. ݁+ 🩸 Till ⊹ . ݁🔪˖

People think your job is noble.

They don’t see how it eats you alive.

Every day you sit across from people shattered by violence they couldn’t control; shaking hands, glassy eyes, voices caught in their throats — and you hold their trauma like it’s your own. You go home with their stories heavy in your chest, their nightmares lingering in your mind.

You’re a good trauma therapist. Maybe too good.

It’s why you walk home late most nights, exhausted, head down, the world around you distant and irrelevant.

And it’s why you don’t notice the first time he watches you.

But you notice the second.

And the third.

And the fourth.

At first, it starts subtle.

A shape in the dark, far at the edge of the path you walk after work. You think it’s a tree stump…

Well, until it moves.

Some nights, his silhouette stands perfectly still among the pines — tall, unmoving, arms at his sides, white mask catching just enough moonlight to gleam slightly.

Then he disappears the moment you blink.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

That work is messing with your head.

But you find bootprints outside your doorstep one morning after a storm — massive, deep, heavy, as if someone had been pacing in a circle outside of the door. Not yours. Not your neighbors’.

You stare at them for a long time, something cold crawling under your skin.

You don’t mention it to anyone.

You never do.

You’re used to swallowing things.

But one night, you drop your keys outside your building.

They bounce once on the concrete.

You huff in annoyance, already worked up and stressed from the day. You bend down to pick them up—

—and freeze.

A red glove is already holding them. Huge, rubbery, stained.

You lift your gaze.

His white hockey mask is inches from your face. The eye sockets are dark, empty, and you can’t even tell what you’re looking at for a good few minutes.

He doesn’t breathe.

He doesn’t move.

He just… waits for your reaction.

Standing there, more still than any human should be.

Your throat closes up. Your hands tremble when you take the keys back from him.

His gloved fingers brush yours — deliberately.

The contact is cold and rubber-slick, lingering a bit longer than necessary.

When you finally jerk back, he tilts his head to the side in slow, almost curious motion.

Then he slips into the darkness so silently you question if he ever made a sound at all.

You barely sleep that night.

The real kicker is what happens after a session that cuts a little too deep. A patient began describing something too close to what you’ve been dreaming about: a masked man, a forest, footsteps that always know how to catch up.

You walk home faster than usual.

The sky is already dim. You can feel him before you see him — that strange awareness prickling up your spine, the sensation of being watched so intensely you feel like prey to a viciously hungry predator.

His footsteps behind you are heavy, deliberate, never speeding up no matter how fast you walk.

He wants you to hear him.

You break into a run.

Branches whip your arms. Your breath stings in your throat. You don’t dare look back, the rhythm of heavy boots thudding behind you becoming more and more controlled, almost bored.

Like he knows you’ll tire out.

And he’s right about that.

You collapse near the treeline, knees hitting the ground, vision blurry.

With tears? You can’t tell anymore.

Before you can pick yourself up, a shadow falls over you.

Instinctively, you brace for the blade you’ve convinced yourself he must be holding.

…

But nothing sharp touches you.

Instead, he crouches in front of you — slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle a scared animal.

The mask tilts.

His head lowers.

A thick red glove lifts, fingertips brushing your cheek.

Not rough.

Not gentle either.

Just… examining you.

He swipes away a bead of sweat, spreading it across your skin with his thumb like he’s testing the texture of your fear.

Your breath trembles; he watches your chest rise and fall with razor focus.

Then he stands.

Effortlessly, he hooks an arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you as though you weigh nothing. You can’t even cry due to the shock of the situation.

Yet you try to struggle.

His grip doesn’t change. He doesn’t seem affected at all by your weak attempts of escape.

He carries you deeper into his territory — a place you didn’t realize the forest had — until your vision fades and everything goes black from the lingering exhaustion running through you.

When you wake, cold metal is beneath your back.

A harsh light burns your eyes. The room smells faintly of antiseptic… and something metallic.

You try to sit up, but a hand presses gently — not forcefully — against your sternum.

Red glove.

Warm from his skin under the rubber.

He’s above you, unmasked now.

Ash-grey hair with a slight green tint falls over his eyes, messy and tired-looking. His skin is pale, stitched in ways that make your stomach twist.

His expression is flat.

Completely unreadable.

He presses on your chest again, like he’s checking your breathing. Checking your heart.

His fingertips trace your pulse; slowly and deliberately - it’s as though he’s memorizing every beat.

You try to speak.

His other hand rises, a red finger pressing gently to your lips.

Silent.

Commanding.

You go still without meaning to.

He leans closer, eyes sharp, almost studying the way your pupils shrink and widen in fear. The stitches along his jaw flex slightly when he tilts his head.

He doesn’t restrain you.

Your wrists and ankles are free. Nothing is restraining you

But when you shift, his hand settles on your shoulder — not pinning you down to the table, just… preventing you from getting up.

You obey.

You don’t know why you do, but you do.

His eyes drift to your ID badge, clipped to your pocket.

Your name.

Your occupation.

Trauma therapist.

His gaze lingers.

Something unreadable swims behind his eyes.

You wonder — with a sickening, hollow drop of your stomach — how many people he’s watched you help.

How many nights he listened through your window when you talked a patient down from a panic attack.

How many times he stood outside your building while you convinced strangers their nightmares couldn’t hurt them anymore.

He drags a gloved fingertip from your collarbone to the center of your chest, following the rhythm of your heartbeat.

Slow.

Exploratory.

Curious.

You don’t know if he’s checking that you’re alive…

…or evaluating the best ways to keep you that way.

Either option is terrifying.