sat with her. Wyn felt bad, she was clearly trying her best with him, he could only hope she knew he was doing the same.

       Like she read his mind, she smiled. Wyn really didn’t deserve how nice she was being. Part of him feared that there would be a catch of some kind, that hers and Tina’s kindness was entirely conditional. He was waiting for something like that to kick in at some point, and it was too soon to cross out the possibility entirely, but taking solace in whatever small comforts he could was his current saving grace. The idea of it got him threw the rest of dinner, it got him through the brief washing of his hair (he couldn’t stomach a full shower, for reasons he thought were pretty clear,) and it got him through Adaline leading him back out of hers and Tina’s home, down the hall, to 1-E. Same letter. It was almost bitterly comedic.

        “We’ve just had someone move out of this one, the place was cleaned up before he left, but if you find anything here that might’ve been left behind, just set it aside and let us know.” Wyn thought back to the man smoking out the front, the duffel bag at his feet. That must be who she was talking about, the conclusion seemed natural to reach despite the fact someone else could have easily moved out earlier in the day. He thought about his extended hand, the feeling of his eyes on him, and it reminded Wyn of the man from the elevator. It reminded him of the feeling of being stared straight through, like an open fucking book, and he shivered.

        He mentioned a box, he sounded like he wasn’t able to find it before he left. Wyn wondered what had him leaving without it, if it was as important as it sounded. Or maybe it was nothing, he was tired, he was playing detective around some random dude to stop himself from reading into the actual crime he was apparently a suspect in. Wyn stopped himself from going into that any further than he was in the two seconds of silence since Adaline had stopped talking, and pulled the words together slowly, “..Thank.. You.”

        At the sound of his reply, she gave his back a small circular rub and a pat, “You get some sleep, okay? We’re just down the hall if you need us, you have my number now if that’s easier, too.”

        Bless this woman and the ground she walked on. 

        She left Wyn to himself after that, urging him to let himself adjust to his new surroundings: The complex itself seemed to be three floors of studio-like apartments, with Tina and Adaline’s being one of a few exceptions. It was definitely a place for individuals or pairs instead of multiples. His new residence was a connecting kitchen and living room, with a bed tucked into the corner behind the couch- which held a fold-out desk attached to the back of it. It wasn’t as compact as he'd expected it to be, even though it was small Wyn could still comfortably walk around it without risking stubbing his toe or catching his shin. He took a brief pace through the length of it- oddly a perfect amount of space, considering it was just him.

        Wyn could manage here. For however long he would be here, he could manage.

        He took a seat on the bed, relishing in how comfortable the mattress felt- better than his old one, which he was pretty sure he'd scrounged upat a yard sale two days after moving in. His first priority was figuring out what autopilot-him had thrown into his bag. Unzipping it, he reached in, and the first thing he felt was fabric- clothes, seemingly a hoodie with two shirts, a pair of jeans and a pair of sweats balled up inside it. Beneath it was his laptop and chargers (score,) and a bag with toothpaste and a toothbrush inside of it. At the very least in his hazes, he had common sense, and didn’t pack space-hogging stuff like the books he hadn’t touched in months. Wyn desperately wanted to change, as in the lull of quiet he finally had, he realised he still smelled like a bakery...

        ..In the pause he had felt, and the realisation that he was finally settled into quiet, everything came crashing down on him. Someone had broken into his home and killed his roommates, his friends. They might have tried killing him, the only thing saving his life was the one-off occasion he had taken to locking his door. He was a suspect, at least partially. There weren't just correlations to last time. This was exactly like last time, down to what the weapons would be and the state the victims were in.

        The sugar hit his nose. Wyn dropped the bag and rushed to the bathroom, sobbing and choking as the instinct to vomit finally overtook him.

----

        Sleep came almost painfully slow, he was lying for what felt like hours before he finally slipped into unconsciousness with the acidic taste of bile on his tongue. To make things harder, of course, he would wake up every hour or so, startled from his sleep with nightmares that reached out to him, threatening to hold him in their grasp for seven torturous hours. He continued to slip from its grip- but he caught flashes, glimpses of what they held for him: Kit’s decapitated skull, Nadia’s concaved eye socket, the hatchets, the guns, the dismembered corpse, the symbol. The symbol kept coming back. That fucking marking in his skin, on the walls, on the ground, everywhere around him, drawn in blood and carved with jagged lines. Then he saw it.

        Wyn saw something new. It was tall, unfamiliar, blank and expressionless. It was right in front of him, just as he woke up to pitch black darkness and a slow blinking 4:13am. He coughed, setting off a kind of domino effect of hacking and sputtering into his palms. It made his head hurt, a sharp throbbing pushing on his eyes as he gagged. There was the faintest taste of blood on his lips, but there was a sizeably larger splotch of dark in his palm than seemed cohesively possible with the copper on his tongue. Had he ever had a coughing fit like this before? This should have been concerning, but it was.. Oddly familiar. That was what felt concerning, the familiarity of the pain in his chest, of the dread, of the feeling like eyes were watching him from the corner of the room.

        Wyn almost blindly reached for a tissue from the box on the side-table, wiping away the blood from his hands and lips- there was some dripping from his nose, the second time in about 12 hours. He felt his heart drumming harshly against his ribs, his breathing short and panicked. Something was wrong with him. Reaching for his phone, he clicked it open and texted the first person that came to mind.

        Wyn stopped as he realised he had opened Nadia’s chat.

        He quickly moved to his old therapist. He hadn’t had the money to pay for an appointment in about two years, all of his funds from his paycheck dividing themselves between bus money, bills, rent and groceries, but he was living smaller, didn’t need to take the bus, and would only be shopping for himself. He could afford one chat, just one, and he was desperate.

Wyn **Hhi marvin i know its been a while but i 

Wyn **imean you probably saw the news. I think you kmnow why im texting

Wyn **ddoyou have any appointment or client spaacesstill available?

        Typos remained completely ignored as he hit send on message after message. He was definitely asleep, but Wyn had to reach out somewhere, anywhere that might be able to help him. The idea of texting Adaline came to him, but he quickly brushed it away; it was his first night here, she and Tina could unlock his late night panic attacks on night four, but no sooner. His only option was attempting to sleep again.

        But that figure. That face, that empty, white face…

        His phone buzzed:

Marvin **Tomorrow, 1:30pm. Or today, rather. You sound like you need to talk.

Marvin **I can’t do more than listen right now, but do you need to call?

        It was like he was reading from a script, his internal response autopilot switched on until later in the day, but he responded. He was thankful, and he replied quickly back.

Wyn **nono im okay right now, its dark i just can’t see very well

Wyn **same place as last time?

Marvin **As always :-) Make sure you get some sleep.

        Knowing he would have an outlet for this was a massive weight off of Wyn's chest, enough that he managed to ease himself enough to lie back down. He held a pillow close to his chest, cuddling it as though it could do so back, begging for it’s reassurance and comfort, for just a tight squeeze back, for an ‘it’s okay, I’ve got you’ through the night terrors. If he thought about it hard enough, he could feel the weight, the warmth of his faux-person, how their hand rested atop his head and held him close to their chest. Wyn could almost make himself feel the heartbeat, the steady pulsing, and he lulled himself into another doze.

----

        It didn’t last long, but he had tricked himself another few times to get another few hours of sleep. Funny enough, being an almost-witness to a murder didn’t stop the cycle of work, especially when Maralane’s was as short-staffed as they were. His manager, Sylvia, was still sick with the flu, and his coworker Cyrus’ flights were delayed enough that he wouldn’t be back in until Wednesday. Wyn struggled to remember what day it was exactly, brain torn between too much trauma and too little sleep, but he remembered it was Monday about the same time he remembered he had work in the next 25 minutes. Safe to say, it was a rush to get out of the house, and he popped a chewable toothbrush into his mouth as he got ready. Wyn would need to drink water before he left, his mouth still tasted like blood and bile, and it wasn’t the feeling he wanted to carry with him into the bakery. Three hours, nine till twelve, then he had an hour and thirty to kill until he could talk to Marvin. After that, he might catch up on some of that godawful coursework he'd let completely slip his mind- college at 24 was a good idea before tragedy hit him again, Wyn might take that time to email his professor instead.

        Setting a plan, giving him a routine, it was gonna make him feel better long term. Wyn needed his structure back, whatever remants of it being the only thing that would get him through the tragedy. Knowing how his day was set out gave him the spur of confidence he needed to reach for the handle of the door, take a breath, and leave. His headphones were in long before he left the building as a whole, and for the full walk to the bakery, he didn’t waver in removing them for a single second. Hands balled in his pockets, fighting off the layer of near-November cold that had settled over Ashlow County. His breath had begun to curl out into small puffs of steam, and Wyn fought back the memory of opening the bathroom door. This walk gave him time to reminisce in ways he never wanted to again.

        It was just like last time, those six years ago. The smallest things reminded him of that night, the experience he had somehow lived through, despite not coming out physically or mentally unscathed. Was going to be as antsy as he was then? As anxious? As easy to overwhelm, or overstimulate? After that night, he had just wanted to recover and live his life as normally as he could. He had considered moving far away from the county as a whole to try and start fresh. Mabe he should have done that. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if he had just left at seventeen when he had the chance.

        Wyn was back at square one, and it fucking sucked to see how many cracks were in the foundation to begin with.

        Maralane’s wasn’t too far from his new place, which he'd consider a small silver lining in the otherwise dark stormcloud. The smell of it hit his senses and he was filled with that familiar sugar-induced nausea that definitely wasn’t doing him any favours. Luckily it was empty when he got there, barring the apron-clad figure hunched over one of the display stands, reorganising the pre-boxed cookies. Xander was the youngest of the staff, 18 or so, with shaggy black hair that Wyn thought  he must’ve tried cutting into a mullet six months ago with how it awkwardly fell over his ears. He hardly looked up as he heard footsteps, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

        “Turn off the answering machine, I’m not a customer.”

        Wyn laughed at the way his head snapped up and to attention, his mop of hair flopping with the wind force, “Hoooly shit, Wyn?! What the hell are you doing clocking in, man-!” He set his boxes down and rushed over to him, pulling him into a hug Wyn was half expecting, half hoping he wouldn’t commit to, “Fuckin- You’ve been on some final girl shit, I was thinking you’d be taking the whole damn week off-”

        “‘’Final girl shit’?” Wyn smiled, patting him on the back as he pulled away. The hoodie he'd put on over his work shirt had a touch of flour on it from where Xander had it smeared on his apron, “That’s a statement, Xan.”

        “Yeah! Y’know-” He briefly turned back to pick up the boxes, “Like in a slasher movie, there’s always the final ‘girl,’ last one standing, the one that kicks ass at the end after everyone else is dead?”

        That was something about Xander that stung a little bit: He was a nice kid, meant well, did his job and was the most social butterfly of a person you could be, but no matter what he thought, he said it. Even if it wasn’t good timing, or was maybe teetering on the edge of too dark a sense of humour. He never punched below the belt, but sometimes he would cut a little too close to an already open wound that made it feel like an agonising stabbing. He was a lot like Kit, talking before he spoke, but at least Kit’s brain caught up with him “..Hhah, guess you’re right-”

        Wyn couldn’t lie, it was a little funny, but still. Ouch.

        He just had to remind himself he was a kid. A dumb one, for sure, but still a kid. He usually had Cyrus to balance him out, keep him in line- with enough time, he might pick up on the social cues he was too tongue-tied to tell him he missed. Wyn wasn't much better with them when he was around his age, and he was never gonna hold a comment like that against him. He never held it against Kit.

        He did his best to muscle through, though, and within five minutes he was behind the counter and serving. He felt a lot more with it than yesterday, oddly enough, his brain likely taking the distraction in stride. Besides, having Xander always made work feel less like a chore and more like hanging out with an old friend. He would fill lulls and silences with dumb stories he’d heard be passed around in high school, or things he’d experienced himself, or things he’d seen in movies or read in books. Wyn would quip in with a question as he'd refill the change in the register, or as he'd dust cakes with powdered sugar ready to be put out on the display shelves. It was a nice back and forth, it took his mind off of things, even if it was just for a few hours.

        “Alright, I’m gonna go and find some stuff in the back to bag, are you alright out here for a hot sec?” He said, shoes almost already over the line separating the main floor from the back storage room. He wanted to take a break, likely to rest his legs for a minute. He could’ve just said that, but Wyn pinned it on his pride and nodded with a small wave of dismissal. He smiled to himself as he half-dashed into the break room, and as he began to wipe down one of the counters, The door to the shop opened a short few moments later, and he put aside his cleaning rag and put on his best customer service smile.

        Most people took a minute or two to decide what they wanted, but as Wyn looked up, he saw a brunette, with choppy brown hair covering his eyes and a slip of paper in his slightly trembling hand that he seemed to be reciting. His finger moved, twitching down and up as he scanned it over again and again. He took in a breath, and began to speak from behind the surgical mask wrapped around his face, “Hi, can- can I- c-.. Can I get t-two black coffees, a green ice tea an-and.. And three cr-croissants? Nailed it-”

        Wyn heard the little side comment to himself and smiled- the reciting and the stuttering was something he did, too. The slight twitch of his shoulder was another familiar thing, the flexing of his fingers, it made his own shoulder twinge as he straightened himself up, “Of course- any sugar in those?”

        “Two in one coffee, uh… One sec-” He moved back to the door as he opened it and peered outside, somewhere down the street to the left, and called out, “BRIAN, SUGAR? … GOT IT- Thhree in the tea. Tha-anks.”

        “I got it, those’ll be ready in just a few minutes.” He put in each of the items on the register, then moved around the floor to get them, setting off one coffee in one machine whilst prepping the other and the tea. Wyn could feel him watching him as he worked, and in the brief moments he turned around, he saw that he was- neck twitching as his breathing audibly caught with each sudden movement. Wyn felt his own chest jolt forward, nose twitching as he blinked hard- He didn’t know there were any other people in Ashlow County with tics, for whatever reason they had them. His had found themselves in a relative plateau, for the most part, but sudden movements like his risked setting them off. Another thing to talk to Marvin about.

        Wyn moved the drinks over to a small carrier and set both them and the bag of still-warm croissants onto the counter, “Alright, that’ll be $7.70.. Thaank you-” Wyn smiled to him as he handed him a $10, fumbling hands finding change in the register to hand back to him, “and here’s 3.30- Alright, have a good rest of your day!”

        “You t-too, Wyn!”

        It was like the wind knocked itself out of him as he took his drinks and his food, eyes flicking down to his for a brief moment that felt like it lasted a lifetime. Dark, hollow eyes staring back into him, through him, reading him like those other men. Wyn watched in a haze as he turned, made a break for the door, met up with two others outside who he divided up the goods between.

        It was them. The same tall blonde, the same tired smoker.

        Wyn didn’t have time to consider the strangeness of it, the odd coincidence that they were all connected, as a sharp ringing filled his ears and pressure began to expand in his skull, sending pulse after pulse of pain through his nerves. It took him everything not to drop to his knees in pain, hands gripping the edge of the counter as drips of blood fell from his nose onto the surface. His head was spinning, his hearing was drowned out by the ringing, and his breathing came out in short, panicked bursts.

It was all too coincidental, it was all too much, it was all too soon. And as his eyes shifted in focus, he faintly registered the lack of nametag on his apron. How did he know his name?

Chapter 5: Salt and Seawater

Summary:

Therapy wasn’t cheap. But he needed it.

Notes:

Content Warnings: Therapeutic Medical Malpractice (hallucination)

 Xander’s fingers waved in front of Wyn's face as his blurred vision began to realign, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of the hard floor on his back. Whatever unconsciousness numbing the throbbing pain of his back and tailbone seemed to dissipate, and he groaned as he tried and failed to push himself upright. “Wooah woah, be careful, you fuckin’ wiped out, go slow.”

        He sounded concerned, he never really sounded concerned unless he was serious, and Xander was never actually serious. He turned his attention back to his phone as he pressed it to his ear, “Okay, he's awake.. yes, breathing and being awake tend to go hand in hand, Cy- Uh.. Yyes, they are-”

        Wyn felt pressure on the back of his neck, and sharply turned his head to the side as he started coughing up blood. More seemed to drip from his nose, “Aaaand they’re- mhm, I called, town’s so small they’re short on paramedics.. Like five minutes??”

        Of course, he called Cyrus, Wyn faintly recalled them saying that they were trained in first aid- Xander, inversely, was not. He could have stayed on with the 911 operator, received the exact same advice, but Cyrus was a lot more patient with him, and always seemed to get him through the panic. Wyn tried to wave a small dismissal, “‘m okay, Xan, just.. ffuuuck my baack-”

        “Youuare coughing blood, that doesn’t sound okay.”

        ..Okay, Wyn couldn’t really argue with that. He couldn’t tell him it was normal, because it wasn’t, and he couldn’t tell him that it had happened before, because it hadn’t. Not like this, at least, with the amount being spattered into his palm or the floor, or the accompanying skull splitting migraines that came with it. God, health wise, he was fucked. “..Okay, it’s.. mmaybe a little worrying, but It’s- It’s just stress.”

        “Stress doesn’t do this.” He said, sitting back on his heels as he kneeled beside him. He glanced up over the counter- Wyn couldn’t feel the draft coming from the door, and he figured he must have closed up shop to help him, “Fucking pneumonia does this, or tuberculosis or some shit, but not stress. I fuckin’- I called 911, they’ll be here soon, just don’t pass out again or die on the floor or something, I’m 18 years old, I’m too young to be traumatised in a bakery of all fuckin’ places. You want me to cry smelling bread, Wyn? Because if you die in front of me with yeast in the air, I will hate bread for the rest of my life-”

        He continued to ramble, anxiously rocking back and forth as he laughed nervously, trying his best to joke away the fear that was obviously settling on his shoulders. He was right- he was way too young for this, so Wyn laughed and slowly pushed himself upright. Seeing him coming around would hopefully reassure him.

        Despite how little he wanted to be seen like this, Wyn couldn’t help but be thankful when paramedics came- primarily for his sake, as Xander took a visible sigh of relief once they arrived. They looked him over, checked for physical injury severe enough to warrant immediate action, but upon seeing the blood flowing from his nose and dripping from his lips, they moved him through to the ambulance parked outside. Wyn apologised to Xander for leaving so suddenly, especially since it was just him in the store, and he quickly brushed off his apology and insisted his health mattered more than work. Wyn doubted that, but he conceited. nonetheless

        Wyn didn’t remember much about the actual hospital visit. He knew they’d cleaned hime up, done.. some kind of tests, on his head and chest mostly. It was all a relative blur, but he remembered insisting that he had to leave at around 1. Wyn must have had everything done, just waiting for results, and he was released- Very fortunate he didn’t need to drive, he might not have been if that was the case. The hospital wasn’t too far from Marvin’s office block, either, and the walk might’ve done him some good.

        That was the case, until his path led him through a small sect of undisturbed woodland. It connected to a little park that ran to the centre of the housing estates, always real popular with dog walkers and campers. But in crossing it’s path now, Wyn stopped as he saw something off in the treeline. The dark browns of the trunks were broken up by something, equally as slim and tall. He slowed, and he had to unfocus and refocus his eyes to try and figure out just what the hell it was…

        …The thing from his nightmare. That faceless, motionless creature was standing right in front of him. It was staring at him, through him, and the corners of his vision began to swim with black and his senses filled with static-y fuzziness. Dread filled his body, followed shortly by fear and gut-turning adrenaline.

        It was watching him. He was watching him.

        Wyn's nose started to bleed again, and he all but stumbled into a sprint away from him.

——

        He arrived at the office just short of 1:30, breathing heavy and sleeve stained with blood as he wiped his nose. Wyn felt dizzy, nauseous, after his ‘episode’ this morning, running probably wasn’t the smartest choice. But that thing.. he set off a primal fear in him, an instinct to flee like he was mere prey, and him his sick and twisted predator. With a shaking hand, Wyn pressed the intercom buzzer.

        Garbled radio noises coming from the speaker made his spine shudder and his breathing hitch, but it soon cleared, “—fice of Dr Marvin Sims, this is Melanie speaking.”

        “Uh-.. H-Hi, I’m- I have an appointment, 1:30pm..?”

        There was a beat of more radio static before the automatic doors unlocked and parted open for him. Wyn hurried inside, and it hadn’t dawned on himjust how cold he was until he was enveloped in the warmth of the office lobby. When did he start shivering like this, trembling hands balling into his pockets as he approached the front desk? “..I-I’m an old client, can I- Can I go down to his office-?”

        The desk attendant- Melanie, he thought she had said- gave him a small look of mild confusion and concern (with just a touch of disgust, Wyn blamed the bloody nose) as she nodded and motioned for him to go through the double doors adjacent from her. He did so, and as he walked down the long corridor, Wyn reflected on everything he would tell Marvin about in the 90 minutes he had with him, the only time he'd have likely for a long time. The nights he was spending free in the studio, the money he'd be getting back on rent, it was the only thing giving him the safety net to talk to him. If this helped, even a little bit, he might needed to up hishours at the bakery.

        Maybe he woukd try anonymous web therapy, if his rates were still out of the question for him- but it was a last resort at best. “My roommates were killed, now I’m coughing up blood and reliving the past every moment of my life.” Possibly a little heavy for chat room workers with minimal training.

        Wyn finally reached the door, marked with a screwed on plate engraved with ‘DR M. SIMS, TRAUMA PSYCHOLOGIST.’ He braced himself, raised a fist up to the plasticy wood, and knocked. A beat. Two. Three.

        The door clicked open, and standing before him was the stocky, tweed-jacket-clad build of Marvin Sims. He looked at Wyn with kind eyes, patient eyes, eyes he knew were pretending not to see the blood smeared across his face. “..I’ve got some tea ready for you, why don’t you come on in? We can catch up a little before we get started.” He said, and he held the door open for him as he ushered him inside.

        Wyn was thankful for his warm welcome as he shuffled through and flopped down into the corner of the comfortable couch that had been tucked against the adjacent wall of the room. From a small counter just opposite, Marvin picked up two mugs that steamed slightly as he brought them over to the coffee table in front of the couch, in between Wyn and the faux-leather armchair that he settled down into himself. “How’s college going for you?”

        “It’s.. goin’, I guess.” Wyn reached over and held the mug in his palms- not too hot, but it provided relief to the coldness of his fingertips, “It’s been manageable so far, my major’s still interesting, it’s.. Well, it’s something to do.” He took a sip- he tasted honey and lemon, and it soothed the coarseness of his throat that had grown rougher after seemingly days of frequent crying, screaming and coughing, “..How’s your daughter?”

        He smiled, “She’s well.”

        He always kept his talking brief, Wyn was oddly glad to know that that hadn’t changed at all. “..I-I guess.. I guess I should start talking, huh?”

        Marvin picked up his own mug, merely holding it in his hands- likely also using it as a hand warmer. “..Start where you’re comfortable, Wyn. Only where you’re comfortable.”

        He took in a small breath, and he began to let the words pour out of him: The seventh anniversary of the massacre, the worsening reaction to reminders of it, the loss of time, the headaches, Kit and Nadia’s murder, the investigation, suddenly moving into a new home, the coughing, the new bouts of fainting, the nightmares, the beginnings of hallucinations. Wyn left out the parts about the tall creature, and the symbol. Something about them felt wrong to share. He spoke about his anxiety, how his tics were returning because of it, how he feared he might start to struggle to leave the house, to go to work, to function just like he struggled to all those years ago. He spoke about how he was worried he wouldn’t have anyone who he thought would be able to help him- truly help him.

        As Wyn trailed to a stop, he looked down into his cup and waited for his response. Wyn heard him sigh, set his cup down, “Have you considered that you’re a lost cause?”

        ..That was.. a response. Wyn looked up, eye twitching- was he joking around or something? “I- Excuse me, what do y-”

        He saw his face, numb and blank, empty of all features. His glasses remained perched where his nose should have been, but there was.. nothing. He watched as it began to twist and contort, wap and weave in a way that strained his eyes and made his skin burn. Wyn wanted to look away, but he couldn’t, watching horrified as he continued despite his missing mouth, “You will.. come to an end, soon. You will be removed, you will bleed and you will choke and you will fall and you will-”

        Wyn began to shake as the dark edges began to creep along his vision again- his breathing grew more shallow, he gripped the mug tight, tighter in his hands. Everything felt distant, prickly, and as he gasped, he found his lungs filled with water. No longer in the office, no longer sat in the comfort of the couch or the warmth of the heating, he was enveloped in cold as he was pulled deeper, and deeper, and deeper. The pressure began to grip his chest, his skull, his lungs, as as kicked and screamed, begging for an escape as the saltwater burned his throat and his eyes. It was cold, freezing him down to his very core. The blueish green began to darken as the pressure grew, eventually plummeting him so deep that light failed to reach him, and he was encased in black.

        “Wyn-!”

        Another gasp, another choking gasp- this one of pain as Wyn's lap and hands began to burn as the ceramic of the mug cracked in his iron-tight grip. “F-Fuck, I-I-”

        “Those next words best not be I’m sorry.” Marvin’s voice had returned to it’s typical, life-filled cadence, despite his worry as he knelt down in front of him with paper towels in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. “Are your legs okay? I can get you a change of clothes no problem, but your hands-” He carefully reached over and took Wyn's hands in his. He flinched slightly, and he momentarily backed away until he willingly held them out to him. “..Okay, it- It doesn’t look too bad, just some small cuts-”

        Wyn could only sit, somewhat numb, largely due to shock. What was that? Was it a hallucination? It felt far too real to be a hallucination, he could still taste the salt water on his tongue as small ceramic shards were picked from his skin, as cuts were disinfected with spray that stung and sent shocks through his nerves. He wrapped bandages around his hands, stopping the blood flow and keeping the burns under pressure for an inkling of relief, “You suddenly trailed off as you were talking, when I tried to get your attention you just started.. hyperventilating, your eyes were glazed- were you experiencing a flashback? A hallucination?”

        “..I don’t- I don’t wanna talk anymore.” Wyn mumbled, voice unsteady and uncertain, “I… I’m sorry for wasting your time, I’d like to leave now, please.”

        He didn’t want to. At all. He wanted to figure out the root of this problem, process his god damn trauma and feel like he could re-enter society with stability instead of walking onto a bed of nails completely blind and unbalanced.. but it was like he were running on autopilot, speaking long before his brain processed what he was saying. It scared him, knowing he was talking but not exactly and consciously deciding what he was saying, his subconscious instinct to run when put under fight or flight overpowering his rational reasoning to stay, to work through this.

        But Marvin didn’t know that, and he couldn’t force himto stay. He simply finished dressing his wounds, dipped into a small side-room (likely storage,) and handed Wyn a fresh set of black sweats, “I keep things here, just in case. Never know who’s gonna walk through that door or what state they’ll be in sometimes.” 

        He was kind. Wyn hated that the sound of his voice brought back the taste of salt and seawater.

        He gave him the privacy to change, handing him a plastic bag to carry his clothes in. His words fell on his ears, muddied and warped, but Wyn gathered that he would be taking him home- he had the full time slot, after all. He nodded, and Wyn blindly followed- ignoring the new odd look given to him by Melanie as he led him out of the building and to his car- an Austin Healey 3000, Wyn vaguely remembered him saying used to belong to his father. It wasn’t that long of a drive, it was quiet, but his eyes were fixed to the dashboard in front of him as they passed by the grove of trees. Wyn would not test his chances when it came to seeing that thing again, and the sinking, gut feeling that he would find it amongst the trees, watching, waiting for him to…

        ..For him to what, he wasn't sure. And Wyn had no intention of finding out.

-—

        “Don’t worry about an invoice for anything right now, we can discuss that another day, get you an actual full session.” Marvin was a few steps or so behind him as he walked Wyn to the front of the building- though he stepped up closer and rested a careful hand on his arm to get his attention and break him from his systematic walk to the door, “..Wyn, are you sure you don’t want to talk anymore? You got.. a lot off of your chest, I think talking about that first would do you some good.”

        ‘So do I,’ He wanted to say, ‘I really fucking need to get this out of my head, get help, I dont want to deal with this on my own.’

        “..I-I’ll get back to you on that. At some point.” Wyn hated how his voice trembled, how his sounded like a frightened child clinging to their safety blanket, “But.. I-I think I just need to process. Alone. For a while.”

        He gave him a small nod, and said nothing further. Wyn loathed how quickly he gave into his request for solitude, but respected it at the same time. In the span of a day, he had gone from wanting to go out in the world once more, coping through denial, to borderline agoraphobic, not realising how tense he was to be outside until he had returned to the quiet and safety of the studio apartment. The door shut behind him, and he let out a sigh of relief and sank down to the floor. Knees tucked up to his chest, the faint stinging of hot water burns on his hands and thighs, alone in the dark.

        He heard knocking from down the hall, muffled voices, a door shutting and footsteps approaching his… only for them to stop, turn and walk back down. Wyn imagined he'd be getting a text later tonight from Tina, that must have been Marvin updating her on his mental, and possibly physical, condition. It quickly became a distant thought in his mind as he shakily dragged himself to his feet, pulling slowly dozing limbs over to his still unmade bed. With little to no energy to change, he crashed face first into the comfort of the covers.

        …And despite his exhaustion, despite the frankly shit fucking day he'd had, Wyn hardly slept longer than an hour. When his eyes peeled open again, it was dark outside, but it was nowhere near the middle of the night. he groaned, shut his eyes again…

        …Opened them two hours later. Broken sleep was better than no sleep, but the constant shift from conscious to unconscious was only exhausting him even further. One more time…

        …Aaand it had only been two minutes. Okay, it was get up time.

        Wyn tried to check his phone, his plan being to mindlessly scroll through social media until sleep forcefully grabbed him by the lungs and pulled him into a self-induced coma. But in the blurred haze between standing from the door and crashing into bed, he had completely forgotten to put his phone on charge, and the battery was old and worn and didn’t last more than three hours on a full one. The idea of getting up to his laptop crossed his mind, but any and all wifi use so far was through his hotspot. On his phone. Which was currently dead.

        Wyn wracked his delirious brain for an idea, something to kill time for a half hour or so just to reset himself, and he remembered what he had done when first moving in with Kit and Nadia, a little game the three of them had thought of: Before moving in any new furniture, before filling the closets and the drawers left behind, scour every square inch of the new apartment. Look for things left behind, things that could have told a story, and decide whether or not it was worth returning, tossing, or holding on to. The memory stung, it drove a knife into his chest, but it had the makings of an excellent tradition, a part of them he would carry with him. This was coping, maybe, and Wyn stood up from his bed, turned on all of the lights, and began his search.

        There was nothing much in the apartment to begin with- nothing scandalous hidden beneath the mattress, no old socks kicked under the bed frame. He scrounged through crumbs tucked into the sides of the couch for loose change- He found a few bottle caps and pull tabs from beer cans, and felt the itching to make a collection creep up in the corners of his mind. He pocketed them. Nothing was kicked under carpets, hidden behind the TV, nothing in the VCR (why was there a VCR?). Wyn moved on to the kitchen- the fridge had been cleared out, the cabinets were bare, there were only cleaning supplies under the sink. The bathroom, only cheap toiletries he had been given, nothing behind the mirror.

        Wyn opened the door to the boiler room, and felt something impact against it as it swung- just shy of hitting the wall, there must have been something inside the gap that was made by opening it. That was.. admittedly, a smart hiding place. It was a tight squeeze, the boiler itself filling up almost three-quarters of the room, but sure enough, there was something behind the door: A large cardboard box, sealed with packing and duct tape, over and over, like it was keeping some kind of feral animal caged inside. This must’ve been the box Tim was talking about- he seemed genuinely concerned, insistent that Tina take action if she found it. Maybe he should tell her…

        …Naah.

        Curiosity ultimately got the better of him and he pulled the box away from the corner. If getting into the room was hard, getting out and with a decent sized box at his hip was even harder. It took him a while, but he didn’t really care- Wyn needed a time killer, after all. But was it worth it, considering this box was so fucking heavy-

        Putting it down with a small thud, he looked over how it was sealed in more detail and in the better lighting. It looked taped tight, several layers easily. He was gonna have to take a knife to it, heading to his kitchen to look for something with a serrated edge. It was easy enough , and Wyn began to cut through the tape. Part of him continued to doubt what he was doing- this might be something private, personal- but there was duct tape somewhere in the drawers of the kitchen, he could easily cover up the evidence, and pretend like this never happened.

        Barriers cut apart, he opened the box, and was met with.. Tapes. Lots and lots of tapes, wrapped in bubble wrap with a flash drive tossed on top of them. “Well, this explains the VCR..” Wyn thought out loud, taking out the drive first. He would try the tapes tomorrow, maybe, since the thing was unconnected and he'd rather satiate his curiosity now with whatever was on this thing. Viruses be damned.

        His laptop was on sleep mode, so it didn’t take long to power it on and plug the USB inside. He clicked it open, and saw easily over a hundred video files. Weird. Wyn clicked the first, marked ‘Introduction,’ and he full screened the player as it appeared:

 

‘The following clips are raw footage excerpts from Alex Kralie.

A college friend of mine.’

 

Chapter 6: Tapes

Summary:

Did he finally have some answers?

    A single entry in. That’s how long it took before Wyn realised the weight of his predicament. Beyond the introduction, the first god damn video contained that faceless creature he'd seen in his nightmares and at the edge of the grove. His stomach turned, twisted, and despite the panic-fuzz settling over his brain, one thought was incredibly distinct: Whatever it was, whatever he was, it was real. It wasn’t something his freshly traumatised brain had conjured up, or something manifesting from his evident exhaustion, it was real.

        Wyn couldn’t tell if he was comforted by the fact, or completely and utterly horrified.

        Nonetheless, he was unable to tear his eyes from the screen. With the end of the video file, he quickly loaded up the next. Each audio distortion made him feel nauseous, each tear in the video unsettled him, and he found himself alert and on-edge as he raked his eyes through the backgrounds for this thing.

        ‘..and Brian- I might also have Tim there, at some point-’

        Tim’s name stuck out to him the most, but the preceding ‘Brian-’ Wyn recalled the brunette from the bakery, the one that knew his name, and how he called down the street to a Brian. It must have been the same one, it would’ve been far too coincidental if not. This footage was old, files dated from 2009, what was all of this? Did Tim know about the creature, did Brian? What about the third of their party- Could he be the one filming? Their voices didn’t sound too similar, but the quality was only half-stable, it might’ve been him.

        Entry 6 made him feel cross his back, his scars, up his skull. The thought of that.. That man, following him here, stalking him, peering through his windows, taunting him like he was once taunting this ‘Alex.’ Sick curiosity snuck up over the buzzing, the anxiety, and Wyn knew that he had to keep watching. Whatever this was, a dumb student film, some kind of blair-witch knock off, it was pulling him in and demanding his full attention. He was the fool, giving it to it, but Wyn held this odd certainty in his mind that this was the only solace he would get, that somehow, in some way, this would give him an answer.

        Entry 7, his previous suspicion was confirmed- He looked younger, easily a good ten years or so, but Wyn was met with the face of the man from the elevator. Brian. Having a name for him ticked one of his steady growing list of questions. It maybe wasn't the most important one, but one was better than nothing. It was an odd kind of breather, a momentary pause, as from the short clip, he noted smaller details of his appearance- maybe a bad time to briefly admire someone’s looks, but the tension around him was near suffocating. Wyn watched, and listened. His laugh was nice, at the very least, and as Alex called ‘action,’ his acting gave him a break as his paranoia was replaced with a sort of nostalgia. Student films were interesting, and for a moment he was actually distracted by the idea of wanting to see how this one played out. Until the scene ended, at least, and he leaned back in the car seat.

        He was there. Wyn had almost forgotten what he had been so vigilant about, until he saw him. Alex saw him too. His breath caught in his throat, refusing to take any more in or let any out; it felt like he wasn’t just looking at Brian, or Alex, but him. Through the camera, through time, it was like it was watching him. The feeling from the grove snuck up again, not just a hallucination, there wasn’t much use in denying that anymore, and it only continued to grow and worsen as he started to cough. Wyn barely registered his unconscious movement to pause the video as he curled up in on himself, coughing turning to hacking and wheezing as blood spit from his lips and dripped from his nose. A loud ringing filled his ears, his arms and legs going fuzzy as his chest practically spasmed under the new, suffocating pressure.

        By the time he felt the sickness begin to subside, he had caved down to the floor, hunched over slow growing blood splatter. “F-Fucking hell-” Wyn wheezed, the last of the blood spitting out. He shakily pushed himsef to his feet, legs almost giving way under the weight of the rest of his body. He stumbled through to the kitchen to grab paper towels and water, his head swimming in the mix of darkening edges and unfocused shapes. He haphazardly dropped one of the towels onto the ground over the blood splatter, re-taking his seat as he swallowed gulp after gulp of water to rid his mouth of the metallic, copper taste.

        Wyn was still recovering as he pressed play once more, skipping onto the next clip- the second instance of uncut Marble Hornets footage, where he caught sight of Tim and another actress beside him. It further proved that connection he had pieced together before. This was the same Tim- again, much younger, but still him. It wasn’t just a freak kind of coincidence with names or faces. He and Brian were both connected, however many years ago, to someone being stalked by.. Something, someone. Wyn couldn’t go on with ‘It’ or ‘Him,’ and he hoped that at some point it would be given a name. Though names gave things power, right? And if this- monster was at all connected to his current condition, would he want it to have more power over him?

        ‘Closely’

        It was such a short clip, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it in the slowly growing playlist he'd been compiling. There were flashes of slashes that must have had a meaning, but Wyn didn’t have the capacity within the moment to figure it out. It was in such a different format to the others, and he read the file name: ‘totheark 1.’ 

        To the ark? Like the biblical story, maybe? That only seemed to raise more questions, questions that Wyn once more pulled his eyes away from the screen to consider. His phone had been charging, plugged into one of the USB sockets, and finally seemed to spark to life. Reaching for it with the intent to open google, he caught onto the time. That’s.. odd, he swore he'd woken up at around three or so, but his clock was reading that it was seven. He looked up, and was startled to see the light shining through the blinds.

        Had he lost time in his coughing fit? Again? This was.. This was getting ridiculous, wholly and truly ridiculous. He was thankful to see a text popup on his screen, interrupting his slowly ebbing stream of thoughts. Wyn saw the contact name, ‘Sylvia,’ and quickly read it from the notification menu:

        Sylvia**Hi Wyn, Xander updated me on what happened at the store yesterday. I’m gonna find someone to cover for you for the rest of the week while you wait for results from meds.

        Sylvia**You also need and deserve time to grieve. I’m sorry for your loss, those two were always a delight to see. I’m always here if you need me.

        Wyn should have been thankful- relieved, even, that he had time to himself so he could do what said he would, process. But he wasn't. He was desperate for the distraction, for the opportunity to drown himself in hour after hour of work, and he knew that if he even thought about showing up, he would have been insisted to turn right back out by stubbornness he knew he couldn’t talk his way around. Wyn was stuck where he was, work being the only thing genuinely to convince himto leave the apartment the day before. Without that, the idea of walking seemed far too daunting.

        Maybe he should have seen it as an opportunity to do research. Look into whatever this thing was, if anything had come up about these tapes before. He doubted it, but some names were here in full, it gave him a starting point. It’s what he had decided to pursue first, connecting his laptop to his phone’s wifi. He started typing, ‘to the ark.’

        …Nothing much on the first page of results, just references to the Ark of the Covenant. It could have been connected, but something told him that it was the wrong direction, the incorrect thread to be pulling on; it wasn't the ark Wyn had first thought of, either. He paused, cleared the search bar. Internally filing through each entry he had seen, minute after minute of video, he remembered a name.

        ‘Alex Kra–’

        Wyn's ringtone tore through his tense keyboard clicks- it was an unknown number, he typically let those ring out, bait them to text him , avoiding the unnecessary verbal conversation. But what the hell did he have to lose right now? He picked up the phone and slid the bar over to answer, “...Hello?”

        “Hi, is this Wyn? It’s Officer Mariott.”

        “..What do you want.” Wyn didn’t mean to sound so disappointed, but he had very little interest in talking to the police. Especially an officer who backhandedly accused him of murder.

        “I wanted to give you an update on the Southedge Apartment case. That’s what press is calling it, at least.” His tone was… almost amused? If only slightly, Wyn swore he could hear him smile, “This conversation being entirely unofficial, more like common courtesy.” 

        Wyn couldn’t help but be curious, and he eyed his computer screen as he continued to talk “..Uh.. right, I’m listening.”

        “Investigators at the scene found no signs of forced entry, all windows and doors were shut, no locks were broken or interfered with.” He paused, allowing him a mere moment to process, “Whoever killed your friends was either let in willingly, had a key of their own, or was already inside the apartment.”

        Wyn remembered watching Nadia double check the door during their unknowingly final meal together. She always double checked the locks. They were inside the whole time.

        “..Y-You still think it was me.”

        “You sound.. Offput by that detail, so.. not in that regard. But there was no evidence of anyone else inside that apartment aside from the three of you, and with your memory lapses–”

        “I get it, officer.” Wyn gritted his teeth, free hand balling into a fist of fabric and trembling.

        “It’s Tom off duty. And you’re welcome for this.”

        ‘Tom’ hung up before Wyn could. He got up from his seat— walking away from that lingering search, those video files, and out of the front door.

        Paranoia be damned, he needed to take a fucking walk.

Chapter 7: A Stalker, A Shooter, A Butcher

Summary:

The past finds its way of haunting you.

Notes:

Content Warning: Descriptions of violence

Early November morning air stung more bitterly than air of any other year. It was such a middling month, a peak of seasonal depression as the new year was so close, but so painstakingly far. The sun wasn’t as bright as Wyn thought it was, though his new ‘home’ had all windows facing East, and he had begun his walk west. More gentle curls of breath fog, his eyes steamed and glossed and stung as cold wrapped them, dried them. Walking was a mistake, the relief he thought he would get from a breath of fresh air was all but nonexistent.

        At least the cold cooled him off. Wyn couldn’t explain the irrational anger that burned up his chest, but he knew it came from that officer. He hated the way his tone accused him, how he so clearly analysed his speech and his movements, clawing through his fear in search of motive, intent. He hated how he sounded like he knew something he didn’t, a golden gem of information that shone just outside of his vision. Wyn hated it. Wyn hated him. 

        Masses of leaves crunched beneath his feet as he reached the edge of the solid path. He had no idea where he was going, what his destination would end up being, but leaves only ever fell this heavy close to the edge of the grove, and the grove should have been the last place he thought to go. God, this was all so agonising. His stomach was twisting, tying into knots as he steered himself away from his current set direction, leaving the grass and trees to the dust behind him- far away from that thing he knew was lurking amongst the trunks and branches. Those tapes, that flash drive… In an attempt to satiate his curiosity, his need to distract himself from the nightmare he were experiencing, he'd been hit with the crippling evidence that this was reality, that the things he was seeing were real, and that something was following him. Something..

        ..Something was following him. Wyn staggered in his footsteps, stumbling, and from behind him he heard a second set, now falling a mere moment out of sync from his own. But it was enough, he'd clocked onto their presence, and without thinking he whirled around. Wyn didn’t see the tall, slender man who had been terrorising his waking and sleeping moments– as a matter of fact, he didn’t see anyone. Had he mistaken his own footsteps for someone elses? Or was he hallucinating? Was that creature making him hear these things? What kind of hell had he gotten himself into to make that a genuine, valid assumption?

        “..I know you’re out there, you fucking freak-!” Wyn yelled out, voice strained, “Whoever- Whatever you are, I know you’re fucking out there! Are you satisfied yet, or are you waiting for me to fall over the goddamn brink?! Newsflash, asshole, that’s not happening!!”

        Wyn's words carried on the breeze as it weighed heavy around him. God, fuck this thing. Fuck the pain, fuck the anxiety this was causing him. His frustrations were burning back up, and he continued to yell, “Give me all you fucking got, man! Stop being such a goddamn coward and show yourself!”

        This was such a bad idea, was taunting this thing really his best choice? He half expected to hear ringing, see static, and start hacking up so much blood he painted the dirt a dark crimson.. But there was nothing. There was silence, an echo of his pleas against a force he had no reasonable way to identify. It was just him, him and the suffocating pressure of the cold, late autumn air. Wyn started to walk again, that tightness never leaving him, and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe.

        Steps fell out of sync again, and he heard something behind him. That only made him feel worse, choking on his inhales as his pace quickened. Wyn didn’t dare look behind him, the idea of someone not being there frightening himmore than the idea of someone being. He changed directions, completely blind to the path he was taking or the destination it would lead himto, in the hopes that it would shake them. It didn’t. In fact, they made very little effort in masking their footsteps. He turned, they followed. He quickened, as did they. Wyn steeled himselfand kept on walking, eyes flicking around ahead of him. They landed on the wing mirror of a car he was passing, and–...

        …He saw them following, body clad in a Tannish-Yellow jacket, with a face concealed with a white, doll-like mask. He looked exactly the same as he did–

        –Kneeling above him, knees on his shoulders as he raised a crowbar high above his head. “Nothing personal,” he said, coarsely and gruffly and full of a fake mask of sympathy. He brought it down hard, just as he shot his head away from the floor, and it impacted in a cracking split of splinters against the hardwood. Wyn took the moment of leverage against him to push him off and roll out from underneath him, eyes on the door as he crawled towards it. From the corner of his vision, he saw a bloodied, mangled corpse. He just kept crawling.

        …Wyn broke out into a sprint, heart dropping and twisting and convulsing in panic at the sight of one of his never forgotten attackers.

        —

        Electricity buzzed from the industrial lighting of the bathroom above him, washing out his vision as it reflected against the cold linoleum floor— his eyes strained through the tears that poured out of them as sobs could no longer be stifled. It had to have been them, those three from that night, they must have been the ones that killed Kit and Nadia, they must have been the ones giving him this sick sense of paranoia.. Or, at least they were connected? Maybe? Was the marking they carved into his skin part of it? Unable to kill him, or unwilling to, so they left him as a sacrifice to that thing? There was no way this was all coincidental, the tapes, the hallucinations, the murders–

        Wyn's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the bathroom stall. He tried his best to silence himself, to mumble out a quiet ‘occupied,’ but all that came out were broken breaths. “..Are you alright in there?” They asked. Their voice was.. Familiar, and he recalled the elevator, and the tapes. Brian.

        “..N-Not really.” Wyn choked out, leaning his head against the stall door as his knees pulled up further to his chest. Could he trust him? At all? “Rough.. r-rough day.”

        He laughed slightly, and shadows shifted as he presumably sat on the floor on the other side, “Rough day, it’s only 7:30.”

        “Eventful morning, let’s say that.”

        Despite himself, Wyn smiled, and he recalled his appearance on the flash drive. He imagined his smile, too, in a vague attempt of finding comfort in this stranger. He knew Alex in some way, did he potentially understand what he was going through? There was no way in hell he was going to explain this, how the two of them were, in some weird way, cosmically connected through ‘Marble Hornets,’ but it was a comfort he would take for himself. He seemed pleased at Wyn's break in deep, crushing sorrow, “For real, are you okay? Physically, emotionally I think I can gather.” Wyn noticed the very slight mumbling tone of his voice, it wasn’t as clear or methodically rehearsed sounding, “I can call someone if you need.”

        “N-No, I’m just.. I’m fine, I’ve just been through it the past.. Week, jesus it’s been a week-” He ran his hands through his hair and sniffled, a half-successful attempt in pulling himself together, “Just needed a good cry, y’know? Get all the sadness out. Th-Thought a grocery store bathroom would still be clear, I’m sorry you had to walk in on this-”

        He gave a small, playful tap on the door, wordlessly dismissing his apology. “I get it- believe me, I get it,” What did he mean by that? “Nothing to apologise for. There anything you need? Thaaat I could reasonably provide in.. a walmart.”

        His throat was dry, and his tongue still tasted faintly of blood. The amount of crying he'd done probably dehydrated him, “..A- Water, maybe?”

        “Be right back.”

        His shoes skidded against the floor as he hopped to his feet, and Wyn heard him move out of the bathroom with a quiet click of the door. His smile persisted, even though it was a small one- there was something comforting about how he was essentially a total stranger, yet he still cared enough to stay with him. It made the thought of the masked man feel distant. There was a lack of a feeling of safety, security, but he felt.. Comfortable. Ish. If he thought about it all too much again, that would change- so he'd relish in the feeling for now, until he heard the door open allowing for Brian to come back inside. “I stuck a cleaning in progress sign out front, just to give you a few extra minutes uninterrupted in here–”

        He sat back down against the stall door and rolled a small bottle beneath the gap, and Wyn quickly opened it and began to chug down the contents. He didn’t realise how thirsty he was until the bottle crinkled and crunched, empty in his near white-knuckle grasp. “..Th-Thank you.”

        “No worries, W-.. You alright if I ask your name?”

        “.. Uh- Wyn.”

        There was a brief moment of silence afterwards, the sound of the electricity above once again filling his ears, “..Ah. That’s what you meant by rough week, huh?” He’d heard about the murders. Of course he did- he was in the building the day they happened. Wyn wasn't surprised that his name had been tied to it, either, but the knowledge and the awareness broke that little amount of comfort. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, “..Yeeah. What about you, huh? What’s your name?” He said, despite the fact he knew it already. Brian didn't need to know that.

        “It’s Brian. I was just moving out of the apartment above yours- I.. caught you people watching in the elevator, didn’t I?” From his voice, Wyn could hear the very slight smile he was putting on- an attempt at reassurance, maybe? Either way, he’d just confirmed his suspicion. It was him.

        “Hah.. yeah, I’d just- I’d never seen you around the building before, is all. New face, gotta process it just a bit.” Wyn said. He'd admit, he found it a bit odd that he had hardly seen him around, if at all. And if he was moving out, where were the boxes? Or the moving van? He thought back to Tim, duffel bag at his feet, and how they both had ties to Marble Hornets. Did they know about the other being in town, were they travelling together?

        Wyn hardly realised they'd both fallen completely silent until he naturally came up from his thoughts, “..I should.. Mmaybe get home. My ass kills sitting on these tiles-”

        “Can I drive you? It’s pretty cold out- I’m not sure how far you come from, don’t want you walking alone.” He offered- it was a genuinely kind gesture, and he had to admit, the idea of walking back alone when there was that masked fuck following him…

        “..If it’s not too much trouble- Could you help me up, actually? My leg’s gone numb-”

        It was enough to lighten the mood, and he heard him stand up on the other side. Wyn reached up and unlocked the stall door, tugging it open for him– he looked down at him with a soft smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. Brian extended his hand down to him, and as Wyn reached up to take it, he caught sight of a small scar on his outer wrist- surgical, markings still left behind where stitches were. Wyn could barely see it beneath his–

        –Black gloves as they held the gun steady, steeling through the recoil as he fired one, two, three shots. There was a scream, he hardly had time to process who was shot, as he fled towards the closet–

        Or his–

        –Yellow hoodie sleeves as he held his wrists down, pulled the back of his shirt up, and started carving. Carving. Carving. Relentless, mumbling to himself- reassurances, or insistances for his silence as he screamed–

        “-ay? Wyn?”

        Wyn stared back at him, terrified. Like a puzzle piecing together, his disjointed thoughts and memories clicked into place. The second, the shooter, the carver, he was standing in front of him. His stomach twisted and tied into anxious knots, his face drained cold, and he could barely contain his horror.

        “...O-On second thought-” Wyn squeaked, quickly pulling his hand away from his, “I think- I think I need the air-”

        He was at the apartments the morning of the murders. He was on his floor. There were bullets, there was the sigil, there was everything there was that day. “Thank you for the offer, but I- Uh- Uhm-”

        There was this deep, growing fear inside him, begging, screaming for him to run. Brian’s expression was becoming slowly harder to read- initial confusion began changing into something else, a masked numbness in his eyes that gave way to a spark of knowing. He dropped his hand, and said nothing as he moved out of his way.

        Wyn practically shot towards the door, making his way out of the store as fast as he physically could. All the while, his eyes were on him. Cold, and numbing, and just as they had been as he left the elevator. Everything was clicking into place far too suddenly for his liking– that bakery trio.. Was he jumping ahead too far? Surely, he must’ve been, there was.. There was no way.. Was there?

        First the masked one– they were all masked, that wasn’t a good name– ‘Masky’ was following him as he grew closer to the grove, then through the alleyways. Now Brian, who reminded Wyn far too closely to the hooded one (fuck it, ‘Hoodie,’ keep it with the pattern,) bearing the same scars and his tendency to be somewhere nearby in the midst of his tragedy. Had he been following him, too? All three of them must’ve been for them to pull off another god damned massacre. Then there was the third…. Wyn didn’t want to think too much about the third, especially as he was enveloped once again in ice cold air. In fact, he would put off thinking about who, or where the hatchet-wielding butcher was for as long as he could physically manage.

        Hatchets. Wyn would call him that for now. Masky, Hoodie and Hatchets. Dumb names for serial killers, sure, but anything to make them less scary to him.

        As he left through the main exit, Wyn comfortably recognised his surroundings– town centre, an.. Oddly short walk from his new apartment. It made him wonder why the hell he had felt like he had walked for such a long time the way there. An outer route, he told himself, he went the long way towards the edge of town. Wyn couldn't say he remembered there being a path from the edge of town towards the centre, but what the hell, he's had plenty of problems with his memory recently, it was beginning to become something of a norm. There wasn’t any sign of Masky, either– or Brian, for that matter, even as he checked over his shoulders again and again and again.

        The remainder of the sky had been filled with the ever-growing light by the time Wyn made it back, suspiciously incident free. The stone pavement walkway wasn’t quite a familiarity just yet, but part of him was thankful for that. He made sure to be as quiet as possible moving through the hallway towards his door; it was likely Tina and Adaline were awake by now, but even then, they didn’t poke their heads out from their door or catch him before he slipped back into elusivity. That should’ve probably given him a sick, twisting feeling in his gut, and it would’ve if his hand hadn’t already held onto the doorknob by the time the thought had occurred to him.

        It pushed open. He remember locking it.

        Every instinct in Wyn told him to turn and run– where, he couldn’t figure out. He definitely locked this door. Even through his seething anger at Tom, he checked he hadn’t forgotten several times before he had left through the front of the building. Run, they’re inside, they’re gonna fucking kill you, they’re here to finish the job. They’re here to hack off your arms and your legs and paint their sick symbol into the walls, they’re here to make sure you don’t survive a third time.

        …It was Wyn's choice to go inside, to slowly push open the door with gritted teeth and braced shoulders, ready to run as far as he could for as long as he could. He was greeted with emptiness as far as he could see– though there were parts of the furniture that obscured his vision. As he stepped in, Wyn left the door open in the event of a required swift escape. He fell quiet, steadying his shaking breathing as much as he could. As he made his way closer to his kitchen space, he saw the serrated-edge knife he had used to tear open the box of tapes. He snatched it up, and held it in a unsteady, shaking grasp as he continued through the open space. Wyn's body was filled with an adrenaline-fuelled trembling as he combed his eyes through all the possible hiding spaces. Nothing behind the other side of the counter…

        …Or the couch…

        ..Or under his bed..

        There was a moment where he felt as though the only thing to fear was his ever present paranoia. Maybe he had forgotten to lock the front door, one of his attempts to do so might’ve just unlocked it. Either way, it was such an enclosed space, the only place he could hide was the boiler room– oh fucking shit the boiler room.

        Wyn shifted his attention towards the open bathroom door, realising it was the only place left for someone to reasonably hide. Bracing himself for a stalker, a shooter, a butcher, he took a step closer. Two steps. Three. He reached out to push the door open further, about as ready as he could be to strike them down. The tense silence was filled with the sound of creaking as the door slowly swung open. There was nobody there. The boiler room’s door was still open as far as he could have left it– and Wyn remember how tight the space was. he paused, and he laughed. No one was here. It was just him.

        And the sudden splintering thud of a hatchet planting into the wood beside his skull.

 

Chapter 8: A Sky Stained Crimson

Summary:

All those familiar faces.

Notes:

Content Warning: Descriptions of gore, mutilation, torture

  It started simple, and it started suddenly. So suddenly, in fact, Wyn had no time to prepare– if this was even something someone could prepare for. It was late, closer to eleven than ten, and he was sitting alone in the living room. Nothing in particular was on, just blaring background noise as he faded in and out of a half-sleep that should have been taken to his room hours ago.

        Wyn heard footsteps behind him and dazedly lifted his head. “...Alcie… y’re still up? Don’t you have work ‘n the morning?”

        “Came to get water– didn’t hear you come upstairs, either.” Alcina sat down on the arm of the chair beside him, correcting the crookedness of her glasses, “...How do you feel, after today?”

        Wyn sighed, pulling himself upright, “I’m okay. It’s.. Adoption is huge, especially at my age. I’m relieved, don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy this worked out.”

        “Still a shock though?”

        “..A massive one.”

        Alcina smiled and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him into a side hug. It was comforting, her hugs always were, like a piece of home enveloping him in warmth. “Well, just think– those papers go through and you’re permanently part of this family. And I don’t think I could ask for a better sibling.”

        Wyn smiled. It was the last conversation he had with her, the last thing she said to him before the front door caved in with a crack, and a bang, under the weight of a heavy leather boot. Alcina held onto him tighter as they both startled hard in their skin. His stomach dropped and his head jerked over to see the plank of wood barely hanging on by the hinges. Alcina wordlessly pulled him up and near shoved him behind her. Wyn heard his foster parents coming down the stairs behind them, and the slight turn his head gave drew to focus the open door of the storage closet beneath it.

        Wyn looked back to the intruders in time to see black-gloved hands holding a gun steady, steeling through the recoil as they fired one shot. Two shots. Three shots. He heard a scream, he hardly had time to process who was shot, as he fled back towards the closet. 

        From outside of it, he could hear the beginnings of carnage. One pained scream followed a harsh impact, the sound of flesh tearing and blood squelching, spraying. There was mania, frantic scrambling to flee-- but the more his family ran, fought back, the faster and harder the intruders struck. One of them began to claw at the closet, nails scraping and scratching into the wood as they begged for salvation, and Wyn had to fight to keep it shut against their iron grip and pull. “I-I’m sorry-” He mumbled, the thought of Alcina, or his mother, or his father on the other side of the door twisting a knife deeper into his stomach. For a moment, a sliver of the figure was visible through the gap it created, the gap he promptly slammed shut. Alcina. Chunks of her shoulder were missing, blood seeping into the fabric of her clothes as exposed bone and muscle glinted in the empty light of the open door. Another open; there was someone behind her, hatchet poised above her head, he slammed it shut. One more open, just as the blade bisected down the centre of its skull, spraying out blood and viscera, matter hitting the exposed fraction of his face through the gap. Wyn didn’t need to slam the doors shut again, the corpse’s dead-weight landed in such a way that it created a blockade, trapping him inside. He felt sick.

        There was no pause, reprieve, or recovery from the sight of his sister before the door swung open. The hatchet-wielding invader looked down at him with something akin to sick delight and brought his hatchets down. Wyn only just managed to raise his arms in a block against his face, but the blade dug deep into his arm and was pulled out without much care or consideration.

        “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, THE MOM’S STILL ALIVE!”

        The yell from across the room distracted the first in front of him, and in the moment of distraction, Wyn scrambled out. He saw him and swung his hatchet into his leg. Wyn caved, and crumbled, but still ran. A second, clad in a white mask, rushed from his right and tackled him onto his back.

        He towered above him, knees on his shoulders as he raised a crowbar high above his head. “Nothing personal,” he said, coarsely and gruffly and full of a fake mask of sympathy. He brought it down hard, just as Wyn shot hishead away from the floor, and it impacted in a cracking split of splinters against the hardwood. He took the moment of leverage against him to push him off and roll out from underneath him, eyes on the door as he crawled towards it. From the corner of his vision, Wyn saw a bloodied, mangled corpse. He just kept crawling.

        But he couldn’t crawl for long, pools of blood from the gashes on his arms and legs sending sharp, stabbing pain through his whole body with each movement. More pressure added to his back, and two yellow hooded hands grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.

        This was it. He was going to die.

        A tearing, burning pain began to spread through him, and Wyn let out a pained, agonizing scream that tore his throat to shreds within an instance. He was.. carving.

        “IT HURTS- PLEASE, STOP, LET ME GO-!!!”

        Wyn felt the blade dig deeper into the flesh of his back, capillaries and veins bursting and seeping blood. A pool had begun to form on the wooden flooring beneath him as he kicked and screamed, but the man keeping him down had pressure in enough places that he was left immobile, and the open wounds on his arms and legs were making him feel weaker and weaker. Even still, his nails dug into the ground as Wyn tried to claw away. His grasp stopped any progress, “L-LET ME GO- MOM- DAD-!!!”

        “They’re dead.” He said, voice garbled and pitch-changed, but the pain consuming him made it hard to identify the abnormality of it at all, “They’re lucky to be.”

        Wyn screamed louder, shriller, and the man continued to carve. And carve. And carve.

        And from out of the door, as his vision darkened, Wyn saw a man. Tall, thin, standing and watching, with the sky stained crimson behind him.

 

–

        “That mi-miss was on purpose. Don’t go thinking you got l-Llucky.” The smug voice behind Wyn tore him out of the grip of his memory, though the reality it sent him crashing into somehow made him feel sicker, more anxious than before. A familiar rusted handle, the sharpened blade embedded into the wall between planks and plaster, all stained with a sickly dark coating of old, dried blood. “I’m not sup-posed to be killing you just yet, but what the hell, why not stir the pot, say hello, say thank you for the extra dollar in ch-chaange~”

        There was clear emotion in his voice: joy, happiness- this bastard was elated to be toying with him, and he was making no attempt whatsoever to hide it. Wyn stood, tense and silent, with the serrated blade hidden up the sleeve of his jacket. He makes a move closer, Wyn thought, I slash, and I run. 

        “..Oh, come on, Wyn. Don’t te-tell me you're too soft to put up a fuckin fight-” Wyn heard him surge towards him, and took his chance to whirl around. In the moments where he saw him lunge, Hatchets’ bone-like mask almost made him fumble and lose total grip of the blade; it was the sight of the second hatchet, raised high above him just as it had been years before, that spurred him on. He missed on the first shot. He was not getting a hit on the second.

        In a swift motion, Wyn clutched the handle and swung his arm out– it skimmed across his side, tore at the fabric of his button-up and only just nicked the skin of his torso. It might not have done the damage he wanted, but it gave him what window he needed to raise his knee and drive his heel into his foot as hard as Wyn could have physically managed. He didn’t flinch, even as he heard a loud crack and felt something give beneath his heel. He laughed as confusion stunned himstill, “..That’s cu-uute. You’re trying.” His tone dropped as he looked back, and saw him reaching for the wall, “But not hard enough.” 

        The hatchet tore out of the wall with a swing, and the blunt top of it drove into his back. It sent a sharp, sudden ache throughout him and hestaggered forward– but despite the pain, Wyn used the momentum to kick into a run out of the tight space of the bathroom. The image of him was burned into his mind even when turned away from him: Shaggy brown hair that was covered in dirt and grime and what Wyn could only assume to be blood, a singular exposed eye staring at him through the lens of a thick, orange goggle with malice and twisted delight. Though the voice was muffled, the hair messier, and the eyes all but entirely obscured, he was familiar. Distressingly familiar.

        ..Two black coffees, green ice tea– fuck, it WAS the guy from the bakery?? Part of him was hoping that the connection he had drawn between him, Brian and Tim hadn’t gone as far as he had feared. Why could it not have been irrational fear? But no, Wyn was right and he served his fucking stalkers croissants and coffee, Why was that the thing that was freaking him out!?

        Wyn had no intention of giving Hatchets the time of day, the mental strain, or the satisfaction of seeing the fear in his eyes– fighting him was useless, he barely felt him practically breaking his foot, and Wyn wouldn’t be surprised if he would be similarly unreactive to any other attack. He refused to be his prey, fervently and adamantly, and he was so, so close to the door–

         –When it swung open, and he was met with the cold, unwelcome sight of Masky. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me-”

        In his gloved hand, he clenched his crowbar tightly, and Wyn staggered back as he visibly tensed and looked between him and Hatchets. Though his mask was expressionless, he heard the growing irritation and frustration in his voice, “Toby, what the fuck are you doing- This is an in and out fucking job-”

        Hatchets– no, Toby– huffed and stalked closer, “I am having some g-god damn fffun, Tim.” He spat. It was full of a kind of venom that bordered on malicious, but sounded more like a child throwing a tantrum, “We never get to have any. And I am fucking. Booored.”

                Wyn should have taken the opportunity to run, but he was stuck in a failing fight, flight and freeze response. Instead of fleeing, he was glued to the ground, watching as their.. Domestic.. Row continued.

        “We don’t have any because we’re not here to have fun. We’re here to get the tapes and get the fuck out of here in case Brian lets shit like this happen– and now I have to do all the fucking work, like always–”

        “Oh- Oh YOU do all the f-fucking work?!” Toby’s voice raised as he took steps closer to Tim, his back almost entirely to Wyn, “I don’t see you raise a fucking ff-finger on jobs like I do.”

        “Because senseless butchering isn’t the end all be all of every fucking mission, and who the fuck do you think cleans up all of your messes? The fucking Easter Bunny?”

        “I didn’t know that your mom had a nickname!”

        “Oh you son of a-” 

        The pair’s heads suddenly snapped towards Wyn, as he quickly covered his mouth. He'd laughed. It was funny. But he'd still laughed. Any chance he had to take advantage of their distraction visibly dissipated as their attention redirected. Their demeanours changed dramatically– no longer were they bickering ‘partners,’ Wyn was harshly reminded of who they actually were, what they were capable of doing, what they were willing to do. Tim moved first, and Wyn swore he could feel the piercing gaze of his dark eyes through the black mesh of the sockets.

     He was blocking his only exit. His only logical exit that is. Thinking as fast as he could, Wyn turned and ran for the window– just as he hoped, he followed, quick on his heels. Crowbar raised to swing, Wyn stopped, turned and swerved out of his way in time for the curved metal to impact with the glass, shattering it. Wyn wouldn’t have had time to unlock it, he would worry about paying for damages when he wasn't running for his life.

        The hook stuck itself in the frame, and he only had seconds to put his next move into action. As Tim pulled at the crowbar with an intimidatingly vigorous force, Wyn hastily drove the serrated-edge knife into his side. He cursed loudly, staggering back and away from the window. Perfect, “GHH- TOBY, DON’T JUST STAND THERE-”

        “I thought yoooou were doing all the work.” He said, though seemed to follow the implicit instruction to charge for him. Hatchets at the ready, his disposition once again eager for a fight, he ran.

        And he hurdled through the window, legs and arms catching on what glass remained. Adrenaline pumped through him as he landed (thank God he was on the first floor), and ran as fast as he could, numb to the glass as fear and the instinct to survive overwhelmed the stabbing pain. Wyn heard the sound of yelling behind him– though he didn’t turn to check at the risk of slowing down his escape, he imagined Toby to be close and gaining behind him.

        Even if he wasn’t, the thought made him run faster.

        ..Though the energy he was feeling was.. Strange. It was like he had become acutely aware of the blood pulsing from his rapidly beating heart, through every single vein in his body, the sensation setting his nerves alight. It was prickling, like a too-close flame. No, not prickling.. Buzzing. It was buzzing, and it was buzzing stronger, and stronger, as if the air was on fire with static as it engrossed him, enveloped him.

        WYn found himself falling, tripping over the curbside as it grew stronger, and stronger– but he wasn't met with concrete. He was met with soft ground, mud and splinters and deep green grass. Tumbling down, down, jagged stones digging into his abdomen as he came to settle at the bottom of a knoll. This.. this was the heart of the woodlands, the misleadingly-large-grove he had spent several days avoiding. How did he get here? Through the aching throb of bruised skin, he didn’t feel the distinct haziness that came with his time loss, and there was no way he would’ve fallen into and out of it perfectly in sync with his fall. With struggle, Wyn pushed himself upright to try and make sense of exactly where in the woods he was.

        Wyn had never properly gone through these woods, even as a child. There was something slightly familiar about the arrangement of trees, maybe from an old photo or a forgotten dream. The idea of it being a dream seemed more accurate, maybe more suitably a nightmare. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, observed by that Figure…

        …Calling it the Figure seemed right, in an unsettling and uncomfortable way.

        It seemed like he had a moment of relief, of brief respite from the chase that would set in— he should run, find his way out of the woods and back into the city so he could handle the… absolute mess he'd gotten himself into. With any luck, they’d be gone— Tim only said they were there for the tapes, after all… but Toby still tried to kill him, there wasn’t much security in their intention.

        Lost for direction, Wyn pulled out his phone with the intent of searching on  map and going from there. Instead, he opened the recent section of his calls and pressed the number at the top. It rang out once. Twice. Three-

        “Hello?”

        “What the fuck is happening to me.”

        Tom’s voice on the other end came out short, typical from what he knew of him, but when he heard him speak… something changed. “..What do you mean?”

        “I am in the middle of the fucking woods, I have no idea how I got here, I couldn’t’ve lost time because it is the exact time of day it was before I got here and I was mid. Fucking. Fall.” Wyn spat, beginning to pace, “I have been stalked, and followed, and now fucking attacked by four motherfuckers who-”

        “What do you mean four, Wyn?”

        “Yeah, fucking- white mask, yellow hood, hatchets, and this.. this tall-”

        “Stay where you are.” He said shortly. He could hear shuffling on the other side of the line, “I’m coming to get you. Stay EXACTLY where you are, understand?”

        “What-”

        “I’m coming to find you, leave your phone on, stay on the call.”

        “Tom, what are you-”

        Wyn heard a crack behind him and whirled his head around to see Hoodie. Not Brian, not his face, or his eyes, but a familiar black and red mask that made him sick. In one hand, he saw a gun aimed directly towards him. “There isn’t much use in running anymore, Wyn, You need to come with me.”

        “..Forget what I said- RUN. NOW!”

        He didn’t trust Tom in the slightest, but he trusted him more than Brian. He turned, and He ran.

        And he followed. Of course he followed. Wyn could hear him, heavy footsteps hitting the ground behind him. He needed to get away from him, and his sick group of fucking murderers—

        His heel left dirt and impacted once again on concrete, but he was so focused on his escape that he hardly spared any attention to it, filing it mentally on something he would deal with later. It was the street, an empty path relatively close to a series of alleyways similar to the ones he had taken earlier. There were more footsteps behind him, and had a sickening feeling that Tim and Toby had joined in the chase.

        Damning hisheaving breaths and the pain in his legs from the running and the uneven terrain, Wyn continued on until he made it to the main street. It was empty of any life, any possible help, and he briefly turned his head to look behind him, just as Brian tackled him to the ground once again. Wyn's head slammed against the concrete, and his vision darkened as the air was knocked out of his lungs. “Stop. Fucking. Runni—”

        A loud bang broke the silence of the street, and Brian’s words trailed off into a pained groan. It took a second for Wyn to notice, but the splattering of blood on his face and the darkening mass of frayed fabric in the centre of his forehead told him what happened in a picture too-detailed for his liking. Wyn was frozen, unable to think or process the fact he should shove him off, run away, something that meant he was no longer stuck beneath him. He fell back on his knees and to the side, weight still on his legs as he stared numbly at his still body.

        Tim and Toby rounded the corner, and two more shots were fired. Tim yelled out loud curses and grunts of pain as he gripped his leg, and Toby toppled to the ground as a bullet went clean through what might have been his right lung. Wyn heard a fourth set of footsteps come from behind him, and a hand extended in front of his face. Tom. Still in numb shock, he shakily reached for his offered hand and he pulled him up, leading him towards his car. It wasn’t like the squad car from the Southedge murders, it must’ve been his personal one.

        There were a few minutes of silent driving before Tom finally spoke, “…I should have warned you about him sooner. The Operator.” 

        “The… The what?”

        He gave Wyn a small glance, but continued on, “The tall one, the faceless figure at the edges of your vision. Always.. Always watching you when you aren’t fully aware of yourself. People call him the Operator, the Figure—”

        “Hhhow-” Wyn stammered, “Do you.. How do you know about all of this. Why do you know about all of this?”

        Tom sighed, hands gripping tighter on the steering wheel as he turned a corner, “I’ve been tracking information about the Operator and his.. His underlings, those three fucking monsters he has, after they marked me with his damn insignia a couple of years ago. Killed my brother and left me alive and bleeding out.” He hesitated, just for a moment, “..Like what happened to you and the Sterling family, sacrificing people to their sick God.”

        “..Who are they? His… What, minions?”

        “Do you know anything about them already?”

        It was Wyn's turn to hesitate. He still didn’t trust him, and if he knew about these sick fuckers and their agenda, he had no reason to accuse Wyn of Kit and Nadia's murders so quickly, but it sounded like he might’ve been the only other person on the planet who understood a fraction of what he was going through. “…I know their names. Tim, Brian, Toby— The first two were part of a.. A student film project, it had the Figure in it. It was following the director.”

        “Alex Kralie.” He nodded, “Tim Wright had been exposed for years, from what I can tell, got to Brian Thomas by association, and a few others. Jay Merrick, Jessica Locke— I can’t find her, but Jay’s been dead for years.”

        Wyn took in a breath, attempting to steady his still ebbing adrenaline, “And what about Toby, where does he fall into that?”

        “He wasn’t part of that. Toby Adams, he was a resident of Forest Lawn before He got to him, twisted him, convinced him to kill his mother and stepfather after finding his sister buried in the basement. Self-admitted to Pinehearst State Hospital under the care of a Doctor Wilson, before he was attacked by another patient. Adams escaped and went off-grid.. Til now, at least.”

        There were pieces here Wyn still didn’t understand, but something was sticking prominently in his mind. “..You shot them. Brian, straight through the skull—”

        Tom laughed, maybe a little too hard to be comfortable, “That won’t keep them down for long, a day at best. The tall fuck gives them rapid self-healing, if he doesn’t fix them up himself, they’re like god damn zombies.”

        The thought that not even death could have stopped them was deeply unsettling, and the car ride fell into a deep and uncomfortable silence as he pulled into a driveway. It connected to a house, and Wyn vaguely remembered the area being on the west side of town. One of the nicer neighbourhoods, but quiet, and so hardly affordable at times he wouldn’t be surprised if the two houses beside it were completely empty. Tom kicked open the car door and headed straight for the front of the house, he followed soon behind him.

        The inside was… Definitely something. It was a relatively small house to begin with, but the inside was somehow more cramped due to the stacks and stacks of built-up boxes and piles of paper. All the curtains were drawn shut, so much dust covering the fabric that Wyn wasn't entirely sure what colour they could have been. The overhead lights were off, the only sources being what looked like lamps plugged into generators. He kept his thoughts to himself, but he was beginning to doubt both his safety and the legitimacy of Tom’s job.

        He led him through into a side room, an office space with a large cork conspiracy board behind a relatively well-kept, but still messy desk. “I need to make a call, stay in here. Don’t touch anything.”

        Giving Wyn no time to respond, he left and shut the door behind him. Fuck this guy, Wyn was absolutely going to touch things. There was something fucked about everything with him, with those three, and he'd been given the best opportunity to maybe figure it out.

        Wyn went straight for the board, a bunch of nonsensical news reports, and photos— some old in quality, others new. He recognised a few faces, people from around Ashlow county that lived around North Wellway, and Southedge. He saw Kit, Nadia and himself , connected by a series of strings in the form of a triangle, with him at the bottom. It made his skin crawl, the candidness of the photos. Wyn was all in some degree of uniform, either just getting to or getting off from work. What the fuck…

        He turned his back to it and instead drew focus to the desk, its many drawers and compartments calling out to his search for answers. He went for the bottom left one first— a series of alphabetical filing sections, each with its own tabs. Wyn gave them a brief skim through, eyes flicking between them and the door until one caught his eye: STERLING, W.

        Without a thought against it, he pulled the file and set it out on the desk. The photos on the wall behind him compared.. nothing to the dozens in front of him now. Out on walks, at work, through windows, all photos of him, spanning from what seemed like years prior. Through hair cuts and styles, through addresses, the further he looked, the further back he saw, all the way until the day after the North Wellway massacre. Then there were the forms— pages and pages of work schedules, class schedules and reports, records of bills and missing mail he had always wondered about. Copies of not just his schedules, but Kit’s and Nadia’s, all with a date marked: October 25th.

        Wyn looked further into the file, and his heartbeat went still at the sight of the single copy of apartment 6E’s front door key.

 

Notes:

i hate exposition chapters but it needed to be done

Chapter 9: Opportunism

Summary:

He didn’t see a way out.

Notes:

Content Warnings: Description of assisted 'suicide', violence.

It was the first thing he could assume, that Tom was behind it all. How could he not, with the surplus of evidence detailing the man's.. obsession with this case. With his case. Wyn took the key in shaking hands— it was a somewhat fresh cut, still shiny and new with telltale small scuffs of minimal use. He remembered how Kit lost his keys within the first week of moving in, and though Wyn had voiced his concerns about the potential for a B&E, Nadia had reassured him that this part of the city wasn't like that. But these couldn't have been Kit's keys, right? That would've been insane, proof that his assumption had legs beyond his (admittedly, very justified) paranoia.

He knew how he could be certain: Kit had made a show of carving his initials into the body of the key, on the underside of where he was looking now. If there were no initials, it was a different set of keys— and if it was a different set of keys, maybe this weird fucking officer felt the need to take the evidence for himself. That wasn't a crazy jump in logic, right? Like Tom had said, no case like Ashlow or Rosswood seemed to stay a priority for long, and he had alleged personal involvement through the Oper-Figure-Fucking-Thing, it made sense. It made sense. There just needed to not be a jagged K on the back of this key.

Wyn slowly turned the metal over in his hand. "…Son of a fucking—"

The dread-inducing sight of that K was interrupted by the click of a gun, and Wyn slowly turned to the doorway to face Tom. The man looked cold, but not.. Not the same kind of cold the other three had. Even as Toby delighted in his misery with their chase, that glee never reached his eyes. Tom looked elated, excited, as he tilted his head disapprovingly, "I told you not to touch anything." He said, a soft sigh slipping from his lips, "This was meant to be easy, Wyn, but now I need to explain it all to you before cutting to the chase, don't I?"

"…Those three didn't do this to Kit and Nadia." Wyn said, slowly and deliberately as if he couldn't believe the stupid cliches laid out right in front of him, "..It was you."

He smiled. Sickeningly, gut-twistingly, far too sweet for Wyn's liking. He motioned the gun away from him for a moment, an order to follow— and what else was Wyn going to do? He set the key down cautiously, his touch lingering on that last remnant of Kit, before following Tom back out into the living room.

"I didn't lie to you, in case that's what you were wondering." He starts, very simply, as if he were talking to an old friend and not someone he clearly intends to kill, "My brother was killed by those freaks. Chopped up into bloody bits and pieces and left for me to find. That part I stretched the truth on, I never had a close brush like I said— as far as I can tell, you are.. the only survivor from a direct attack from the Operator."

"..What about those others you mentioned?" Wyn asked carefully, stopping a few short feet away as the gun aimed steady in front of him, "Jessica, right?"

"She's a loose end from the old Rosswood days. A victim in her own right, but not a target in the same way as you." Tom pointed the gun a little firmer in emphasis, making Wyn flinch, making him laugh, "Once the Operator had his proper hold on Tim Wright, Brian Thomas, and Toby Adams, they began a pattern of hunting. Sacrifice almost. Feeding Him, satiating His bloodlust in ways He is not corporeal to do himself. Moved across the country, from Rosswood to Pinehearst aaalll the way to Ashlow. No one survived. Until Wyn Sterling, miraculous survivor of the North Wellway massacre."

His tone turned taunting in a way that left a sour, acidic taste on Wyn's tongue. He didn't like how haphazardly the man was waving the gun around, despite its practiced aim remaining firmly on his body. "Now, after my brother— a good year or so before your whole mess— I began investigating. Studied every incident backwards and forwards, and do you know what I thought to myself?"

He left the question rhetorical, staring Wyn down like he somehow knew the answer. But he didn't give him a chance to respond, instead taking a step closer, "I thought, 'Wow. After Wellway, they really lost their fucking edge.' You survive, and suddenly each and every massacre I trace back to them is sloppy. Rushed. Straight to business- none of the embellishments or respect they gave the corpses after the fact. And I think surely, the Operator can do much better than these lowlifes who can't even finish. The. Job. Right."

Each word was punctuated by a pointed shake of the gun towards Wyn. He stiffened, frozen to the spot as the weight of this.. frankly ridiculous situation settled heavy on his shoulders. "..So, what, you recreate their last good kill?" Wyn asks, his voice far shakier than he would have liked it to be, "Call back to the glory days, show the guy you can do it better?"

"Bingo." Tom smirked, taking a relieving step back as he ran his free hand through his hair, "Only problem is, someone leaves their fucking door locked. So I can't exactly get it done right, now can I, Wyn?"

His breath catches in his throat— he was right. The only reason he survived that night was the one off occurence of him locking his door. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved, or mortified. If he had left his door open, would the other two still be alive? Was he only after him, or did it not matter? "..Whos the third body?"

"No one anyone would miss. Some too-nosy neighbour who lived alone, no contacts, no prospects. Kind of like you now." He tilted his head, taunting, teasing almost. "Just another unidentified John Doe. But even his nameless corpse'll be remembered with the picture I painted."

Tom looked Wyn up and down, slowly, analytically, "You've been seeing Him, which means I caught his attention. And that means I get to show Him how worthy I am: by taking care of the one survivor his oh-so-dilligent proxies couldn't kill."

Wyn stiffened as the gun clicked again, aim trained more firmly on him than before. He could practically feel the path it would take, straight between the eyes, splattering viscera on the paper lined walls behind him, "…Someone will know I'm missing." He said, affirmed despite the shake in his voice, "Coworkers. My landlords. Someone will get suspicious."

"I know." Tom said, almost bored as he took another step closer. He reached back, and pulled a smaller revolver from his belt before holding it out, "Which is why you're going to do it. "

…What? Wyn stared at the second gun, his eyes wide, "…What-"

"You're going to take this gun, and you're going to put a bullet in your brain." Tom repeats himself, firm, his voice laced with venom, "And I'm going to call for back up, and say you broke into my home, confessed your responsibility for the Southedge massacre, and took your own life in unbearable guilt. Or, I'm going to make what happens to you next so slow and painful, you would've wished you took the easy option and did it yourself."

Wyn wanted desperately to call his bluff, but the look in his eyes wasn't.. cold, but outright deranged. Delusional— like his death would genuinely appease this creature and achieve the results Tom was apparently desperate for. Wyn new obsession, infatuation, had studied it backwards and forwards in a rabbit-hole induced set of evenings. He had no way out, no clear one at least— not one he could think of in the maybe twenty seconds he had to make a decision.

Was this how he was going to die? At the hands of someone he knew not to trust, but in a desperate search for some rationality in this backwards situation, had done anyway? Or would it be at his own, for all intents and purposes— he'd aim, he'd pull the trigger, he'd take it into his own brief control. But Wyn had no control, not caught between a rock and a hard place like this. He… He thought he'd be more scared than this, facing the barrel of a gun, the opportunity to take the 'easy option.' For the week he'd had, all the tears shed, the heart palpitations, the near constant anxiety, had he exhausted it all?

He slowly reached for the gun in Tom's open palm, a faint buzz in his chest and in his fingertips. Ah. There it was, the fear, the dread blooming high and heavy into his lungs. The weight of the metal felt wrong in his grip, his fingers too long, too awkward around the handle as he lifted it slowly to his temple. Every second drew on longer than the last, the buzzing growing higher, more intense— accompanied in its symphony by the thudding in his eardrums.

Tom looked too satisfied. Too happy in his apparent victory. If this was how he was going to die, Wyn didn't want his face to be the last thing he saw. He closed his eyes, taking a slow breath as the darkness melded and meshed with the blooming static in every sense. He thought of his mother, his father, Alcina, Kit, Nadia. He thought of Xander and Cyrus, Sylvia and Beth and Tina and Adaline. The static grew heavier. At least it seemed like he wouldn't feel this.

 

OPEN YOUR EYES.

 

Wyn stiffened as the foreign voice invaded his sense of odd peace, his eyes snapping open. He wasn't in the cramped, awkwardly stuffy house— he was in the forest. Surrounded by the smell of earth and petrichor, the near-dead, still-living flora shrouding any glimpse of sunlight. The trees felt too tall, the dirt beneath his feet too soft as he found himself rooted in place. And in front of him, amidst those towering branches and leaves, was that blank, featureless face.

For all the brief glimpses at the corners of his vison, the studying of the flash drive, Wyn hadn't considered the appearance of the Operator much beyond a wish to never see him in extended proximity. But here he was— too long limbs almost dragging against the forest floor, that featurless face truly featureless, barely a concave or indent of a skull of some sort beneath that bone-white skin. He looked like he was wearing a suit, almost— until Wyn's eyes shifted into focus a bit more, and barely made out the difference between skin and fabric. He was an imitation, a mimicry, a reflection of a non-descript 'man.'

And Wyn was fucking terrified.

Paralysed with the fear, he could do nothing but stare at the Figure as it seemed to shift, move closer with each small flicker of his eyes— barely a blink, and he was just a few feet closer, closer, closer, until he could feel his looming presence over his body. He felt numb, static like fire in his nerves and in his vision. "…What. What are you doing here."

 

AN OPPORTUNITY.

 

The Figure's head tilted a few feet away from Wyn's, bearing into his soul, looking without the eyes needed to do so. Wyn felt his nose dripping with blood, his hand shaking around the gun as he willed his shoulder to not twitch back in his socket. "..An- An opportunity? For what?"

 

SALVATION.

 

His hand seemed to shift up, a slow drag the only indicator of movement before Wyn felt the weight of a cold, tense hand over his, over the gun. The pressure in his skull was driving him insane, a sharp ringing pushing through the sound of buzzing, and it took him everything not to cry out in pain. Wyn couldn't help himself, despite his will to keep steady in the face of such a creature, the pain and fear was too much. "I- I don't wanna die—" He said, barely choking out a sob as he stared at the Figure, "I don't wanna die, please—"

 

I CAN OFFER YOU DELIVERANCE.

 

His scar was burning, fresh as the night it had been carved, and no matter how hard he tried, Wyn's eyes refused to screw shut in a desperate attempt for relief. The feeling was unbearable, so much so his finger twitched on the trigger as if death would be a preferrable experience to whatever hell He was putting him through. But the Figure prevented it, his own hand seeming to keep Wyn's frozen in it's position. He had no choice, no options, he just wanted everything to stop. "Please! Please, do what you have to, just make it stop! Make it all stop, please-!"

 

For a moment, he felt nothing— blissful, relieving nothing, until that sharp pain stabbed clean through his skull. It felt like something was piercing through his right eye, the claws of a migraine far stronger than any he'd ever felt before carving through his skull. His other eye closed reflexively, but his right felt peeled apart, stripped back, like his eyelids were gone and his gaze was exposed to every grating pain the air cursed him with. The Figure remained in front of him still, steady, and then… Sharpened. Everything sharpened, the buzzing in his senses strong but steady. He was numb. He was… calm.

 

STEADY YOUR AIM.

 

The arm holding the gun slowly dropped from his temple, and the visage of the figure began to fade as Tom took his place. He looked… startled. Afraid. As afraid Wyn had felt all those years ago, those days prior— that fear he had caused. Steady your aim. The words rang in his head like command, one Wyn felt himself moving on impulse to follow.

"NononoWAIT—"

Wyn's finger twitched on the trigger, and without a beat, he fired. He felt no recoil, no jumpback on the gun as the bullet sailed through the air and hit it's mark dead on: right between Tom's eyes. He watched distantly as the man gasped, dropped to his knees, and fell dead on the floor. Unceremonious. Unforgiving.

The front door burst open, and Wyn was faintly aware of the flashes of yellow and brown and blue.

"Sh-Shit—" Toby panted, clutching the side of his chest tightly as he leaned against the doorframe, "He got to him fir-irst—"

"Tim, we're too late—" Brian stumbled in behind him, holding the door open with one hand as the other held his still-open wound, clear through his forehead.

"No, no we're fucking not—" Tim pushed past him, and pulled his mask up his face as he stepped in Wyn's path, his grip on his shoulders tight and nearly desperate. "Wyn, what happened, what did He tell you—"

Wyn's eyes flickered up and stared back at him. Through him, "..Steady your aim."

The sound of his own hollow voice startled him back to his senses, that buzzing in every nerve finally dissipating all too abruptly. Tim's eyes were full of a look of defeat, resignation and a sense of remorse. Wyn glanced down to his hand, at the sight of the gun in his palm, and then eventually over his shoulder at the corpse laying dead on the ground.

He screamed.

 

Notes:

finally some good fucking murder

Chapter 10: Sloppy Work

Summary:

Once He has you, He doesn't let go.

Notes:

Content Warning: description of corpse

He couldn't have been screaming for long, the razor-like burn in his throat not quite settling in like it had done the other multiple times this week. It was a mercy— was it?— that Tim's hand reached up and covered his mouth in a vice like grip, silencing his shrieking with the taste of leather and tarmac. "Shut the fuck up-" He hissed, "You're gonna bring more attention to this place than there probably is already." His breath was sharp, ragged against his face, and the pressure of Tim's grip was both terrifying and grounding. Wyn’s mind raced, a tangle of fear and disbelief.

He stared back at him with wide eyes, gaze focusing and unfocusing rapidly. This was a quiet neighbourhood, and though he could assume the other houses were empty, that wasn't a guarantee. After a beat, two, three, when Tim seemed to be sure of his silence, his hold slowly loosened and he turned to face the door. "Brian?"

"Already on it." Brian grimaced, pushing by Toby. He moved with resignation, practiced ease as he knelt beside Tom's still corpse— drawing Wyn's eyes back over to the scene in front of him in full. The air smelled of gunpowder, faint and acrid, barely masking the metallic scent of blood drifting from the lifeless body. It was… the cleanest death Wyn had borne witness to, no flair or embellishments, no major flesh wounds or streams of blood. Just that singular, unsettlingly perfect bullet hole straight through the skull. Tom's eyes were wide, vacant, frozen in that instance of fear; Brian lifted his mask to inspect further, clearer, and the slight lift of his brow, the fleeting gleam of admiration in his eyes at such a clean shot, made Wyn’s stomach turn.

His ears were still ringing, the sound of the gunshot piercing his eardrums over and over again like an echo. This was his work— His work, he thought to himself, cutting through that sharp buzz before he could lose himself further down that ever-so-tempting spiral of blame. The way he held the gun as he fired was too practiced, too perfect. He didn't do this. The Operator did, through him. Somehow.

"You did a god-goddamn number on the f-fucker—" Toby's voice sliced through the air like a knife, the sound of a slamming door and footsteps bringing Wyn back to himself and to his sickening reality. He walked over to the body, beside Brian, and very unceremoniously kicked Tom's side with the toe of his boot. It shifted, then fell back to the same position. Immobile. Final. Toby pulled his own mask off, giving Wyn his first good, clear look at the man's face: barely-there stubble, chapped lips, well-healed scars, and a large, gaping gash on the side of his cheek that showed gum and bone all the way to his back molars. "…Huh, this guy looks like the-the uhm, whatshisface frommmm-"

"Adam Marriott, from 2017." Brian said, a sigh lacing his words as his brows furrowed in frustration— before he flinched, reaching up to touch the still-healing bullet wound on his own forehead. Off-centre, Wyn couldn't help but notice. Tom's aim had been messy, nowhere near a perfect shot. Sloppy work.

…Wyn shook his head quickly, suppressing the impulsive comparison between the two wounds. Tom's shot had been imperfect, but it was human. Wyn's wasn't. Wyn's couldn't have been.

His hand finally loosened it's grip on the gun, the tool hitting the ground with an unceremoniously metallic thud. He took a step back, then another, finding himself quickly backed against the wall as his gaze shifted from the body to the three men surrounding him. "..What's happening to me—" He mumbled, looking down at his own trembling hands, "..I didn't- That- That wasn't me—"

"First thing we do is take care of this." Tim interjected, his voice rough and commanding— but Wyn couldn't help but note the pity embedded in there. Somewhere. "We can't stay here much longer. Stay back and let us handle this, then we go somewhere we can talk."

"I am not going anywhere with you freaks, are you fucking serious-?!" Wyn snapped, "I know what you are, what- what you've done—"

"What y-you've done here ain't much better." Toby pointedly kicked the corpse again, his tone laced with far too much venom and snark, "Little high pro-profile for baby's f-first kill, huh?"

"Toby." Brian slapped his leg away, shooting him a pointedly warning glare that seemed.. as effective as it could be. "Save it for the shelter, we have a job we need to do."

Toby rolled his eyes, stepping clear from the body— and Wyn watched as the three of them worked in practiced synchrony. Like this was just another day, another mess to clean.

Brian moved to action first, taking careful steps towards Wyn before crouching down to hold the gun. He examined it, fingers tracing the barrel and grip before methodically wiping away any residual fingerprints. Wyn flinched at the meticulousness of it, every swipe, every motion a reminder of the cold efficiency he had felt steadying his hold, correcting his aim. The feeling had been completely foreign—like an invasion. Yet watching Brian, it looked natural. Accepted. The man looked up, meeting Wyn's gaze before quickly looking away and moving on.

Tim didn't say a word, but a subtle nod seemed to wordlessly call for Toby to follow him into the back room. Despite his indignance, Toby complied, the pair weaving through and around the ceiling-high clutter. "..Yikes." Wyn heard Toby huff as he leaned his body against the doorframe, "Ob-Obsessive much?"

"This is gonna make things difficult." Tim rubbed a hand down his face, surveying the overwhelming amount of photos, research, files, all centring around Wyn, "We leave this, it looks like motive. We take it all, it's gonna look like a perfect clean up."

"We coooouuld—"

"If you say torch the place, I swear to God—"

Wyn felt buzzing in the back of his skull, creeping slowly over his skin as the drone of it swallowed their conversation. He couldn't tell if it was paranoia, the instinctive need to dissociate through this Hell he was living, or remnants of that… influence he had felt take hold of him. He was getting restless, standing idle, letting the three of them handle this. Come on, he thought to himself, you can't just fucking stand here, do something. Anything.

But what could he do? Keep his eyes on the corpse like it would spring to life again? Hover around their shoulders as they planned the best way to handle a murder scene? He wasn't just out of his depth, he was thrown completely into the deep end of a reality he couldn't have imagined in his nightmares. The buzzing grew louder, that idle drone more comforting than he would have liked to admit— it was something to focus on, something other than the voices of the three men in the house with him, something other than Tom's lifeless body. If he went to the police, turned himself in, would they believe him when he told them it was self defence? It was, wasn't it? There was plenty of evidence that proved Tom was stalking him, obsessing over him at every turn, maybe if he kept his head on straight—

Tim's voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, and for a moment, it silenced the vibrating static in his skull. "We move. Now."

Wyn didn't have time to process a shred of what changed about the house, what they left behind, what they were taking with them, before he felt a hand gripping his arm and pulling him along. He wanted to push away, protest, run, but the second his lips parted to scream or kick away, that ringing came back. Incessant. Demanding. He found himself following instinctively, stiff and robotic with what remained of his apprehensive resistance.

He couldn’t tell if the walk dragged into hours, or only stretched into the minutes. Every crunch of gravel under his shoes seemed to reverberate in his head, sharp kicks of dirt and stone intermingling with that ever present static. He blinked, and the streets had vanished, replaced with trees pressing close, close, closer on either side of him. Time stuttered, warped, slipped away from him like water through his fingers, like blood in his hands. He lifted his head. The sun had set. He could have sworn it was morning when this whole mess started.

Their voices came and went from his awareness, like fragments of interference through an old, broken radio. Toby’s laugh—too sharp, too loud, too mocking of his circumstance. Brian’s steady mutter, calm and steady in an even more brazen mockery of Wyn's own rushing blood, bubbling hot just beneath the surface. Tim was silent, immovable, unreadable, his grip on his arm strong and unwavering. That was worse, somehow.

Wyn’s feet ached, then went numb. His legs trembled, then felt like stone with each dragging movement. Every step pulled him deeper into a tunnel he wasn’t sure he could see the end of, no light gleaming ahead, just more ever-pressing darkness. The ringing never left—low, pulsing, constant, crawling at the edges of his skull. The drone wasn't something he could listen to as a comfort any longer, it felt like a presence in and of itself just outside of his periphery. It was like it was placating him, dulling his instinct to break away and flee. If they were being followed by someone, the other three would have noticed.

Nothing to say they weren't being followed by something instead.

Ahead of them, the trees steadily broke apart, revealing a mound of earth with a rusted steel door sunk into its face. An old storm shelter, nature's reclaiming touch spiralling weeds around its frame— not nearly enough to take back from the manmade intrusion. It felt familiar, and the kicked up dirt at the base of an old knoll metres away told Wyn that this… this was where he had 'transported' to in his escape, where he called Tom. Of course, he thought to himself, whatever the fuck that was planted me right in their front fucking yard.

Brian moved first, like Wyn noticed he seemed to be the one to do, breaking away from his side to haul the door open. There was a hoarse, grinding groan of hinges, slicing through the air like nails on a chalkboard. A stale gust of air drifted out from inside—musty, damp, metallic. He heard Toby mumble something along the lines of 'home sweet home' before shoving passed him to descend the rusted stairs.

Tim gestured forward, nudging him slightly as he mercifully let him go. Surrounded on all sides, Wyn didn't have much of a choice— and his body obeyed before his mind could coherently start to search for alternatives. The stairs inside were narrow, steep, and the further down he went, the more the air thickened around him, clinging to his skin and throat like cobwebs he couldn't shake off.

The room at the bottom was spacious and claustrophobic all at the same time, too well lived to be temporary, too sparse to be home. Lit by a single bulb that hummed overhead and smaller lanterns that Toby gradually made the rounds to flick on without much flair, Wyn took in the 'decor' that filled the storm shelter; Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books and survival gear, canned food, and an unsettling sprawl of papers and maps, charting locations and directions, faces and names. His own was in there somewhere, he knew it.

Wyn stood in the centre of the room, absorbing the sight— and for the first time since the ringing had started, since the gun fired in his hands, silence started to stretch itself around him. There was no buzzing, no residual tremor in his ears, just the painful quiet barely punctuated by his own sharp breathing.

Everything finally began to dawn on him, and as the shutter slammed above with Tim descending into the room, he turned. Spit and venom in his words, as he finally, finally, he felt like he was back in control. "What the fuck did you freaks drag me into?!" He all but screamed, his brows furrowed as he pulled as far back away from the trio of men— of monsters as he could.

There was a beat of silence, his words echoing in the condensed space— before Toby snorted, then chuckled, then outright burst out laughing. "You- You think we did an-anything here-?!" He said, leaning back against the wall with each punctuated wheeze, "Youuuu fired the g-gun, hotshot-! We just cleaned up the mess!"

"You broke into my fucking house and chased me into the woods, you prick!" He snapped back, but his anger only seemed to fuel Toby's manic laughter. Mocking. Trivialising. Like it wasn't his whole life that was crashing down around him, "You think this is funny?!"

"Hilarious!!" Toby grinned, a sadistic glint in his eye amidst the hilarity, "You're so fuck-fucking oblivious, and yet the boss st-still sought you out-!!"

"What the fuck does that mean?! Is this some kind of sick joke?!" Wyn whirled his head to Brian as the sound of creaking floorboards pierces through his periphery, "Can one of you please just tell me what the hell is going on?!"

Brian's hands lifted in defence, an almost gentle look on his face. Just like any show of emotion these three seemed to have, it didn't quite reach his eyes, but he at the very least seemed to be more patient than Toby was. "I get it. This is stressful, you're right to be.. scared— But we didn't do anything to you. At least, not intentionally—"

"T-Told you we shoulda made sure he was dead the first time, Bri." Toby muttered, coming down from his apparent 'high' as Brian shot him a very pointed warning glare. Wyn could feel the tension in the air between them— resigned, just beneath the surface. He could tell Brian was more of a mediator, a handler, Toby being the instigator that made that job much more difficult. "But he's rright. We didn't d-do this to you, your wiiill to surviiive and perseveeere did—"

Toby drawled slightly, rolling his eyes as he made exaggerated air quotes. Wyn's brows furrowed, looking between him and Brian— did they expect that to make any sense to him? At all? He turned his head away from them, towards Tim— arms crossed, eyes stone-locked on him, silent. Like he was analysing his every move, every word, looking for… something. Wyn looked at him, a wordless plea of his own— please, let this guy at least make some sense.

Tim seemed to pick up on the look, a brief flickering mercy in the otherwise relentless storm around him. He sighed, eyes closing as stress settled heavy on his shoulders. "..You said He told you to steady your aim. But that's not all He said. What did He offer you, Wyn?"

The words hung in the air, a led-like weight bringing forth a moment of suffocating silence. Toby's eyes were on him, so were Brian's. Waiting. Expecting. Like.. like they were bracing for something more, something bigger. Wyn was really starting to miss that idle droning ring in his ears, the deafening static much more palatable than the quiet. "…He-.. He said he saw an opportunity. For salvation." He paused, gauging their reactions, and when he couldn't read a shred of emotion, he continued, "…He offered me 'deliverance.' What- What the fuck does that mean—"

"It means you're in His debt." Brian mumbled, so quiet that Wyn wasn't sure if he was meant to hear him, "He saved your life. That means you owe Him. A rescue from danger or evil, ironic bargain coming from Him—"

"I'm in what?" Wyn echoed, his eyes wide at the lingering implications. His chest felt tight, "…I- What does that mean, I'm in debt?"

"It means exactly what it sounds like." Tim kicked off from the wall, approaching him with the kind of caution you'd expect from someone approaching a frightened animal. It made Wyn feel nauseous, like he was looking down on him. "He came to you when you had no other way forward, you accepted His aid, and now you owe Him your life in return."

"Makes you one of the f-freaks that're bound to kill in His name." Toby muttered, those lingering traces of humour in his voice dripping away in favour of bitterness at the sheer use of the word, "Makes you one of us."

Wyn let out a laugh in disbelief, staring between the three as they practically circled around him. He wasn't one of them. He wouldn't be. "..No- No, absolutely not— I'm not a killer. I'm not going to let some no-life gangly fuck turn me into one, either!"

There was a beat of quiet, long enough that the visage of Tom's dead body flashed into his mind, the look of fear in his eyes, the uncanny perfection of the bullet hole. No, that was self defence. That wasn't him. He looked down to his hands, and for a moment, he swore he saw blood, smelled gunpowder residue, felt the weight of the gun in his palms like it was carved just for him. His fingers twitched, he could almost see the glint of the metal—

He blinked. Hard. When had the static creeped back in?

Wyn shook his head, slowly backing away from the three of them as that daunting dread settled hard on his shoulders. He doubted the law would care about the supernatural nuances of the situation, he'd killed a man. Justifiably, maybe, but he'd still taken a life. "..I need to leave. I-I need to go home—"

"You can't pretend this never happened, Wyn." Brian reached out to grab his arm, but paused short of actually touching him. At least he was somewhat respectful, Wyn thought to himself. "He doesn't let debts go unpaid. You run, He follows. We follow."

"I can't just drop off the face of the planet, either, can I?" Wyn continued to back up towards the stairs, "I have a job, I have friends, what's it gonna look like if this guy turns up dead and I miraculously disappear? No, I—" He took in a small breath, steadying his rapidly racing heartbeat, "…I need to at least try to get some control of my life to figure this shit out, and I'd like to do that without being paranoid the cops are gonna be on my ass. And if you're as good as you think you are at covering up murders, I won't have anything to worry about, will I?"

The three exchanged wordless glances, frustratingly unreadable to Wyn until Toby scoffed, throwing his hands up in resignation before storming off to a different corner of the storm shelter. Brian nodded once curtly, and made his way to the top of the stairs to unlock the hatch.

Wyn barely gave him the time to climb back down before pushing past him, attempting a quick ascension before Tim reached up and grabbed his arm again. Wyn almost kicked him off, until his voice cut through sharp and unyielding, "You can't run from this. No matter how hard you try." He said— and that flicker of remorse found itself creeping in-between the words again. "Once He has you, He doesn't let go."

Wyn didn't dignify his warning with a response, and as he broke away from him and re-emerged from the storm shelter, the frigid midnight air felt like a shock of life to his system.

He let the hatch slam shut behind him, and without looking back, he ran.

Notes:

never been so stressed out trying to write dialogue out of fear of mischaracterising but on god i will post this anyway