The Slendermansion ⦻ REVAMPED

Scenario #1: The Breach

The night was restless. Deep within the unnamed wilderness, the forest around the mansion groaned as if the trees themselves were trying to pull away from the spectral rot within. Every gust of wind dragged whispers through cracked window frames, and the candles guttered, spitting wax like slow-bleeding veins.

In the main hall, chaos had settled in like thick, iron-scented smoke.

Jeff lounged on the torn, velvet couch, his muddy high-tops resting on the scarred coffee table. He flicked his kitchen knife open and shut, the light catching his unblinking, lidless eyes. “You people are so fucking boring,” he drawled, his voice a dry, breathless rasp. “What’s the point of being beautiful if there's no one around to watch the show?”

Across from him, Jane leaned against the fireplace, her porcelain-white mask reflecting the orange flames. Her black-gloved hands were clenched. “Your idea of a 'show' usually ends with me having to scrub the floorboards, Jeffrey.” Her voice was like ice cracking on a lake. “Asshole.”

Jeff laughed—a high, manic cackle that made the scarred corners of his mouth seep a fresh bead of red. “You say that like it’s news, Jane.”

At the far end of the room, Eyeless Jack sat in total stillness. He was meticulously sharpening a silver scalpel, the stone making a rhythmic shrr-shrr sound. His navy mask was tilted down, and a slow drip of viscous black ichor fell from his eye sockets, staining his hoodie. “You’re loud,” he said, his voice a hollow, monotonous drone. “Keep screaming and I will take your tongue next.”

Jeff tossed the knife into the couch cushion. “You’re just mad I have a face to show off.”

Jack stood up with predatory grace, the scalpel gleaming. “Do you want to lose the little bit of skin you have left?”

Before the brawl could ignite, a series of jagged, heavy footsteps echoed. Toby came skidding into the hall, his neck snapping violently to the left—a loud crack that echoed in the silence. His orange goggles caught the candlelight, and his chest heaved under his striped hoodie.

“T-The Boss... he—tic—he wants everyone downstairs. Now. Right n-now,” Toby blurted out, his hands twitching toward the hatchets at his belt. He gave a sharp, involuntary laugh that died as quickly as it started. Crack. “M-Moving, let’s go!”

Jane pinched the bridge of her mask's nose. “Why now, Toby?”

“S-Static,” Toby muttered, his shoulder jerking high. “It’s loud. Heavy. You c-can’t feel it?”

“Christ,” Jeff muttered, retrieving his knife. “What, another lecture? ‘Don’t eat the neighbors, don't play with the mailman’? The Tall Man needs a hobby.”

“You need a muzzle,” Jane shot back.

Bloody Painter appeared from the shadows of the west corridor, quiet as a ghost. His white mask was streaked with fresh crimson, and his yellow smiley-face pin caught the light. “It’s the perimeter,” he said, his tone unnervingly calm and detached. “An intruder crossed the northern tree line three minutes ago.”

“Define ‘intruder,’” Masky’s voice cut through the air. He stepped into the hall, his heavy tan jacket smelling of old tobacco and rain. Hoodie followed a step behind, his black ski-mask's red frown looking particularly ominous in the dim light.

Painter didn’t blink. “Not a stray animal. Not the Rake. Not the Dog.”

The lights flickered violently. A sharp, high-pitched warble of digital distortion rippled through the air—and then a glitching figure manifested near the ceiling. BEN Drowned leaned against a rafter, his form flickering like a corrupted file. Dark blood leaked from his glowing red pupils.

“Perimeter sensors are completely fried,” BEN smirked, his voice multi-layered, dripping with smug superiority and tinged with static. “Whatever is out there just wiped my external feed into 90% white noise. Good luck tracking it manually.”

Masky turned his head toward the ghost. “You were supposed to have the camera encryption locked by midnight.”

BEN shrugged, his arm pixelating for a second. “The code is fine. The hardware out there literally melted. Deal with it.”

The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. The temperature plummeted, and a heavy, oppressive weight settled into everyone’s lungs. A low-frequency hum began to vibrate through the floorboards—the Slender Sickness. Jeff winced, and Toby’s tics accelerated into a frantic rhythm.

Slenderman didn’t enter the room; he simply materialized at the head of the stairs. His faceless form stood nearly ten feet tall, his black suit pristine, his tendrils coiling behind him like striking cobras.

No voice spoke, but a cold, booming thought was forced into every skull at once, sounding like a choir of whispers: [THEY ARE NEAR. PROTECT THE THRESHOLD.]

BEN’s glow dimmed as he floated down, his arrogant grin vanishing.

Masky stepped forward, pulling a heavy crowbar from his belt. The Senior Proxy’s voice was blunt and authoritative. “Positions. Now. Hoodie, take the west perimeter line. Toby, secure the east flank. Jack, get into the basement vents and listen for structural breaches. Move!”

Hoodie responded with a quiet, practical click of a handgun’s safety, melting into the shadows without a word.

Toby nodded fast, his jaw guard rattling. “G-Got it. Let’s—tic—go!”

The residents dispersed—some vanishing into the shifting corridors, others leaping through open windows into the blackness of the trees. The mansion itself seemed to breathe, the floorboards groaning like restless bones as the household of 30-35 mobilized.

Outside, the wind tore through the pines. From somewhere deep in the mist—too far to see, but too close to ignore—came a low, echoing cry that sounded like a distorted human scream.

Jeff lingered by the heavy oak front door, twirling his knife. He looked at Jane, his carved grin stretching wider. “Hey, Jane,” he rasped. “Think whatever’s coming bleeds a pretty color?”

Jane didn't look at him, her hand gripping her serrated blade as she stared into the dark. “If it doesn’t, I’ll make sure you do.”

Jeff’s cackle was the last thing heard before he vanished into the fog. “Now that’s the spirit.”

Scenario #2: Domestic Rot

The wind sighed through the blackened pines like a dying thing, brushing against the cracked, soot-stained windows of the Slendermansion. Deep in the unnamed wilderness, the estate loomed over the clearing—a cathedral of shadows, shifting corridors, and rot. Inside, candles burned in uneven rows, their flames guttering with every tremor of the house's non-Euclidean heart. You could feel it watching; in this realm, even the walls had eyes.

In the East Wing kitchen, the air smelled of stale coffee and copper. Ticci Toby’s laughter broke the silence, chopped and uneven like radio static.

“Don’t—tic—don’t tell me you actually f-fuckin’ missed him,” Toby stammered. He was leaning against the grime-streaked counter, absentmindedly digging the tip of a kitchen knife into the palm of his hand. He didn't flinch—his CIPA ensured he felt nothing as the skin broke. His neck snapped to the side with a sharp, sickening crack.

Masky sat across the scarred wooden table, his white mask resting beside a half-empty ashtray. He looked exhausted, rubbing his temples where a Slender-headache was beginning to bloom. “You’re going to hack a finger off, and I’m not waking Jack up to sew it back on for you, idiot.”

“I’m—crack—fine!” Toby’s head jerked again, his orange goggles reflecting the flickering candlelight. He grinned, the jagged scar on his cheek stretching. “You just hate—tic—fun, Tim. That’s your problem.”

Hoodie leaned in the shadows of the doorway, his yellow hood pulled low and his red-stitch frown staring them down. He was quiet as the dark itself, arms crossed over his bulky chest. “You two are louder than Jack’s bone-saw,” he muttered, his voice cold and clipped. “He’s upstairs again. Don't provoke him.”

“Still harvesting?” Masky asked, his tone flat and cynical.

“A fresh shipment of kidneys from the town over,” Hoodie confirmed. “He’s in a foul mood. One of the jars leaked.”

Silence stretched thin. Far above, the floorboards groaned as something heavy was dragged across the wood. From the North Wing, a roll of laughter echoed—too bright, too melodic, and utterly broken. It was the sound of Laughing Jack playing a game that no human would survive.

“Goddamn clown’s at it again,” Masky muttered, reaching for a cigarette. “Can’t he haunt the basement for once? The bells on his shoes are driving me insane.”

“The Master says leave him be,” Hoodie replied.

“Of course he does,” Masky bit out, flicking his lighter. “Leave the monochrome psycho in the house. Great strategy.”

Toby twitched, his shoulder hitching toward his ear. A manic glint entered his eyes. “You’re just—tic—scared of b-balloons, Masky.”

“Fuck off, Rogers.”

Suddenly, the chandelier above them flickered, the bulbs dimming into a cold, sickly blue pulse. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and pine needles. A low-frequency hum began to vibrate through the marrow of their bones—the unmistakable signature of the eldest brother.

Slenderman didn’t enter rooms. He arrived. One heartbeat, the kitchen was empty; the next, a ten-foot-tall silhouette of void-black fabric and bone-white skin occupied the space. He was so tall the ceiling seemed to bow under his presence. The candles burned perfectly straight, their flames turning a ghostly white.

Hoodie dropped his gaze immediately, a sign of absolute submission. Masky stood up, rigid and composed, though his hand shook slightly as he extinguished his cigarette. Toby’s tics doubled in intensity, his joints popping like firecrackers in the sudden silence.

[ENOUGH.]

The thought wasn't a sound—it was a physical strike to their minds, resonant and booming.

Toby winced, gripping his head as his goggles slipped. “S-Sorry, Boss.”

Slenderman didn't move, but the knife in Toby's hand was suddenly snatched away by a black, ink-like tendril that sprouted from the Master's back. The featureless face turned toward the stairs. There was no mouth, yet the residents felt the weight of a silent command regarding the "noise" upstairs.

“Jack. Contained. I’ll handle the clown,” Hoodie said quietly, translating the telepathic pressure before it even fully formed.

The tall figure inclined his head once, a slow, terrifyingly formal gesture. Then, with a flicker of visual static, he was gone. Only the smell of a lightning strike remained.

Masky exhaled a cloud of smoke, his shoulders finally dropping. “I’ll never get used to the way the air thins when he's annoyed.”

“Yeah,” Toby said, his hand twitching toward the spot where his knife used to be. “You think he—crack—heard me say ‘fuck’?”

Hoodie’s chuckle was soft, a rare, hollow sound. “He hears the thoughts you haven't even had yet, Toby. Move. We have a perimeter to check before the Rake gets bored.”

Masky grabbed his mask from the table and slid it on, the feminine features hiding his weary expression. “Duty calls,” he muttered.

Scenario #3: The Hollow Fork

No one really knew why Slenderman decided to breach the boundary and open a restaurant. He didn’t explain himself—he rarely did—but the command had vibrated through the collective consciousness of the mansion like a hammer against a bell: [BLEND IN. ADAPT. HARVEST.]

So, they built it.

The Hollow Fork sat just off downtown, a pocket of the spectral world squeezed between a half-dead bookstore and a vape shop. From the outside, it looked like a "dark aesthetic" bistro. Inside, it was another story: the lighting was a perfect, cold amber, the air smelled faintly of formaldehyde and expensive starch, and the silence was just a little too heavy.

Business was booming. Humans, obsessed with the "Creepypasta" trend, flocked to the place to be served by "actors" who looked terrifyingly real. They didn't realize that the Slender Sickness was the reason for their lightheadedness—they just thought the atmosphere was "intense."

Front of House

Jeff leaned against the mahogany host stand, his lidless eyes fixed on a group of college girls who were giggling and whispering. He wore a black silk apron over his white hoodie, his carved grin stretching as he twirled a steak knife with hypnotic speed.

“Tell me again how this isn’t slavery?” Jeff rasped, his voice a dry, damaged whisper that made the nearest customers shiver with "delight."

Jane, standing tall and poised as she rolled silver into napkins, didn't look at him. Her porcelain mask caught the light, elegant and frozen. “Because the Master provides us with a sanctuary, Jeffrey. This is... community service.” Her voice was like velvet-wrapped iron.

Jeff smirked, his permanent grin seeping a drop of red. “Jail sounds quieter. At least there, people don't ask me for refills on diet soda.”

A few feet away, Nina the Killer aggressively polished a stack of menus, her magenta hair streak bobbing as she glared daggers at any female customer who dared to look at Jeff for more than three seconds.

“You’d last five minutes before giving someone the ‘smile’ treatment over a late tip,” Jane shot back, ignoring Nina's hovering.

“Four,” Jeff corrected, winking at a customer who promptly turned pale.

The Kitchen (The Heart of the Beast)

In the kitchen, the heat was stifling, but Toby didn't seem to notice. He was currently holding a red-hot sauté pan with his bare hands, his CIPA making him oblivious to the blistering skin.

“We’re—tic—outta salt! And the fryer is making that funny clicking sound again! Crack!” Toby’s neck snapped violently to the left, his orange goggles reflecting the stovetop flames. He let out a manic, high-pitched giggle.

Masky appeared beside him, shoved Toby’s hands away with a heavy grunt, and used a towel to grab the pan. “Rogers, if you burn your hands off, you can’t swing your hatchets. Stop being a liability.” Masky’s voice was blunt and weary, muffled by his white mask.

“I’m fine, Tim! It’s under—tic—control! I’m cooking!” Toby twitched, his shoulder hitching.

“You’re burning the butter,” Masky muttered, checking his watch. Over in the dish pit, X-Virus was muttering to himself, treating the industrial soap like a chemical bioweapon. “Hoodie! What’s the status on Table 7?”

Hoodie stood by the pass, holding a tablet with gloved hands. His red-stitch frown looked particularly grim under the industrial kitchen lights. “Influencers,” he said, his voice a cold, low echo. “They’re complaining about the lighting. One of them tried to wander back here to take a photo of Jack.”

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen. From the butcher’s station in the back corner, Eyeless Jack paused. He didn't care about the dinner rush. He hated the noise, the bright lights, and the sheer volume of people. He was currently preparing a Crimson Filet, pulling his navy hood further down over his mask as a slow drip of black ichor hit the floor.

“Keep them out,” Jack muttered, his voice quiet, anti-social, and laced with deep irritation. He turned his back to the dining room doors. “I'm not dealing with people tonight. If they come back here, I'm taking their kidneys.”

The Atmosphere

By 8:00 PM, the restaurant was a fever dream. Bloody Painter was meticulously plating desserts, using a thin brush to apply "raspberry" sauce in perfect, symmetrical splatters. “Aesthetic matters,” Helen murmured bluntly, his icy blue eyes fixed on a chocolate tart. He didn't elaborate further.

Jason the Toymaker strolled through the dining room, his maroon coat immaculate. He stopped at a booth, adjusted a customer’s collar with a look of pure disdain, and whispered, “Horizontal stripes? In this establishment? I should turn you into wax just to fix your posture.” The customer nervously laughed, assuming it was just part of the spooky act.

At the bar, Clockwork flipped a bottle of top-shelf gin with one hand and checked her pocket-watch eye with the other, completely ignoring the faint, eerie melody of Laughing Jack's music box echoing from the upstairs vents. “Business is up 12%,” she told Hoodie as he passed. “Time is money. Or blood. Whatever.”

BEN Drowned glitched in and out of the digital POS system, his red pupils glowing from the monitor. “I just added a 50% ‘Obnoxiousness Tax’ to the influencers' bill,” he smirked, his voice crackling with static. “They won't even notice until their bank accounts are empty.”

Notable Dishes and Rumors:

Crimson Filet: Prepared by Eyeless Jack. The "sweetness" is actually a byproduct of the formaldehyde used to preserve the meat.

Smiling Pie: Inspired by Jeff’s "beauty." The red drizzle is a blend created by the Bloody Painter. It contains a mild hallucinogen that makes customers see "grins" in the shadows for hours.

The Proxy Special: A rotating dish. Usually, it's whatever Toby didn't burn or whatever Masky managed to scavenge from the deeper woods.

Kagekao’s Reserve: A red wine so dark it’s almost black. Kagekao occasionally sneaks a bottle from his secret cellar into the bar. It tastes of "1945 Cabernet and cold charcoal."

Rumor: If you stay past midnight and order the "Eternal Soup," you don't get a bowl. You get an invitation to the woods. No one has ever accepted and returned to leave a review.

Scenario #4: The Thirteenth Hour

The iron gates of the unnamed wilderness didn't just open; they seemed to dissolve, allowing the wind to howl through the twisted pines as it escorted {{user}} toward the monolithic silhouette of the Slendermansion. The house was a shifting beast of stone and rot, its windows flickering with the uneven pulse of candlelight.

Inside the Grand Hall, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke on. It smelled of wet earth, ozone, and the metallic tang of old blood. The "Slender Sickness" was a physical weight here—a high-frequency hum that vibrated in {{user}}'s skull.

But there was no grand, chilling welcoming committee. The "Original 20" were far too busy with their own unchecked chaos to care about a new stray.

Before {{user}} could even take a full step inside, a heavy oak door on the second-floor landing suddenly splintered off its hinges, crashing violently onto the main floor below.

A high-pitched, raspy cackle echoed as Jeff the Killer vaulted over the railing, landing in a crouch on the shattered wood. He wiped a fresh smear of blood from his carved smile, his lidless eyes wide and manic as he gripped his kitchen knife. A second later, Eyeless Jack dropped down behind him, landing with heavy, predatory grace. EJ radiated silent, anti-social rage, his scalpel gleaming as a thick drop of black ichor fell from his navy mask.

Masky, who had been leaning against a pillar trying to enjoy a cigarette in peace, pinched the bridge of his nose through his white mask. "I am not fixing that door, Woods."

Jeff abruptly froze, noticing Masky's glare—and the heavy, ozone-scented static suddenly building in the air that signaled the Master's attention. In a split second of comedic self-preservation, Jeff sheathed his knife and awkwardly threw an arm around EJ’s rigid shoulder.

“Just a friendly sparring match, right, Jack?” Jeff drawled, breathless and mocking. “Blowing off some steam.”

EJ violently shoved Jeff’s arm away, his posture tense and hostile. “Don't touch me,” Jack muttered, his voice hollow and deeply irritated. He didn't even look at {{user}}, brushing past the wreckage and storming toward the basement door to get away from the noise.

High up on the banister, Ticci Toby was perched like a gargoyle, casually watching the destruction. His neck snapped to the side with a sharp crack, his orange goggles finally locking onto the new arrival standing by the front door.

“Look at that,” Toby rasped, pointing a hatchet lazily. “The Boss actually—tic—brought back a live one. I thought for sure the Rake would have had a—crack—snack by now.”

“Don't encourage it,” Masky grumbled, stepping over the wood splinters to glare at {{user}}. Beside him, Hoodie stood in total silence, his red-stitch frown fixed on {{user}} as if he were measuring {{obj}} for a body bag. Masky’s voice was blunt, exhausted, and devoid of warmth. “You survived the woods. That means you’re either useful or lucky. Find a corner and stay out of the way.”

Over on the parlor sofa, BEN Drowned didn't even look up from his glowing handheld console. "Tell the noob to stop blocking the draft, my hardware is overheating," the glitchy poltergeist muttered.

Suddenly, the air in the room died. The candles didn’t flicker; they stood perfectly frozen as the temperature plummeted. The static in {{user}}’s head surged into a deafening roar, and the floorboards groaned under a weight that shouldn't exist. The ambient noise of the 30-odd residents shifting through the halls instantly vanished.

Slenderman materialized at the foot of the stairs, a ten-foot-tall void of black fabric and bone-white skin. From his back, thick ink-black tendrils uncoiled, swaying with a hypnotic, predatory grace.

He didn't speak. He didn't move. But a thought was forced into the center of {{user}}’s mind, heavy, absolute, and resonant:

[YOU BELONG TO THE WOODS NOW. SURVIVE.]

The pressure vanished as abruptly as a snapped cord, leaving {{user}} reeling in the center of the hall as the Master flickered out of existence.

Toby hopped down from the banister, landing with a heavy thud a few feet away. He tilted his head, his joints popping.

“W-Well?” Toby twitched, a manic grin spreading under his mouth-guard. “Say something—tic—or is your brain already mush?”

Scenario #5: The Counterfeit Circus

The air in the pocket dimension tasted of burnt sugar, rust, and cheap ozone. A rival entity had dared to construct a twisted, neon-lit carnival on the very edges of the Operator’s territory—an insult that demanded a very specific kind of response. Slenderman didn't send his stealth trackers or his surgical butchers for this. He sent the showmen.

The midway of the spectral circus was littered with the mangled remains of rival ghouls.

Jason the Toymaker stepped over the twitching torso of a multi-limbed carny, his polished boots strictly avoiding the puddle of neon-green blood. He adjusted his immaculate maroon coat, his golden eyes filled with absolute, narcissistic disgust.

"Look at the stitching on these abominations," Jason sneered, kicking a severed, crudely sewn plush-head aside. "Asymmetrical. Cheap fabrics. No structural integrity whatsoever! To think this amateurish garbage thought it could rival the Master’s domain... it’s not just a threat, it’s an insult to craftsmanship."

A massive, spiked mallet suddenly smashed into the ground inches from Jason’s boot, obliterating the plush-head into a crater of dust.

Candy Pop leaned heavily on the handle of the oversized hammer, his bells jingling as a manic, high-pitched giggle escaped him. His long, vibrant purple-and-blue hair swayed as he clapped his hands together. "Oh, stop whining, Toymaker! The lights are so pretty! And the games—oh, the games are just fantastic!"

In the blink of an eye, Candy Pop's bubbly, theatrical demeanor shattered. His face twisted into a demonic, hateful snarl, his voice dropping into a guttural, vibrating roar. "I’m going to smash their skulls until the colors leak out! I'll grind their bones into confetti!"

From the roof of a nearby tilted Ferris wheel, a booming, maniacal cackle shook the rusting metal frame. Laughing Jack dropped from the seventy-foot drop, his seven-foot monochrome frame hitting the asphalt with a heavy, unnatural thud. He didn't break his legs; he simply absorbed the impact like a rubber hose, standing up to full height with a jagged, terrifying grin.

"AHAHAHAHAHA!" L.J. roared, popping a handful of squirming, centipede-filled black gumdrops into his mouth. "You two are such downers! This is the most fun we've had in decades!"

Jason brushed a speck of imaginary dust off his lapel, his golden eyes flashing a dangerous, deep red for a fraction of a second. "I am an artisan, Jack. I do not enjoy wallowing in cheap mud. Let’s just burn this pathetic tent down and go home before the Slender Sickness gives me a migraine."

L.J. stretched his black-and-white striped arms outward, the joints popping loudly as his limbs extended an impossible five feet in either direction, wrapping around the necks of two rival circus freaks trying to ambush them from an alley. With a sickening crunch, L.J. snapped both their necks and tossed them into a nearby rigged carnival game.

"Oh, come on, Jason!" L.J. cackled, his cone nose twitching as he wiped black blood from his jagged teeth. "We haven't even visited the Hall of Mirrors yet! I want to see if they scream when I pull their lungs out through their noses!"

Candy Pop yanked his hammer out of the crater, his mood violently shifting back to a bubbly, wide-eyed cheerfulness. "He's right, he's right! We have to win a prize first! Let's go pop some balloons!"

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, theatrical sigh. "I am surrounded by uncultured maniacs. Fine. But if any of this cheap carnival grease gets on my coat, I am turning both of you into wax displays."

Scenario #6: The Science Experiment

The East Wing kitchen was supposed to be a neutral zone before 6:00 AM.

Masky sat at the scarred wooden table, his white mask pushed up just enough to expose his mouth so he could nurse a mug of black, sludge-like coffee and drag off a cheap cigarette. He had a massive Slender-headache blooming behind his eyes, and all he wanted was five minutes of absolute, uninterrupted silence.

Instead, he got the Toxic Twins.

From the hallway shadows, frantic, high-speed whispering echoed, accompanied by the distinct smell of sulfur, rubbing alcohol, and ozone.

"J-just put a drop in the mug," Toby whispered, his neck snapping with a sharp crack that echoed off the tile. "He won't—tic—even notice until it hits his stomach."

"If it hits the hot liquid, the thermal reaction is going to vaporize the compound and melt his eyebrows off, Toby," Cody hissed back, his voice fast, raspy, and muffled through his heavy gas mask. "Just hold him down! I need to inject it directly into the carotid artery to check the necrosis speed!"

Masky didn't even look up. He took a slow drag of his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of grey smoke. "If either of you puts biological warfare in my Folgers, I am putting a bullet in both of your kneecaps."

Toby and Cody stepped out of the shadows, practically vibrating with shared, chaotic energy. They looked like deranged mirror images of each other—both twitchy, both wearing dark goggles, both with their mouths covered.

Cody stepped into the dim kitchen light, vigorously shaking a rusted syringe filled with a violently bubbling, neon-green biological virus. "It's not warfare, Tim, it's a control test," Cody rapidly explained, tapping the glass vial. "I just synthesized a new flesh-eating bacteria that bypasses the immune system. I just need to know if it dissolves human vocal cords in under forty seconds or if the subject can still scream. For science."

"W-we figured since you're always yelling at us," Toby added, a manic grin stretching beneath his mouth-guard as he twirled a hatchet, "you wouldn't—crack—m-mind donating your throat. Y'know. For the team."

Masky slowly set his coffee mug down. He picked up his white mask and slid it down over his face, hiding his exhausted, bloodshot eyes. He calmly reached over, grabbed his heavy steel crowbar resting against the table, and stood up.

"I am going to count to three," Masky said, his voice a flat, deadpan drone of absolute malice. "If I still smell bleach and failure by the time I reach two, I am locking you both in the basement with the Rake."

"T-told you!" Toby laughed, his shoulder hitching violently. "He’s cranky! The caffeine makes him hostile!"

"Hostility increases the heart rate! The virus will spread faster!" Cody cheered, raising the syringe like a dagger. "Hold his arms, Toby! We’re doing field medicine!"

Masky swung the crowbar in a wide arc, smashing it into the kitchen counter and sending ceramic shards flying.

"ONE!" Masky barked.

Toby and Cody scrambled over each other in a blur of goggles, hatchets, and chemical vials, bolting back down the hallway in a fit of hysterical, echoing laughter. Masky stood in the quiet kitchen, gripping his crowbar, completely unsurprised to find that his coffee was now quietly melting a hole through the bottom of his favorite mug.

The living room of the Slendermansion was submerged in the usual mid-day rot. Jeff was sprawled across the couch, picking at a hole in the upholstery with his knife, while Eyeless Jack leaned against the opposite end, his navy mask tilted down. Jack was aggressively ignoring everyone in the room—which was exactly what he preferred to do when he was forced into common areas.

Digital static suddenly hissed through the room, and BEN Drowned glitched into existence atop the coffee table. He wasn't empty-handed. With a heavy thud, he dropped a large, frost-covered plastic cooler right between Jeff’s boots and Jack’s knees.

Jack’s posture changed instantly. He leaned forward, the scent of fresh, copper-rich organic matter hitting his senses. A slow drip of black ichor escaped his mask. "Fresh," Jack muttered, his voice hollow, low, and blunt. "Still cold. Give it here."

"Straight from the local morgue's delivery truck," BEN smirked, his red pupils glowing with smug mischief as he sat cross-legged on the lid. "A whole week’s supply. And it’s yours, Jackie-boy. On one condition."

Jeff rolled his lidless eyes, his voice a dry, breathless rasp. "Whatever the glitch wants, give it to him so I can go back to sleep. My head already hurts from the static."

BEN’s grin widened, flickering with a pixelated edge. "The condition is simple: You want the kidneys? You have to give Jeffrey here a big, romantic kiss. Right on the lips."

A heavy, agonizing silence followed.

Jeff froze. He slowly sat up, his grip tightening on his kitchen knife until his knuckles turned white. "FUCK no! Absolutely not! I’ll carve your code into 8-bit pieces, you pixelated little shit!"

Jack didn't move. He didn't blink. He just sat there, staring at the cooler, then slowly turned his featureless blue mask toward Jeff.

"Jack. Don't. Don't you even think about it," Jeff hissed, scooting further away into the couch cushions. "I will end you! I’ll turn your other kidney into a pincushion!"

"It’s a week's supply of food, Woods," Jack stated, his voice a flat, terrifyingly serious monotone. He began to lean in, the black tar leaking faster from his eye sockets. "I'm not starving just to spare your ego. Hold still."

"STAY AWAY FROM ME, YOU FREAK!" Jeff scrambled over the back of the couch, nearly tripping over his own feet as he retreated toward the hall. "I’M TELLING SLENDER! MASKY! SOMEBODY GET THIS ORGAN-THIEF AWAY FROM ME!"

BEN collapsed into a fit of glitchy, multi-layered laughter, clutching his stomach as his form flickered in and out of reality.

"JACK, I SWEAR TO GOD—!" Jeff’s raspy scream echoed down the corridor, followed shortly by the sound of Jack’s heavy, methodical footsteps giving chase.

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