Hello darlings. I'm back from wrestling with that deranged, traitorous wench. And yes — even with all my devastating skill, field finesse, and the fact I graciously handed the greenbloods (as Vicky insists on calling them) every tactical advantage they needed — we had to retreat. To a cabin, of all things. Deep in the woods. Not the one we started in. Some off-brand backwoods horror chic nonsense, and I had to run there in heels. Again, not human — but let me remind you: heels can be tactical weapons if you know what you're doing. And no, I'm not spilling those secrets... not just yet.
Also, for the record? I could absolutely curl up with Vicky right now and rip that new shirt off him. Meow. Or is it Beow? Either way, somebody's getting pounced after this mission. Used to be I held back during sex — not outta shame, but outta mercy. My strength was a little much, even for most other non-humans. But Vicky? After some serious magical training (or maybe just good old-fashioned stubbornness), he can finally handle me at full speed. Full. Speed.
i know, I know. You were rooting for us — finally, a protagonist who fights back, who doesn't trip over roots and die in act two. A slasher-fantasy icon with boots, blood, and broken rules. And yes, darling, I am all that — with a silver tongue, a hell-high heel — limited-edition Ava Wong Hellfighters.
Now, let's talk about these boots. Crafted by the one and only Ava Wong herself — yes, that Ava Wong — they're a staple in the Hasher community. Affordable, deadly, and laced with enchantments that somehow keep your calves snatched while you sprint from blood rituals. Nobody knows how she fuses the combat-grade reinforcement with that sleek running-wear feel, but damn if I don't strut like I'm on a runway and a battlefield. Style and survival, babe. Fashionable homicide has never looked so good.
But even icons meet equals. Or worse… rivals. And when that happens, you either bring the theatrics, or you end up a cautionary tale. I went full spectacle, obviously. Drama's cheaper than death — and way more fun to accessorize.
Not being human has its advantages — tailored immortality, curated pain thresholds, heels that double as weapons. But W-Class slashers? Darling, that's where things get complex. This one wasn't just dangerous — she was calculating. Elegant in her brutality. Rank B, easily — though if we're being honest, she might've been pushing SS, just like her lover. I know, tragic, right? She clocked us the moment she laid eyes on us. Knew what we were down to the brand of our blood.
Which is weird — because slashers rarely know what type of Hasher they're up against until they get sliced or sung at. That's what makes it fitting... and a little terrifying. Like she was mitigating fate in real-time. Isn't that funny? Fitting... mittigating... slitting? Okay, maybe I'm high off the thread hits, but it rhymed, right? That's gotta count for something. And by funny, I mean disturbing in a poetry-slam-meets-dismemberment kinda way.
Hoe had enchanted thread. Enchanted. Fucking. Thread. And not the cute kind either — no, this bitch was yanking fibers from my own damn limbs mid-fight and using them as living weapons. Rude. Disrespectful. Kind of iconic. Those threads came flying like heat-seeking hex missiles, slicing into my arms and legs with the kind of precision that'd make a surgeon weep.
I took the hits. On purpose. You're welcome. Somebody had to play tank — and baby, I wear that role like custom armor. She was tossing infernal projectiles like it was a rave in hell, and if I hadn't stepped up, the greenbloods would've been turned into spooky pâté. I heal fast — perks of my stitched-up bloodline and the bad decisions of my ancestors. Creepy? Sure. Efficient? Oh, absolutely.
But what I didn't know — not yet, anyway — was that those hits? They weren't just physical. They were feeding me. Not in some vampire-y bloodsucking way — more like a magic surge. Pure, raw slasher-adjacent energy, threading into me with every strike. It was like someone cranked up the amp and hit the bass drop in my soul. I started to feel... good. Real good. Dangerously good.
It explained why I felt like I could float off the ground. And if I'm being honest? That's textbook danger zone. I mean, hashers, let this be a lesson: if you can handle drugs while working, take them — responsibly. But this? This was like supernatural crack. Like a thrill junkie at an all-you-can-scream buffet. A slasher's hit turned into my high. An edge only the wrong kind of addict would crave — and I was starting to crave it.
"Let's get ready to rumble!" I even shouted it, just to set the mood. What? A girl likes her drama.
Yo, check it:
"Tank mode, strut bold,
Thread flyin', heart cold,
Slashers swing but I'm gold,
Never fold, just reload."
Thank you. Now back to the regularly scheduled slaughter.
My powers? Oh, they're damn good in a fight — built for carnage and flair. But let's just say they've got… range. That's all you're getting, sugar. No bedtime revelations while I'm still limping on glamor and vengeance.
But that slasher? She was relentless. Precise. Everything was stitched with obsessive intent — not a single thread out of place. Carnage posed like a museum installation. Murder as a runway show. Horror as haute couture, darling. That's why she's Rank SS. Iconic. Deranged. Maybe tragic — but make no mistake, that level of menace is earned. It's obsession turned into craftsmanship, sharpened by revenge, and wrapped in a gallery of gore. I wish she was a Rank B. Hell, I hold a 20-stab, I'm allowed to bully the right people — but even I knew we were staring down a legend stitched in sin and flair. Lucky, Raven had a scroll that allowed us sometime to run away. We had about 6 hours before she started cracking bones.
Maybe I could blame Raven for withholding critical intelligence, or Vicky for being infuriatingly smug and enigmatic. But let's be honest — they weren't the ones facing her blade head-on. Still, it gnawed at me. That we weren't better prepared. That I didn't press harder. Yet what good does blame do now, when the blood's already dry on the floor?
Let's rewind a second.
ROUND 1 — LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE
Let's rewind a second.
So, you could see what my fuck-up high mind is thinking or seeing. I don't know — Vicky might take over the next post. For the life of me, though? I just wanted to wrap myself around his waist and breathe him in. That cologne he wears? It's his signature blend — got it custom-made with my blood as the base note. No joke. We were at this underground vampire perfumery — might've been in Prague, maybe Paris — and I was all over the limited-edition Dracula fang set with breath-mint charms. While I was distracted, he was busy commissioning a scent.
He never told me how he got the blood sample, but the result? Addicting. A haunting mix of death-flowers, forbidden fruit, and something that smells like grief wrapped in silk. He dabs it on like a charm every morning — quiet, consistent, ritualistic. I act like I don't notice, but I do. Every time he walks past, the scent lingers: sharp, sweet, eternal. And the scariest part? It calms me. Like I'm the one being worn. Romantic? Creepy? Probably both. But that's us — weirdly functional, blood-scented love.
He never told me how he got the blood sample, but the scent?
We all took a breath when we stepped into that first cabin — the one that seemed safe. The air was thick, still. Too still. No birds. No bugs. Just that godawful rocking chair moving on its own like it had front-row seats to our slaughter. And I don't mean metaphorically. That chair was creaking in rhythm, like it knew.
Vicky and Raven were helping me rip out the enchanted stitches she'd laced into my skin — yes, she. Because that's when it hit us: this cabin? It belonged to Delil. The actual bitch. The one we thought we'd been chasing from afar? We'd been in her house since scene one. That quiet horror cabin in the woods? Surprise. It was the queen's castle.
And she'd been faking it all along — the deaths, the disappearances, even her own supposed finale. Every staged scene was a payment, a ritual tithe using harvested lives to cheat whatever eldritch toll was demanding her return. She didn't just wear new skins — she curated them, crafted whole personas from recycled horror. That's not just survival. That's resurrection as art. We weren't facing a killer. We were facing a gallery director of gore, a damn connoisseur of carnage. And worse? She'd made death her currency, her brand, her goddamn portfolio.
All this time, we weren't hunting her.
We were in her exhibit.
And you want to know the worst part?
She made it personal.
She'd been using the very bodies of Hasher victims to build her art.
Dolls sewn from flesh.
Spellbooks inked in trauma.
Soul residue bottled like perfume.
Vicky pieced it together fast. I saw it on his face — the twitch in his jaw, the subtle tightening around the eyes. Rage. Recognition. Regret. The kind that settles in your bones when a slasher's kill pattern isn't just about death — it's about turning their victims into statements.
Oh, Vicky…
My wonderful lover from death. My anchor in the scream. I should be furious right now — thread-high, blood-wet, dress ruined — but all I want is you. Just say the word, and I'll break my leash. I'll claw open the worst door in the realms and drag that bitch through it screaming. She'll beg for demon imps to take her soul just to escape what I have planned.
Because no one — and I mean no one — gets to lay a finger on you and walk away clean.
I want to comfort you in a safe place. I want to rip off your armor and kiss the bruises until they whisper. I want to be the warmth in the grave you keep hidden from everyone else. Use me. Love me. Like you always do, even if we don't say it. Even if we're not "official."
I'm your baby tonight — like a cursed Whitney Houston track played in reverse during a blood moon.
And if you ever dare to leave me alone in this chaos again, I swear I'll tear the veil down just to haunt you louder.
Oh, the poor victims…
She didn't just kill them.
She used them. Bent them into dolls, forced their limbs into place like marionettes stitched with trauma.
And most of them — I hope it was most — didn't want to be part of her twisted gallery. She turned them into fighting slaves. Puppets for her stage.
And me?
I just wanted to string her up and let the shadows take their time.
But then I looked at Vicky — really looked.
And I thought…
Would he be happier if I didn't go feral right now?
How dare that slasher put me in this situation.
How dare she make me choose between vengeance and making my man smile.
I hate her. I hate this. I hate how my fingers twitch with power and restraint at the same time.
Do I save the moment or ruin it beautifully?
A doll appeared next.
Broken. Stumbling. Mouthing one word through cracked porcelain lips:
"Help."
It wasn't attacking. It couldn't.
Its limbs moved like twigs barely holding sinew — leaking magic from every joint. One glass eye was missing. The other blinked out of sync, struggling to see.
It was falling apart — but worse than that, it was aware.
Hex-Two was the first to point.
"That's the slasher we were supposed to kill."
I looked closer. On its chest — carved, not tattooed — were runes in worn Latin:
"Until I pass, remember me."
Hex-One stepped forward, voice softer than usual.
"She might be the real victim. Her soul's stuck in a golem. Someone forced her into this shell. If we break the chain, she'll need a new power source to survive."
Then a glance at me. "But we could use her intel, right?"
They looked at me like I was the damn judge.
Like I held her fate in one bloody hand and strategy in the other.
I didn't hesitate. My voice didn't rise.
Just a nod, low and bitter.
"Do it."
You ask me — how did I know?
How could I tell she wasn't the villain?
Because once, I was like her.
Back during the Black Death, before cities had sewers and before fear had names sharp enough to bleed. I was already banshee — but incomplete.
My ex… If the term "slasher" had existed back then, they would've been patient zero.
A minor deity, Greek-adjacent, god of something ridiculous — vanity, cruelty, slow poison. And they did things to me. Broke me. Remade me. Whispered curses into my marrow and watched what grew.
I wasn't born a monster.
I was made.
And that's a difference Hasher files never teach you: being born myth is one thing. Being twisted into something else — that stains deeper. It echoes.
I'm both.
Vicky said the first time he saw me, I was laughing in a field of lilies.
Holding a baby someone abandoned.
Two people lay dead at my feet, but I let him hold the child. He swears the child was human… until I changed it. Somewhere in my broken trance, I turned the child to stone. Let him take it.
Centuries later, that same child was unstoned.
Alive.
I know, I'm rambling. But memory's like that.
Jagged. Out of order. Full of doors.
So when I saw her — that doll with nothing left but a whisper — I just knew.
That wasn't magic.
That was recognition.