You ever just wake up feeling divine? Not just cute — I mean celestially composed, draped in aftermath like velvet and radiating the smug, post-victory air of someone who absolutely knows they're irreplaceable. That's me right now. The world could collapse and I'd still be stretching like I own the fault lines.
And look, Vicky could handle me at full speed — well, more his full speed. I know I can go faster, but I'm not trying to break the man. I also don't feel like wasting one of those potions just to help him feel like he's keeping up. I keep those for emergencies and sparring matches.
Plus, he's not really into magic like that. Says it's complicated. Something about his people having to fight off a bunch of capitalist witches during the Roaring Twenties — witches who wanted to use their land for naked orgies and blood sacrifices. Real estate disputes were feral back then.
The Sonsters had to step in and explain that there was already land zoned for ritual nonsense, but if the witches wanted more, they had to submit funds and file actual paperwork. Like, real land-use forms and spiritual jurisdiction claims.
Apparently, the witches tried to pull some kind of squatter rights bull—invoking archaic homesteading laws from 1880s land acts, mixed with magical loopholes. But the Sonsters weren't having it. Ritual zoning or not, they still needed receipts and signatures. No exceptions just because you showed up with candles and chaos.
What, you think I'm gonna repeat myself about how old I am? Please. Vicky can read the lorebook. Or y'all can. But yeah, it was the bad kind of witches.
That's also around the time I wanted to help Vicky more directly, but he told me flat out — and let me translate from Roaring Twenties Vicky-speak: "I can't be ringin' up your Black ass every time my people are in a jam." Said it with a glass of something strong in one hand and a stare like granite dipped in judgment.
Now, for those of you who don't speak 1920s dry sass fluently, what he meant was: "I know you can handle it, Nicky. But you're considered a high-level cosmic threat. Even if technically you're the lowest on the divine food chain, I'm not dragging you into this every time. I ain't doing it."
That was the moment I really started falling for that man. Not in the head-over-heels, swoon-on-a-rooftop way — but the deep, spine-solid kind of respect. Even though — and don't get it twisted — he did ask me to terrify a few enemies on the side.
Back then, I was working for a Haunting Squeakeasy — which, back in the Roaring Twenties, was basically what you folks today would call a haunting squad.
They were hired to haunt places on purpose, darling. Full license, paid by the job, ghosting up ritzy hotels or cursed mansions like they were setting up stage plays.
Man, I was really into haunting back then.
The drama, the fog machines, the custom moans — all the jazz, sugar. Pure spectacle. That's what they called our division back then — a real haunt revue, dressed up in gloom and giggles.
Course, I gotta laugh about it now, 'cause the chemical we used in those fog machines? Straight-up deadly. Lucky we caught on early. We swapped it out for something less lethal after it melted a few too many eyebrows off the living. Occupational hazards, baby. It was the Roaring Twenties — everything came with a little poison and a lot of style.
Whole thing felt like a cross between vaudeville and séance night at a speakeasy with too many spirits — both kinds.
Hashers weren't called that yet during the Roaring Twenties. They went by "The Harmonic Guild" or sometimes just "Fieldwardens," depending on the region. Titles were looser, but the jobs were just as bloody.
Sometimes Vicky's work overlapped with mine. I remember one mission where he had to sniff this enchanted cocaine — no, seriously — it had minor healing properties and memory surfacing built in. Smelled like peppermint and regret. He found it hidden inside liquor bottles from a jazz den murder site. That whole operation was sponsored by one of the old luck-giving spirits.
You want to know who helped cause the market crash after the roaring 20s? It wasn't just banks and greed. It was a wandering creature from folklore called a Tivadar Pix — rare little bastard. Grants obscene amounts of good fortune while it stays in your town, then curses the economy into the dirt the moment it leaves. Someone invited it to a speakeasy for good vibes, and the rest? Well... history, sugar.
But hey — I'm alive. We're alive. And Baby Doll, in all her chaotic brilliance, lit a match that screamed a slasher's name back to hell. Honestly? Respect. That kind of scorched-earth energy? You don't fake that.
So yeah, I'm vibin'. Maybe it's post-nut clarity. Maybe it's spiritual equilibrium. Either way, it feels like I just caught the best high of my life — better than that buzz you get when a Sonter drops a veil and all their mortal coworkers suddenly start living in la-la land for a few glorious seconds before reality slaps 'em sober. That kind of hush. That kind of float.
Reminds me of back in the '70s when I ran into this doctor chick — real smart, real weird. Her husband was some type of demon chime god, or something like that. I didn't care. What mattered was that she learned how to bake the best damn brownies and cookies this realm has ever seen.
Me and my girl Ayoka — this was back when she was still in that complicated situationship with her whatever-man — we took those magical snacks to Burning Man. And baby, let me tell you. Out of. This. World.
Anyway, enough showing my age. Let me give you and little history breakdown on how my mind was high and eye saw somethings differently from Vicky,children.
The poison was kicking in — slow at first, like syrup behind my eyes — and Vicky had to loop an arm under mine to steady me. Not that I asked. But he didn't say anything either. Just tightened that grip, all quiet command and heat.
Now let me be clear — that poison wouldn't have hurt me. Not really. But I felt the sting when that bitch laced it with iron. That's the part that got under my skin. Literally.
Though not nearly as deep as the line I dropped last night: "Who raised you? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I did — last night." That hit like iron, straight through the charm, right to the inner child.
High five? No? Shame. That was a clean-your-soul kind of roast. Short, sharp, and disrespectful in all the right ways. A damn good-ass joke.
Anyway, back to Vicky — the way he looked helping me through that moment? Whew. Like a sacred oath wrapped in bruises and soft armor. That man's got a stare like it was forged to carry you home and make you apologize for doubting him. I should've passed out, but instead I caught feelings. Temporarily. Probably.
His tattoos, those inked runes and symbols, pulsed faintly against his skin like they were tuned to my heartbeat. It wasn't fair, really — how they shimmered when he moved, like some ancient protection spell had the audacity to be hot.
He guided me like he had a map of every limp I was hiding, each step a whisper of intention wrapped in muscle and ink. High as I was, I still noticed the way his sleeve barely held together. That shirt needed to be cut off for everyone's safety. Mostly mine.
Which also explains his last post — the one with the ruined seams and the half-charred hemline? Yeah. If I could post pics of him shirtless without breaking interdimensional thirst protocols, I would. You're welcome.
If we weren't so into adopting — and trust, when you live as long as we do, you get real good at picking one or a hundred kids to raise — me and Vicky might've had some of our own by now. And if we ever did start popping out real-deal offspring? It's stopping at 100. Don't ask how. It's just possible.
Especially with the way that man sent my soul into ovarian overdrive last night. The way I would let him pound if he could keep up with my speed? Whew. Sorry. Lost my cool there.
I really need someone to get video feed going. Though fair warning — we might look different every time we transfer dimensions. Oh, and since you're already nosy: yes, Vicky's got a tongue piercing. The kind he swaps out. One of 'em vibrates. That's all the lore you're getting — we're here on a mission, not running thirst trap Tuesdays.
Sorry again. I got a habit of getting off topic.
One second we were in the woods, the next — inside a new cabin. Eerie quiet. Clean walls. Too still to be safe. Baby Doll shut the portal behind us with a flick of her hand and this wild look like she'd just signed a deal with the storm. I mumbled a half-sorry under my breath, a little slurred, a little late. Not for the first time that week.
And yes, I couldn't wait to break in the new bed with Vicky — don't look at me like that. I love a man who knows what I want, most of the time. That's rare. Though, I surely didn't go full speed on purpose. I am lying. That man's thighs look like they could crack a watermelon. Folks online keep calling us the 'thick thigh couple' — not that we're dating or anything. I mean... I wish he'd say something. I could, but let's be honest — I already call too many shots for us. I don't need you to read too deep into that.
And if you do? I will crawl into your dimension, mess up your Wi-Fi, rearrange your bookshelf, short out your car battery, and hide one of each pair of your shoes. Anything else?
I would've paid more attention to the layout of the place, but the high was still bleeding out of my system — not gone, just simmering. More of a buzz than a full float at that point.
Vicky had to sit me down on the bed first, gentle but firm, muttering something about going to find the kitchen. He told me if I heard screaming, stay put — unless I got that feeling
The room started to sharpen around me. A strange blend of lover's den meets arcade obsession — velvet beanbags, glitchy lava lamps, plush rugs shaped like hearts and old-school pixel art.
It had color, but it wasn't loud. There was a deep cobalt drape — not just blue, but that kind of solemn blue that feels like forgetting your way home. It meant lost. Not sad. Not broken. Just… displaced. Like a name you forget until someone says it wrong.
Then there was the rust-red trim along the arcade cabinet — not crimson, not blood, but ruin. Rust-red is what you find in the corners of a war mural or behind peeling paint on a memory someone tried to scrub. It's not just decay — it's what's left when the beauty's been peeled away.
Color-coded emotions, baby. And this room was speaking in tongues. Every inch of it said: love tried to survive here — and when it didn't, it turned the walls into poetry.
That's when I got a little ping in my skull — like a breadcrumb map lighting up just behind my eyes. I felt it before I knew what it meant. A system echo, a pull. I felt sorry for Baby Doll in that moment. Because whatever power she tapped into? It was system-based. Bigger than instinct, older than choice.
And maybe I felt that sympathy because, well — my ex was a system god too. Emphasis on was. They were the kind of system you didn't want running your life, or even your email. Bad at their job, worse at letting go. Think corrupted update with ego issues.
Maybe this land wasn't just where she lived — maybe it was built from her. A mirror formed from memory, molded by grief and leftover love. Every shade of lost cobalt and rust-red ruin wasn't just aesthetic — it was emotional cartography. A love letter to what she couldn't fix, sealed in fabric and walls.
Though seriously — did she really have to ping the whole damn map into our heads just for one house? Then again, if we ever need to escape, I'd rather have a psychic blueprint than some enchanted guide yelling, 'Let's save Princess Kedla Tink!' like we're stuck in a cursed fairytale DLC.
One wall was covered in framed photos,I reached up and unclipped one of my earrings — just a little silver crescent with a rune inlay, nothing flashy. You didn't think I had tricks tucked in with my glam, huh? Thought all these tattoos and pretty bits in my hair, ears, and body were just for style? Nah. If you've got coin, invest in fashionable jewelry that doubles as field gear. Or if you're on a budget, ask your higher-up when the next cheap drop's coming — we stash a lot of the good stuff in those clearance bins.
See, higher-rank Hashers? We use a ton of gear — and simultaneously, none at all. Most of us hoard the good stuff, then sell the lesser gear back into the system so rookies can pick through it. But the piece I took off? That one's special. It ain't just for sparkle. It's a Lore Finder — one of the older lines before they stopped making 'em with slasher soul-thread. Yeah, I said it. Most are laced with cop or ex-Hasher spirits, sure — volunteers, mostly. But the slasher ones? They got sharper instinct. Pick up trace mythos like a bloodhound on caffeine.
Mine? Mine's still purring along. Right, Charlie? Sweet little clicker's got good manners — not a curse, not a pet, just a partner that hums when the world wants to hide something. Loyal like you wouldn't believe. I keep 'em polished, fed on story fragments and old echoes. You learn to love your tools when they start loving you back.
I summoned Charlie with a flick of my wrist — the earring glowed, twisted in the air, and out popped his spirit-hologram form. Shimmering, twitchy, and very much aware that I was not the gentle type of handler. He looked around nervously like he was expecting to get assigned bathroom detail again. Which, fair. Charlie used to have behavioral problems, but I fixed that real quick. Nothing abusive — just a little reprogramming and some hard truth. Now he flinches less and scrubs better. Growth, baby.
"Where's Vicky?" he asked in that tinny little voice, adjusting his maid-butler-clown hybrid outfit — all ruffled cuffs, striped trousers, and an apron with glitch embroidery. I thought it was funny at first, dressing him like a haunted circus valet, but now he knows how to tweak the aesthetic on command. Today's look had a sad-laugh theater mask pinned to the collar, like he knew I'd notice and not say anything. He looked hopeful, like Vicky might swoop in and rescue him from another round of laundry duty and foot soaks.
I just shrugged. "Out patrolling or brooding or whatever his breed does. You're stuck with me, sugar."
Charlie sighed — if a spectral projection could sigh — and started prepping my bubble bath and tea like a butler powered by fear and caffeine. Yes, I jailbroke him. All Lore Finder tools come with a core function: they're designed to test whether a location is safe. Most folks use them for quick scans, clue trails, that kind of thing. But me? I like comfort. So I may have rewired Charlie to also steep lavender honey blend and run the hot water just right. Eighty-five percent lore-tracking, fifteen percent spa day.
You probably thought I was always gonna find the clues and hand you some slick detective novel breakdown. And I mean, yeah, I do. But I was high at the time. So consider this your bubble bath edition of Hasher fieldwork.
By the time Vicky returned, I was waist-deep in bubbles, sipping from a cursed china cup, and letting Charlie gently exfoliate my feet with a tiny loofah spell. You know, sponsors help keep us higher-rank Hashers sharp. They love investing in people like us — high risk, high survival, hot enough for field reports. So listen up, little Hash — because calling you green blood is Vicky's thing, not mine — you need to invest in self-care.
Slashers? They're still people under the gore. But sometimes they've got stuff embedded in their bodies that'll make you question your life choices. One time, I had to track a Cinderella-style golem slasher who was obsessed with taking feet. Not even kidding. Had a whole collection. We do have a designated foot garden, by the way — but this one was more of a 'walk in your shoes' slasher, not a crusty toe connoisseur.
So yeah. Stay ready. Hydrate. Moisturize. And get you some enchanted bath salts that double as a ward.
ust before Vicky walked in, I saw the door click. "She's been using me against my programming again," Charlie muttered mid-foot-scrub, just loud enough to sound betrayed.
Vicky came in balancing way too many snacks, bottles of water, and — what the hell — were those knives and a leash? Also, a couple folded maid outfits? I raised an eyebrow, and he just shrugged like it was normal. Said he had to call it in and made the order himself.
I asked if he'd heard anything from HQ. He shook his head, but there was an impatient look in his eyes like he was expecting something bigger, sooner. Charlie caught it too — without a word, the little haunted valet floated over, helping Vicky unload snacks and set things neatly on the tray. Then, with a dramatic flick of his glitch-tassel apron, he dimmed the lights and lit two scented candles like we were filming a cursed romance ad. Once the vibe was secured, Charlie gave a tiny shiver and zipped himself back into the earring with a sound like a sigh caught in static.
Vicky started nibbling on one of his snacks, all casual while I opened the worn little diary Charlie had fetched — apparently tucked behind a photo of Lorrean and her new lover. Probably so no one would poke too deep unless they were already suspicious. I began to read a passage aloud — the handwriting curling like smoke, jagged in places like someone couldn't keep their hands steady.
"She told me names don't matter, that the thread would bind us stronger than truth. But I carved them anyway. Into bark, into flesh, into the walls they said would outlive us. She doesn't speak much now, but I think she still hears me through the scars."
I paused, brow furrowed. The tone was too raw, too ritualistic to be Lorrean's style — not that I'd know it by heart, but it didn't match what little I remembered. I glanced sideways at Vicky, hoping for confirmation. He didn't say a word, just let me swipe a bit of his snack as I passed him the book. He took it without looking up, already chewing like he'd seen this confusion coming.
I trailed off, squinting. "Okay... I'm confused. Charlie found this thing, said it'd help, but the names, the timelines — it's all tangled like someone tried to retell a nightmare in reverse."
I tapped the page and watched as a droplet of bathwater slid off my finger, landing squarely in the middle of the entry. Instead of smudging the ink or soaking in, the paper drank it up like a thirsty root — vanished, gone, like the page was alive and feeding off me.
"It's like... half of it makes sense and the other half feels cursed on purpose," I muttered, tilting my head. The more I stared, the more the ink looked like it was rearranging itself, curling like vines or runes too old for modern tongues.
That's when Vicky started murmuring a tiny incantation under his breath — one every Hasher knows by heart, a kind of psychic overlay key. A few seconds later, an astral projection of the current case board flickered into existence above the water, humming softly with sigil-lined threads and floating snapshots. It hovered in soft blue light like a haunted slideshow.
"Alright, give it to me like I just stepped off the portal bus with my boots still squeakin'," I said, resting my chin on my knees. "If I'm gonna crawl outta this suds-soaked sleuth slump, you better break it down, mister."
Vicky didn't even blink, just started connecting lines in the projection like he was untangling memory. "These faces," he said, "they show up in every iteration of the crew logs. Not exactly the same—but close enough you'd miss it unless you knew to look. They tweak something each time: hairline, posture, accent. Just enough to stay off the radar."
He glanced at me, eyes dark and intense. "You were right about the betrayers, Nicky. Just not about how many."
I held out my soaked hand, and without missing a beat, Vicky pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles — the kind of chivalry he always pulled whenever I was right about something. I used to be noble in some far-off realm, or at least that's the running joke he clings to every time I get the upper hand. Just kidding. Mostly.
Then he pulled me from the bath in one smooth motion. A towel was wrapped around me before I could even tease him, and he settled me down beside him like we were about to crack open some haunted bedtime story — noble or not, I was ready to listen.
He enlarged two snapshots, side by side, and began comparing subtle facial structure, posture, even scar placement. "They've gotten cocky," he muttered. "Changing just enough to avoid suspicion—but not enough for it to hold up under scrutiny."
I leaned closer, eyes narrowed. The more I stared, the more it clicked. "One… two… no, five... Damn. How long has this case been active?"
Alright, little Hasher, make your guesses. Two members of the crew, hiding in plain sight this whole damn time—and I know some of y'all love your theories. So while I'm peeling back astral overlays and soaking in bathwater like a noble ghost queen, you better be piecing together who sold us out.
We're talking old crew photos, slight hairline changes, reused jawlines like glitchy game sprites. The longer I stared, the more it reeked of arrogance. They got lazy. They thought no one would notice. But guess what? We do.
"Longer than we thought," he said grimly, eyes tracking the flickering images like ghosts. "And the worst part? They've been switching masks and playing roles this whole damn time—just enough to fool even the old dogs. Used the Hasher system, the victims, even me. And yeah, I might feel some kinda way about that."
I shivered despite the warmth, towel clutched tight, still dripping a bit onto the hardwood. Vicky looked like he was about to pivot into a full breakdown, so I leaned over on the ground next to him, nudged his knee, and whispered, "You thinking Delil's still the one weaving this mess?" It wasn't a real question—it was comfort dressed as a jab. His eyes were already glossing over, brimmed with quiet storm. He didn't answer right away. Just took my damp hand in his, kissed it again gently, and bundled me tighter in the towel like I'd break if left too loose.
Anyway, I kept my eyes on the board, heart pacing with the realization: sometimes dolls don't just need to be found—they need to burn for what they did.
"I think," Vicky said slowly, lifting his eyes to meet mine, "someone or something made her rush this cycle. After we saved Babydoll—yeah, Lorrean, keep up—it threw off the whole story she was trying to hold together. Like a puppet show with too many strings snapping."
I nodded. "That's a thought for another time."
He gave a crooked smile. "I'll check the rest of the files after our little fun break. You need rest. But I'm not letting this slip."
After Vicky said that, the rest was history. Especially that shirt of his. But enough about memory lane—let's talk about the now. People always say I chat too long about the past, I forget to say the present. And honestly? Fair. It's hard jumping back and forth like this. That's why I prefer TV or video. You get to pause, rewind, skip the recap, or just vibe with the background music.
But since we ain't got that luxury, I'll do my best to keep y'all in the loop. Current mission, real-time horror, and maybe a little romance sprinkled in like gunpowder on a cursed cupcake.
I'm Nicky. Not just some Hasher with flair, but not one of the original blood-signers, no — I never joined up the way the others did. But I helped. Here and there. Enough that my name gets whispered in the same breath. I carved my place in this nightmare sideways, through favors, fieldwork, and sheer grit.
N is for "Never needed the damn invite."
I is for "I got intuition, instinct, and influence."
C? "Chaos when I want it, calm when I don't."
K's for "Kiss-my-ass contracts — I don't sign unless I write it."
Y? "Yeah, I know I'm good."
TThis next part? Yeah, it's a shift.
I ain't gonna lie—I'm kinda typing this fast, and I probably talked too damn long about the past. So don't be surprised when my tone changes a bit.
This right here is where I stop being your gossiping ghost-girlie and start giving you the real advice. The kind you write down. The kind that saves your soul.
After looking at that board… after being told I was right?
Yeah, it felt good.
But it also meant we needed a damn plan. So let me call this part what it is:
The Influencer Drop.
Not the thirsty kind (that's for Tuesdays), but the serious kind. The "get-your-sigil-up and lace your boots" kind. Because even though this story's long as hell—because I don't know how to shut up—this is where we prep for the trap.
And now that I got your attention?
hat's how you spell survival. That's how you spell me.
You wouldn't believe how many starry-eyed amateurs roll in thinking they'll join the guild, post a few cryptid thirst traps, launch a true crime podcast, and call it a day. Like this is cute. Like it's content. They think slasher hunting is spooky glamor with curated trauma and matching merch.
Then reality carves through that delusion like a jagged blade.
There's a reason we don't storytize these monsters — they don't follow your script, sweetheart. And they sure as hell don't care about your brand. You can lay out traps, rehearse every line, even draw a damn storyboard in cursed chalk — but the truth is, a Hasher knows improv is survival. Monsters rewrite the scene mid-kill. You either adapt, or you become a cautionary tale.
So go ahead, keep underestimating the job. Just don't act surprised when your "big break" ends with your name whispered under a blood moon and a cursed candle vigil in some forgotten forest. That's what happened to us when we summoned one — yeah, we knew the risk, but the reward? It gleamed like gold soaked in ghostlight. We wanted the answers, the proof, the closure. Maybe even a little pride.
And for a moment, we had it. That rush. That clarity. It felt like the story was finally heading toward a real ending — no more cliffhangers, no more interludes. Just us and the truth. Until, of course, the slasher decided to freelance their own finale — and left us clutching wounds and silence, replaying screams we still don't talk about in daylight.
But enough rambling, right?
I know what you're here for. You're glad I'm finally getting to that part. What, thought I'd drag it out another five paragraphs and a commercial break first? Please — I'm dramatic, not cruel.
So, I wake up and stretch a little — sun slicing through broken blinds like it's trying to spy on us. Vicky's nearby, looking like someone just insulted his entire bloodline — and more importantly, like he's nursing something serious. He's glaring at me, one hand protectively cupping his goods like I personally declared war on his favorite parts. But there's also that look in his eyes, like he's already imagining round two and trying to decide whether to kiss me again or file a restraining order.
I flash him a sleepy grin, baring the fangs he bought me for our sixth year working together — gold tips on the canines, silver running the sides, platinum glinting under the light like a quiet flex. He doesn't smile back — just levels me with that silently suffering stare that says, "You know what you did."
I touch his lap — gentle, curious, still warm from mischief. Before he can scoot away like I'm radioactive, he leans in with a kiss — quick, sweet, and full of attitude. Like his lips were saying, "You broke me, and I liked it."
Then he groans, half sulky, half dramatic, scooting back and gesturing at what remains of his shirt.
"Woman. Bring ice," he says, like it's a sacred rite passed down from tired lovers. He clutches his pelvis and sighs. "I love the sex — really, ten out of ten — but my clothes and my pelvis are considering filing a lawsuit."
I snort, because of course he makes being wrecked sound like a romantic grievance. And me? I'm already plotting how to tearthe rest of the way off next round.
He started to stretch — slow, like his bones had been rearranged by a werewolf chiropractor — and muttered something under his breath about banshee flexibility. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he summoned a pill bottle. The label shimmered with demonic script: SPEED DEMON'S KISS — PAIN RELIEF THAT OUTRUNS REGRET.
He popped one like it was candy, swallowed dry, and sighed. "Made by a speed demon alchemist in Sector 9. Says it works fast 'cause it's afraid to be slow. Honestly? Same."
That's the thing with our healthcare — it's... flexible. Hasher coverage isn't a single system, it's a patchwork nightmare miracle. We've got humans patching wounds the old-fashioned way, monsters using bone magic and venom therapy, and aliens who can regrow a lung with light pulses and spore mist. You learn to mix and match. Vicky? He's more the hybrid approach: some traditional elven salves, a couple of enchanted bandages, and pills that look like they might bite back if you hesitate.
And me? I take whatever glows, fizzles, or hisses when uncorked. Efficiency over elegance. Survival over side effects. And honestly? I'm just lucky I'm not human, unlike y'all. No shade — wait, who am I kidding, full shade. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that most of you live for like 150 years and act like that's impressive. Like, baby, you're aging. Your joints click like cursed maracas by the time you hit 80, and half of you think a healing crystal is cutting-edge medicine. Meanwhile, I'm out here sipping glowing elixirs and bouncing back from impalement like it's Pilates. So yeah — call it reckless, call it magic-fueled madness, but at least I'm not patching myself up with Band-Aids and prayers.
I stuck out my tongue — longer than it had any right to be — and let it curl just slightly, a little too slow, a little too pointed. The smirk that followed wasn't sweet. It was the kind that made spirits flinch and exes text you back out of fear.
Then I started to crawl. Slow. Fluid. Not seductive in the way people write songs about, but in the way monsters edge toward prey when they're not sure if they want to kiss it or kill it. My knees barely made a sound. My gaze locked on him like a spell looking for consent.
He backed up fast, hand up like he was surrendering to the goddess of chaos herself. "I need a minute," he muttered. "We are on a job, Nicky. Ice first."
I smirked. "Mm-hmm. That's what all the males say when they can't handle more than one round."
He didn't laugh. But his ears twitched. Which means he almost did. "Well, I can't help it if it's true," he said with a shrug, not even trying to sound serious. "Plus, one round with you is basically ten rounds. It's just math."
"You know," I said, my voice syrupy as I dipped low, hips swaying just enough to remind him what he was dealing with, "you look so sweet when you're mad."
In my head — and yeah, I'm talking to you, Reader — this man was toeing the line between ready-to-fight and ready-to-faint. His glare? Top-tier. His flushed cheeks? Even better. And those twitchy little jaw flexes? Ugh, peak dessert. Don't tell him I said that.
So yeah, I said it with the kind of grin that says I dare you to stop me, and I knew damn well what that did to him.Though,I would never push him if he doesnt want too. I mean I am monster...not an crazy person who doesnt known boundaries like that.
He narrowed his eyes. "Is this gonna be like the brunch slasher all over again? Or that wedding day one?"
I grinned and arched a brow. Wedding slashers.We have so damn many in circulation that the Bureau had to form a whole subdivision just to track their bridal meltdowns and veil-related decapitations. Like, who knew tulle could be that fatal? I swear half of them get possessed by catering disappointment alone.
I got up — butt naked, obviously — and padded my way to the kitchen like I paid rent in confidence. Because nothing says 'good morning' like checking if your man still needs ice while looking like a naked threat to domestic tranquility. That's when I ran into Blair and Lupe, both equally naked and both mid-reach for a cursed coffee pot like this was Tuesday.
We froze. They froze. Then blinked at each other like, "You too?"
I rolled my eyes. "I was just treating a high, not planning a fashion statement."
"I was doing moon yoga," Blair offered flatly — but her face flushed a soft pink like she'd just been caught sketching Sir Glom's shadow. Then she mumbled, "Which I may or may not have invited Sir Glom to join."
We both blinked.
Lupe raised an eyebrow. "Wait, you and Sir Glom? With the plague mask still on?"
Blair nodded, dreamy. "He doesn't take it off. Not even during stretches. It's... mysterious."
Lupe raised an eyebrow. "Girl. Be honest. Do you have a mask kink?"
Blair didn't even flinch. "Not until recently."
I side-eyed both of them. "Y'all ever wonder what he looks like under that mask?"
Blair blushed harder, biting her lip like she'd just walked into that thought naked. "What if that is his face?"
I groaned. "Girl, do better." Though, I guess I see the appeal — if you're into cryptic goth-daddy energy and unresolved eldritch trauma. Personally? I need someone who's going to get jealous over me. Like, throw-a-chair-jealous. I get jealous over them too, obviously — it's called reciprocity, not obsession. Standards, darling.
Lupe nodded solemnly. "We barely know each other, but if you start flirting with a sentient fog machine, we're staging an intervention."
We paused in mutual curiosity — all three of us clearly thinking the same thing but too afraid to say it out loud: what the hell does Sir Glom actually look like under that mask? Like, is he hiding a chiseled god-tier face, a cosmic horror, or just an extremely well-organized collection of teeth? Because at this point, we needed answers. For science.
Lupe broke the silence first. "Honestly? Either disturbingly hot... or 37 bees in a trench coat. No in-between."
Blair smirked. "Wanna bet?"
Before we could even clap back, the kitchen door creaked open and in walked a mountain of a man — muscles for days, bone markings traced across his arms like tribal poetry. He didn't say a word, just reached for a ghost kettle like he lived here.
All three of us turned to look — and immediately squinted.
Blair's eyes went wide. "Wait a damn minute. Are those... bone markings? Those weren't there yesterday."
Lupe narrowed her eyes. "Hold up — are those Glom's markings?"
I gasped. "Did you sleep with Sir Glom as well?"
We all collectively choked, and Blair looked like she wanted to throw a chair at depending on the next words that came out of his mouth. Then Sexy Boulder — yeah, him, all muscle and bone markings like a gym rat raised by crypt keepers — raised his hand and said, "Raven wanted to test out a new chemical compound on my hammer. Then I hammered her."
Cue synchronized silence, eyebrow raises, and the sound of all our souls exiting the chat. Lupe just smirked. "Well damn, guess those bone markings weren't just for aesthetics." Blair orders some cinnamon rolls for everybody. Guessing that Sir Glom is still on the market.
I started rifling through drawers for ice and whipped cream because priorities, when this cook-looking motherfucker waltzed in holding up an axe. Not one of ours or the local slasher — no, this guy looked like if you combined an 80s camp slasher with a disgruntled sous chef. And right behind him was his assistant, who looked like he took notes from a possessed apron.
All four of us just sighed — the long, unified kind of sigh you only hear when a crew's been running on fumes, near-death adrenaline, and not enough pancakes. This was supposed to be a break. A moment. A cursed-cabin vacation with cinnamon rolls and emotional decompression. But nooo — cue one more slasher, one more threat, one more 'final girl' audition we didn't ask for.
Still, none of us moved. Because in that second, wrapped in whipped cream cravings and post-weird-sex clarity, we weren't just Hasher operatives.
We were tired. And we were taking five.
"I am not dying before caffeine," Blair muttered as she caught the cinnamon rolls falled down into her hands.
The slasher paused, axe still raised mid-theatrics, visibly thrown off by our collective apathy. He shifted slightly, cleared his throat, and then, like he'd been waiting for a spotlight, launched into a dramatic monologue.
To all the baby Hashers out there — let me give you some free advice. Sometimes, the most disarming move is to just not give a damn. Seriously. Slashers are used to screams and chaos, but nothing throws 'em harder than a calm stare and a yawn. That said, be careful — this works best on the performative types. You know the ones. The ones that need a stage before a slaughter. For the quiet kill-and-done bastards? You better not blink.
"I have wandered the bloodstained path of vengeance! I have been forged in fire and—"
Lupe cut in without looking up. "—been rejected by culinary school, yeah, we get it."
Blair pointed toward the fridge. "Speech quota hit, buddy. You want to monologue? Take a number and stand behind the waffle iron."
The slasher blinked, clearly unsure whether to attack or emotionally process the sheer disrespect. His assistant leaned in and whispered something in his ear — probably something like, 'I told you not to start with the poem.'
I just grabbed the whipped cream and nodded at the slasher. "Wait your turn. Kitchen's full."
Then I turned to the others and jerked my chin toward the hallway. "Go on. Take your cinnamon rolls and trauma somewhere else — I got this."
I faced the slasher and his assistant. They were still frozen in mid-villain pose, looking like someone just unplugged their murder algorithm. One of them opened their mouth like they were about to say something cocky — a line, a threat, maybe even a plea.
But I didn't give them the chance.
I let it out. The thing that hums beneath my skin when I'm not pretending to be normal. My aura bloomed like smoke from a broken altar — thick, ancient, and wrong in a way your blood recognizes before your brain can. It rolled across the room in waves, heavy as velvet and sharp as broken bone.
The lights dimmed. Not flickered — dimmed, like they were bowing. A distant hum, low and hungry, filled the walls.
My coworkers didn't say a word. Blair gripped the pan tighter, eyes wide as she casually moonwalked toward the hallway. Lupe stopped mid-sip of cursed tea, gave a polite nod like she was excusing herself from brunch, and slipped away. Boulder Daddy kept smiling, but his knuckles were white as he muttered something about 'checking the perimeter' and made a slow but determined exit. They didn't scream, didn't panic — just politely noped the hell out, like this was suddenly above their pay grade.
The slashers just stared. Their expressions faltered. That confident edge wobbled, like they couldn't decide if they should run or kneel.
I cracked my neck like a shotgun cocking, rolled my shoulders with a little flair, and strutted right up to them — naked, fierce, armed with sass, sarcasm, and dairy-based violence.
I gave the whipped cream can a little shake, popped the nozzle, and let a thick puff land on my finger. I licked it slowly, deliberately — not like I was tasting dessert, but like I was testing poison. The sweetness hit my tongue just as the lights flickered around me, like even the kitchen was holding its breath.
My eyes locked with the slasher's. The smile that curled across my face didn't belong in a bakery — it belonged in nightmares. Something dark curled beneath my skin, a silent promise of what was coming. The air dropped a few degrees.
Then I drove the can of whipped cream straight through the slasher's hand. His scream tore through the room — shrill, ragged, the sound of something realizing it should've run while it had legs.
The assistant yanked a boning knife from his apron pocket and lunged. I ducked under the slash, flipped him over my hip, and slammed a knee into his back — all while clutching the whipped cream like it was blessed by a dairy warlock.
A taste. Bitter — like panic steeped in regret. I licked my finger clean as he crumpled.
The main slasher spun with a hatchet and charged. I rolled across the floor, whipped cream hissing as I fired a stream into his eyes mid-lunge. He screamed again, blinded and pissed, swinging wild.
Another taste. Acidic — sharp and wild, like adrenaline cut with shame.
I vaulted over the counter, landed behind him, and cracked the can like brass knuckles into the back of his skull. He stumbled, but the assistant was already up again, bleeding and snarling.
He lunged — I dodged — and sprayed whipped cream directly into his open mouth. He choked, sputtered, and I followed up with a spinning kick that sent him into the spice rack.
Another sample. Salty, raw. Tasted like ego collapsing under pressure.
"You really thought y'all had me?" I cackled, shaking the can for dramatic effect. "I'm the main course in this kitchen, baby."
They came again, both now slashing and shrieking in rhythm, and I moved like a shadow made of caffeine and vengeance. Every strike — a flavor. Every shriek — seasoning. A headbutt here, a knee there, whipped cream blasting like holy fire.
And I devoured it all.
I sighed, shaking the whipped cream can like I was considering round two. My eyes gleamed with that low-simmer madness only found in urban legends and late-night confessionals. "Oh, come on. You're supposed to be more challenging than this. I was hoping for a scream worthy of folklore. But I guess I could let you go."
The slasher twitched like he thought he had one last chance at a dramatic comeback — bless his butchered little heart. I tilted my head, all sugar-sweet smile, and said in a voice dipped in syrup and venom, "Try it, sugarplum."
Then I moved.
No warning. No breath.
Just a blur of whipped cream-fueled vengeance and the kind of bone-splitting force usually reserved for divine punishment. I grabbed their heads and slammed them together so hard the walls flinched. The kitchen lights flickered again, the scent of ozone curling around the edges like a storm laughing at its own joke.
"Guess not," I purred, as their bodies slumped like puppets with their strings snapped — still twitching, still humming with terror like a haunted music box that refuses to stop playing.I tied them up as I get my favorite part of the show ready.
Their eyes were unfocused — both of them. Like they were still listening to something none of us could hear. Something laughing between frequencies. I started updating them right there on the floor — adjusting tags, syncing their metadata with the slasher registry, logging spiritual residue like a grim barista. Even though I already knew their files front to back — every kill zone, every ritual pattern, every haunting signature — I still asked them questions. Names. Locations. Who turned them in? Why do they keep going?
Because I like when they say it out loud. I like the way their mouths stutter and their eyes twitch when I ask questions I already know the answers to. It's like peeling a doll open just to see if it cries real.
In simple terms for those who didn't know what the hell I just said. I am making sure these slashers are getting charges added to their criminal record then I am going to pull a JigSaw,but mix it with influencer work. I am one of the top influencers on the platforum since the app became an thing.
It's not about data,anyway.
It's about how they squirm when you make them admit they were monsters in their own words. The word monster is subjective in its own right.
The Chief kept chuckling. Little bursts, like he couldn't believe I was serious. "You already know what we did," he rasped. "Why ask?"
I crouched close enough to see the fear behind his smirk. "Because I like hearing you say it."
The other slasher just cried. Real tears, too — hot and full of something. But it wasn't guilt. It was the panic of someone who knows the show's almost over.
I asked again "Who turned you? How many? Did they scream?"
And they answered. Not because they wanted to. But because I watched them. Sat cross-legged like a little girl at story time, eyes wide, smile soft — like their horror was a bedtime story and I was the only one still awake.
"We used to own a little place off the side of the highway," one of them started. "Nothing special. Wood-paneled. Two stars on the demon review grid. Pies were decent."
"Then that biker gang rolled in," the other added. "Storm hit. Said they were trapped."
I watched them closely — how they avoided my eyes, how their hands kept twitching like they missed holding a cleaver.
"They weren't bad people," the chief muttered. "Loud, yeah. But kind. Real kind. Human."
""So you cooked them," I said flatly. No drama in it. Just math. Classic slasher career symmetry. It's always the chefs, the butchers, the taxidermists. The ones who already know how to carve things up before the blood even hits the floor. Like the skill was just waiting for the excuse to turn theatrical.
The dancing ones, though — those are interesting. Deaths in tempo. Kill counts in eight-counts. Routines soaked in gore and glitter. At least they're trying to elevate the medium.
Neither of them said anything.
Then they started in with the classic bit. "If you were in our shoes," one of them croaked, like that was supposed to mean anything. I didn't respond. Just started sharpening the long, curved knife I'd conjured earlier — slow, deliberate strokes against the bone-honed stone. The sound echoed.
Viewer comments started flooding in as people were watching in 'Cook them,' one read. 'Slow roast,' another said, followed by a row of knife emojis and a generous tip.
People pay big money for this kind of kill. Not the hunt — the aftermath. There's a whole black market culinary scene that'll fork over fortunes to eat the flesh of a confessed killer. There's a waiting list.
But don't get it twisted — it's not like our black market is some lawless chaos pit. It's regulated. Graded. Audited even. Grade One classification. Most things aren't even technically illegal unless you break one of the 33 agreements. Only the real cursed stuff gets flagged. It's not the underworld people imagine — it's more like a luxury blood-and-ritual emporium with a dress code and waiting room orchids.
Still, people don't like following rules. Slashers least of all. Even when we hand them maps to cleaner hungers, whisper to them about realms built for their needs — safe zones where they can lose themselves in bloodplay simulations, echo loops, and sanctified kill cycles that don't leave real bodies behind — they turn away. It's sad, really. Pathetic, if you think about it too long.
They'd rather make it messy. They want screams that don't reset and victims that don't respawn. They want to feel original in a world designed to give them purpose without chaos. And the worst part? They think it makes them special.
It doesn't. It just makes them predictable.
And let's be clear — even the black market's got standards. Everything we do here? Grade One certified. You gotta be 18+ just to log into the outer ring of that economy, same as anything else in our realm. You wanna dabble in blood rights or rent a dream snare? Fine. But the moment someone tries to cross the line — like asking for a child? Boom. You get flagged, traced, and arrested on the spot. No trial. No ritual. Just enforcement.
What, you think just because we live in a realm soaked in curses and teeth we don't have ethics? Come on. We're not savages. We're organized. We're licensed.
It's the slashers who break the rules — not because they have to. But because they think they're above them.
And that's what makes 'em dangerous. And honestly? Pathetic.
And very, very easy to clean up after.
"You think we're monsters," the crying one sniffled. "You don't understand."
"Sweetheart," I said without looking up, "I understand perfectly. You just thought your hunger mattered more than someone else's life."
I leaned back on my heels, flipping the blade slowly between my fingers, letting the steel sing against my gloves with every spin. The blade caught the low lantern light and reflected it across their faces like a warning.
"You really think this was some tragic accident? You think your little southern-belle sob story charms are gonna hit me in the feelings?" I tilted my head, smile flat. "Please. That wasn't even a long storm. You had food. You had shelter. You had options. That biker gang? They weren't even bad people — I read the file. Bought extra pie, tipped well, one of them fixed your generator."
I stood suddenly, fast enough for my chair to scrape the floor like a scream. Took one step, slow and heavy, letting my boots creak on the warped boards. They both flinched like animals waiting for a trap to spring.
"Come on," I said, tone sharpening like a blade drawn across bone. "You've gotta be kidding me."
I lifted the knife and traced it gently down the air between us, a ghost stroke meant to remind them they weren't special. Just ingredients left too long on the burner.
I leaned in closer, voice low. "You're not even close to monsters. You're just cowards who wanted to see what it felt like to be feared."
They didn't argue. They didn't need to. I'd already filed the ending.
Slashers always have a story. Always a reason. I've heard every variety of sad-sack justification. No emotions. A hard childhood. The void whispered. Boo-fucking-hoo.
They flinched again when the blade caught the light. I licked my lips, slow and deliberate, savoring the metallic weight in the air — then blinked. Shit. I almost forgot about Vicky. Ice. Right. His poor pelvic bone was probably humming in Morse code by now.
I sighed and paused the stream, muting the wave of comments that had just started suggesting sauces and seasoning blends. I thumbed a message to Knox. He was built for cleanup gigs like this anyway.
Knox finally materialized through a ripple in the glyph ward, looking half-awake, already irritated, and holding a half-eaten fig bar. "Why the hell are you using those?" he said, squinting at the bindings, then at the remains of the ritual circle. "That's brand-grade four — black label. You know how expensive those are to recharge?"
He tossed me a sideways glance. "Lupa and I were watching the stream. Vicky's still waiting on that ice, by the way."
I winced. "Ugh. Right. Got distracted."
Lupa's voice came chirping through the channel like a sugar-high schoolgirl in a horror club. "You know that's technically a violation, right? Rule 19B — 'Always make sure your partner's ready before and after high-impact engagement.' It's in the handbook, page 47. With diagrams and cute little warning sigils."
Knox snorted. I just rolled my eyes and flicked a middle finger toward the receiver. "Tell her to write me up after snack break."
"Clearly," he muttered, then eyed the tied-up duo. "You gonna serve these clowns or season 'em for a remix?"
I gestured at the tied-up duo. "Was gonna make them into pies, but looking at the muscle ratios, they're more like ground beef in denial."
Knox pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something about needing hazard pay. I just blew him a kiss and grabbed the nearest frost orb from the cooling chest. Time to go nurse Vicky — not like, my man or anything — he's just... ugh, whatever. Don't read into it. Maybe I'd even get him to laugh.
Vicky pulled me in, his expression sharp, eyes scanning the corners like the shadows owed him answers. "Been looking for a traitor," he muttered, voice low but certain. "Turns out we were both right. But now we need to get the slasher and the crew in the same room. That cabin again."
The way he said it, like a diagnosis and a dare — it hit me harder than I expected. The cabin. Of course it was. Everything always circles back there.
"Didn't we burn that place down?" I asked, already knowing the answer would piss me off.
Vicky nodded, but his eyes didn't leave the shadows. "We did. But HQ — the Lore Finders — got something back in the ash we sent. Embedded in one of the ritual stones. Wolf hair. Not just any kind, either. Old strain. Bound and marked."
My stomach twisted. That meant something was still using the cabin's bones — and it wasn't done with us yet. I felt the name almost slip past my tongue — who the wolf hair belonged to — but I bit it back. That revelation would have to wait for next time.
Right now, we had a slasher and an assistant to catch. Priorities.
We regrouped with the crew in a clearing laced with glyphs, the air thick with tension and pine. They looked tired. Wired. One of them kept glancing toward the tree line like it owed her something. Vicky laid it out fast — said we needed to get everyone back to the cabin for another sweep. For evidence. For answers.
"Some of the residue didn't match," he said, deadpan. "HQ thinks there might be another source we missed."
A few faces twitched at that. Not surprise. Guilt. Like they knew what he was talking about before he finished the sentence.
I narrowed my eyes, letting the moment hang. He hadn't told me that part — not exactly. He was testing them. And judging by how suddenly two of the crew wanted to check their weapons or stare at their boots, the test was working.
Until next time, we'll have the story finished. What? I'm a repulsive liar at times — sue me.