Hello. This is Vicky here — and yeah, before you ask, we're already at 'fuckin' at full speed,' or as the old elven say, "Zhal'ka ven'dorai!" Roughly translates to "I ride the thunder screaming." Which is less about actual sex (though, y'know...) and more about how Nicky really did exactly what she said she would. No brakes. No hesitation. Just full-throttle spell-slingin', ass-kickin', shirt-rippin' commitment to the bit.
And yes, she buys me backup shirts. Pants too. Pretty sure she thinks it's a kink — like, some kind of dominant chaos-goddess ritual to rip through my wardrobe while I'm trying to keep us alive. Is that a top thing? Someone tell me if this is a top thing. 'Cause I'm running out of clothes and explanations.
Damn, she could back that ass up on me like it's a spiritual ritual — "Dral'eth ven'rakka," as the old elven curse goes. Roughly: "may your temptress dance crack the heavens." And I'd still say amen — but girl, not the shirt! That was a limited-edition weave from the Interdimensional Spinneret Guild. They only spin under lunar eclipses and emotional breakdowns!
You know what Nicky's built like? Tiffany Hadazz — last of the Black Unicorns. Ran through ten cults and a death maze in heels. Or Megan the Corbra — yeah, not Centura, Corbra. Snake-centaur hybrid, six legs, full venom lips, and hips like they hex gravity. Nicky put those legendary supernatural entertainers to shame. Did you know her thighs are so thick she could probably crush Thor's hammer in a grudge match? And I mean that lovingly — even if I gotta keep a backup wardrobe for every time she gets a little too handsy with the hemline.
Welcome to what we call the Hikslok segment — yeah, like Hasher MTV Cribs, but make it cursed. It's where we show off all the best places to either get dramatically stalked by a slasher or hide in luxury from your average field-grade Hasher. Because not every slasher kill happens in a dingy basement — sometimes, it's a cursed spa with enchanted towels and a haunted minibar. And let's be honest, if you're going out, you might as well do it in a five-star ruin that gets top ratings across the realms.
And honestly? Baby Doll might've just topped the charts with this spot.
Technically, we're in a "cabin," but let's be real — this is a sprawling estate built to resemble an upscale hunting lodge. Ornate staircases curl like they're trying to trap you in conversation, the floorboards groan with ghostly intent, and the wallpaper has that unsettling quality of watching you back. It's got final-boss-lair vibes with a high-budget horror campaign budget — third level, where the music shifts and the Now, I don't know how we got here exactly — I mean, yeah, I know it's called magic, but I'm more of a science man myself. You'd be surprised how many folks assume dryad-blooded types are all bark and rune, but a lot of us lean into research and theory. Sure, we use magic — but science? Science doesn't have a habit of making evil tree-sap motherfuckers that whisper murder lullabies through your vents.
The more you know, right? Usually I'm more professional about all this, but I got post-nut clarity ricocheting around in my skull like a cursed marble, and my balls still hurt like they've been through a spelljammer centrifuge. So you'll have to forgive the rant — I'm running on aftermath and adrenaline.
So we're in the cabin, and again — sorry for jumping around. I promise I'll get to the flashback soon. But I figured y'all could use some data on how soul-transfer effects work — especially with folks like Baby Doll. So, let Papa Vicky break it down for you.
I was still recovering from Nicky dragging me upstairs with that sparkle-eyed look that said she wanted to "work off the power surge," if you know what I mean. I'd just put her down in what's basically our future room — for now, at least. Girl needs rest and I need snacks. And water. Lots of it. Because once she wakes from that nap? Oh, it's war. Let me tell you, fellas — once a lady comes back from brunch, it's full-blown bedroom combat. And I'm not talking pillow fights. I'm talking spiritual whiplash, thigh-lock incantations, and post-brunch vengeance spells disguised as cuddles.
So I head downstairs and — boom — run straight into Baby Doll. Also, in case you're wondering where the rest of the crew went before I flash us back: Knox and Lupa paired off. Briar and Sir Glom, weirdly enough, wandered toward the West Wing. Raven ended up with Muscle Man — or Sexy Boulder, as Nicky calls him. And yeah, I see it now. I'd pounce too. He was also scolding Hex-One and Hex-Two about something, which I'll circle back to later once I piece together moreI still don't get how Nicky does this. She's older than me and somehow still the one with the flawless text game. Sometimes I think about the old Reddit days — back when we could just drop a post, no full-on texting required. Way easier.
I know Nicky likes the attention. The money. Helping people. And hey, I respect that. I do. That's why I'm here. And I'm glad y'all are still reading these mission briefs, 'cause it means a lot to her.
Not me though. I'm the guy behind the camera most of the time. Let's not make this awkward, okay??
I was looking for that damn kitchen — stomach growling, vibes shot. Also staking out the place for any hidden hexes or creeping danger. Turns out? Surprisingly clean. For now.
You should always do that, by the way. You'd be surprised how many things like to hide in places that aren't technically there. Like the boy who hid in the walls — long story, ended badly, and involved way too many teeth for someone who wasn't technically alive.
Anyway, I asked Baby Doll how she was doing — just casual, like hey-you-not-possessed-right?
She didn't answer right away.
Just stood there, at the end of the hallway, like she'd been waiting. Same expression she had when she was still stitched up — blank, soft, just a little too wide-eyed. Her head tilted, slow. Creepy slow. Gave me that uncanny valley vibe, like one of those porcelain dolls that moves when you're not looking.
Thing is, she's basically a golem now. Whatever she was before? That got erased in the soul transfer. Golemhood isn't just a condition — it's a whole damn race. Once a golem comes into their own, no one really owns them. Not anymore.
She's lucky, honestly. Could've ended up a Cinderella type, or worse — like that one cursed doll whose nose grew every time she lied until it split timelines. But Baby Doll? She's rebooting, yeah — but she's doing it as herself. Free. Scary as hell. But free.
"You good?" I asked again, one hand on my belt where the charmblade rests.
Because yeah, she looked stable — but you never drop your guard. Not with soul-stitched types. Especially not ones who just reset in a cabin dripping with leftover slasher vibes.
She might be rebooting, sure. Might be free. But trauma don't vanish with a new skin. And if her turning while staying in this place was ugly the first time, who's to say there's not a second act waiting?
Even golems, for all their clarity, can fall — and she might still go slasher if the wrong memory boots up first.
I facepalmed. Of course she had system access. People with those always act calm, like it's no big deal — but they're getting mission data piped in before anyone else. Usually flagged, usually on rails. And now she's got it too?
Well, guess what. That means extra paperwork. She's gonna be doing forced Sonster work for a few years until she figures her system out. Yep, that's right — congratulations, Baby Doll, you're officially on probation with the multiversal babysitters.
Now I know what you're thinking: "Vicky, isn't this supposed to be horror-comedy?" Yeah, it is. But also? I gotta give you lore drops. That's part of the deal. With my OP brain, it'd be a crime not to share the horror of this kind of knowledge.
System access sounds like a cheat code — like a divine UI upgrade. But in reality? It's a cursed deal wrapped in code. Every time someone unlocks a system, they basically inherit the meddling of some ancient god or divine architect. Helpful? Maybe. Abusive? Almost always.
And the kicker? Most of the systems in this realm are governed by forgotten Greek deities. Not the big ones you've heard of — no, I'm talking about the ones with petty vengeance streaks and reality-altering egos. The kind of gods that will tie your entire personality to a morality spreadsheet and judge your sneeze alignment.
The last person who got a system? Buried in red tape and soul audits for decades.
I should hunt down Nicky's ex — the one who built half these systems. Nonbinary god of cruelty and petty inconveniences. Ripped reality for a breakup and never looked back. Nicky says I get jealous too easily.
She's not wrong.
Well… that kinda sucks.
I was really hoping she'd become a Hasher. Maybe if I can convince the higher-ups, we could keep her on — part-time at least. Me and Nicky are looking for a new nanny for the baby anyway.
Then again... I don't want a code-kissed near us. We had a temporary system slapped on us once during a mission — had to hunt a slasher and rack up "100 Slash Points" like it was a cursed video game achievement. Never again.
Anyway,I blinked at the map, then back at her. "So... do you have system powers now too?"
Yeah, I know, I keep saying 'anyway.' You're probably sitting there like, 'Vicky, get to the good part, you're testing my patience.' You weren't like this on the Reddit too, don't li. But I'm getting there. Let me build the damn tension. You want a good lore drop or a sloppy one? Exactly.
She didn't answer that. Just tilted her head again.
And in that moment, standing there with her barefoot on those creaky floorboards, the shadows catching the hem of her half-fixed dress, I realized I'd walked straight into a horror movie setup. You know the one — where the main character tries to help the creepy girl in the hallway and ends up haunted, hexed, or heartbroken. Classic save-a-hoe gone wrong.
Then my HexPhone buzzed. One Elvish text from Nicky — just one. I translated it mid-groan, expecting sass. Instead, it read like a goddamn erotic spell scroll. She described exactly where the hilt of my knife belonged — and it wasn't my belt. Said she was already holding it, right near where her moans start, and that if I didn't get upstairs in the next minute, she'd use it to summon something I'd never live down.
Full-body blush? Nah. I nearly dropped the phone. My soul got kicked sideways. I sprinted. Didn't even wave goodbye to Baby Doll — hell, she could've sprouted tentacles and I still wouldn't've stopped.
Whatever horror I was about to deal with down here? It could wait. I had a whole different ritual waiting upstairs.
Now I can give you that flashback you were waiting for.
This is the flashback. We're at Cabin One — yeah, that Cabin in the Woods. Slashers love the woods. You can bury memories out here. Bury bodies. Bury who you were before the blood started spilling. But eventually, even they had to branch out. Turns out woodsy real estate got a little too popular — tourists, influencers, glam-campers with cursed GoPros — so the killers had to get creative.
Delil must've missed the memo, though. 'Cause if she'd gotten the update, maybe she would've thought twice before pulling this latest stunt in the damn forest. It's giving outdated villain era. Try a haunted casino next time, girl. Keep up.
I should've known something was off when Delil didn't chase us through the woods. That's, like, Slasher 101 — woods chase, final girl trip, creepy breathing behind the trees. But she skipped it. Which means she's trying something new. I should've known. But that's another rule with Hashers — rules always change. Just when you think you've got the pattern nailed, the horror rewrites itself. Keeps us guessing. Keeps us bleeding.
Delil set this one up like a trap, and we stepped right into it. Lorellia, her lover — more woodsman mystic than reliable ally — swore this was a safe haven. And maybe it is. But if that chandelier starts whispering riddles or the floorboards rearrange themselves again? I'm putting in my early retirement papers with a flamethrower.
Quick note — if I accidentally mention the 'new cabin' later in this flashback, I'm referring to Cabin 2. Yep. We're in Cabin 2 now. Cabin One had vibes. Bad ones. Like cursed-journal-entry bad. So yeah, the timeline's a mess. Blame the décor.
Running, by the way, is the smartest thing you can do in a slasher scenario. Don't listen to those bravado types who say 'fight back.' Nah. First instinct? Haul ass. It's survival, not cowardice. You can't slay the boogeyman if you're already sliced into poetic metaphors.
Now, summoning the slasher in front of the group? Right after we just talked about split-group protocol? Surprisingly smart — if you want the slasher to burn their dramatic reveal early. And yeah, in case you're wondering how Raven pulled that off — all she needed was some dirt from the ground, a drop of virgin blood, and the lesbian flag of the time. Why a lesbian flag? Because the woman liked girls. And if you're trying to summon anything born of hunger and identity, sexuality is a damn strong ritual anchor.
It's soul-deep. That's how they find you. Same reason me and Nicky — two bisexual hashers — have literally killed for each other. Come on, you really surprised we like people? We've lived long enough, sooner or later your preferences start to shift. Love gets weird when death's always flirting in the corner.
Let me tell you — I've stalked Nicky long enough to know her tells. And if I catch any of you doing what I did? I mean it — I will ki—kidding! I'm kidding. Please don't stalk Nicky. Or the child we may or may not raise in the future. Respect the boundaries, véla'quinn.
Anyway, when Nicky checked in last, she was caught in one of those half-memories about the kid — you know the kind, teary-eyed and babbling like your girlfriend at 2 a.m. on her third glass of haunted cabernet. Except this time, it wasn't wine — it was stitched-up slasher poison laced into her skin like a cursed tattoo. Me and Raven got to work pulling those stitches out, but before I could say 'bad vibes,' Raven grinned, sniffed the thread, and licked it.
She said the magic tasted wrong. Not Nicky's-level-of-power wrong. Not even dark-magic wrong. Just... wrong. Like, dimensional detour through cursed alleyways wrong. The kind that hums to you in your mother's voice — only it's humming a funeral dirge with a smile.
The poison was working slowly through Nicky, if I had to guess. I almost let her get possessed just to confirm it — but last time we did that, she ended up learning how to swing my dick like a helicopter. And not metaphorically. I was flattered, horrified, and slightly impressed all at once. She's got range.
She started out quiet, watching the twins prep the ritual with a soft-focus kind of smile. I was watching too — mostly because Nicky was trying to act normal, and failing. I caught her staring at me, real still-like, and just as I turned to ask Raven if that was normal, she was already bagging up the stitches and smoothing Nicky's wounds like it was second nature.
Then came the murmurs — little things like, "She looks like my niece," or "I had a dream like this once, except the doll was crying blood." Her hands were twitchy. Her pupils were wide. And every time someone said her name, she blinked like she was trying to stay anchored to the moment.
The poison wasn't supposed to be fatal — not to someone like her — but it was definitely emotional. Like, peeling-your-heart-open emotional. Meanwhile, I was playing the designated adult, again. Documenting the scene, checking the angles, making sure the damn doll didn't get re-blamed because — and trust me on this.
Sometimes, Nicky's the serious one. And that's terrifying. Because I'd rather her laugh through fire than go silent in the smoke. You wonder why? I'll tell you someday — maybe not here, maybe not now — but it'll come out. Because Nicky should never be serious. The last time she was? A group of slashers forced a bunch of kids into playing death games — real ones, with rules and traps and all. She brought those same slashers to life just long enough to make them bleed for what they did. Then brought them to death. Again. And again. And again. Until every soul forgave them.
Last I heard from Nicky? They're still in that loop. Stuck in her grief, her will, her mercy twisted into something cruel. And sometimes — sometimes I feel lucky to have Nicky. Not just because she can do cool shit like that. It's cooler when she chooses not to. Because yeah, she's powerful — but not god-tier, not on the universal leaderboard of destruction. What makes her scary? What makes her beautiful? She thinks about balance. She lets things live when she could end them. That restraint? That's power.
So yeah — let her flirt. Let her rip my shirts and steal my knives with a grin. That's safety. Because if she ever gets serious again? The next loop might not break.
I'm technically her handler, which means it's my job to make sure she doesn't emotionally hijack the mission and start soul-bonding with cursed objects again. But between us? Gods, I sigh just thinking about her. Sometimes I go full dream-state — you know, soft focus, hopeless grin, whispering old Elvish like 'Velthé na'shae' under my breath just because it sounds like devotion. We're all lucky I don't just let her loose and watch the chaos unfold — though, some days, I'm real tempted.
She owns me. Like, in a 'carve-my-name-in-your-soul-contract' kind of way. And I'm not even mad about it. I want her to. So I can watch the pleasure in her face — and on my body. Gods, that's the kind of worship I never got from the priesthood. And I was ordained.
No, we're not dating. Don't start.
While the twins worked the magic, I handled the evidence. Because storytelling is cute and all, but if I didn't take photographic proof that she wasn't the killer, that poor doll's soul would've stayed on the bounty board. Again.
Slashers only get cleared for a few reasons:
They're part of a legally recognized cult and the deaths were "willing sacrifices."
Their kills don't follow slasher logic (hardest to prove).
Someone or something else was puppeteering them (gets them a spot in the reform program).
Or, like our doll, they were never a slasher at all.
And trust me, Delil had all the trophies — displayed like she was curating a slasher-themed gallery opening. Each piece had a name. A story. One of them? Belonged to someone Nicky and I actually knew — a fellow trainee we practically helped raise. They joined the trade with one goal: to find and kill the slasher who slaughtered their family. They trained hard, cracked jokes like armor, always showed up early to sparring sessions. Nicky once bought them a drink laced with charm repellent by accident — they laughed about it for weeks.
They weren't just a name on the board. They were part of our damn family. And this is the display they get? The final entry in Delil's twisted little scrapbook? She posed them like a centerpiece — called it "finishing the family photo." I almost cried. I hope the higher-ups give me clearance in this case, because I swear, if Nicky gets the green light to go full-force on Delil... it won't be pretty. And it'll be justified.
Turns out that slasher was Delil all along. And she made a goddamn centerpiece out of them. The more I looked through the photo stash, the weirder it got. Yeah, there were the blood-slicked glamour shots — disturbingly elegant, with cinematic lighting and artsy angles. But then she had portraits of herself too. Posed. Styled. Some of them were straight-up swimsuit pinup parodies, like she was mocking Nicky's Sexy Spirits centerfold. And yes, Nicky practically broke the occult internet that year as the July issue.
Then I saw one of me. Not just one — years' worth. Time-stamped. Archived. Me in the field, me in the gym, me sleeping with my knife still sheathed under my chin. Purple markings drawn over my body. Nicky too, in some of them. It wasn't just an obsession — she'd been learning. Studying. Using the memories and rituals of others she killed to collect data on us. Either that, or we've had a traitor in our ranks feeding her intel. I didn't realize how bad it was until I found a group photo tucked behind the others — people in eccentric art gear, some faces way too familiar. I checked the timestamp. Then bagged it with the rest.
Anyway, Knox had to step in and assist — the doll, who we now suspect was Delil's ex-lover, needed to emotionally tether to someone fast. It was the only way to keep her from slipping into whatever purgatory Delil had wired her for.
This is why we have people like Knox on the team. He's the heart — the one who can pull us together when grief or trauma threatens to tear us apart. It's not just vibes and charm with him, either. He's trained. Surgical. Able to coax victims and even low-level slashers into revealing what they've buried under all that fear and power. It takes time, but he always gets there.
Sir Glom pulled me aside, quiet as a shadow. He held up one of the stitches we'd extracted — now floating in a vial of viscous, glimmering fluid that shimmered like oil on bone. His voice was low, grave. "She's dying," he said. "If we don't find the antidote soon, she won't just fade — she'll unravel. I can smell the poison. It's old. Clever. The slasher knew Nicky's kind wouldn't break from iron alone — it's what's laced in the stitching. That venom isn't just physical. It clings to the soul."
I was surprised he even took the needle from Raven without flinching. But I didn't pay enough attention to the metal itself. That was my mistake. The type of alloy used? Only those directly cleared for this mission would even recognize it. And while Sir Glom might've caught the scent of death in it, he didn't need to know all the details — like how we've had to file false reports on Nicky's weaknesses before. Internal protocol. Need-to-know. And Glom? He doesn't need to know that.
And he was right. Nicky had taken the brunt of the hit, all stitched up like the magic itself had tried to sew her into Delil's story. Most folks forget — just because Nicky walks around all banshee bravado doesn't mean she's unbreakable. The poison was working slow, but deep. Still, I was surprised to see Glom care that much. Maybe it's part of his job — maybe it's just habit, watching over cursed girls like they're equations. But the way he hovered? Made you wonder if it was personal. Or if he's just that professional. You tell me.
Most people don't know what I really am cause I am just another elf. They see Vicky — the Bannessh lover, the dark elf bruiser, the one with a blade and a resting expression like he's already two steps into a tactical retreat—or a kill shot. But if Nicky hadn't taken those hits for me — the iron, the poison, all of it — I'd be dust right now.
Sir Glom doesn't say it out loud, but he watches her like a doctor monitoring a patient he doesn't fully trust to follow orders — more medic than mystic, more handler than healer. He'll deny it, say he's just being cautious, but I see it. That steady calculation, the way he notes every twitch in her aura like he's updating a medical file.
I shouldn't care. Really, I shouldn't. But something about it grates. The way he hovers like he knows her better than I do — like he thinks he's the one keeping her on the edge instead of me.
Because Nicky? She walks the razor's edge like it's a tightrope she built herself — out of thorns and bad decisions, and somehow it holds. And me? I'm the dark elf with the plan. The shield, whether I like it or not. The one who's supposed to absorb the hit, keep the line steady, make the call.
But that slasher knew things. Things most outsiders shouldn't. The way the iron hit, the way the poison worked — it was tailored. Not just to hurt, but to cripple. Almost like someone handed them our files. I should save that thought for later.
Still, if it had been me who took the hit instead of her? I'd be gone. Vapor. Screaming through the bark of some haunted tree. So yeah, I'm lucky. We all are. Because Nicky? She can take it. She took it for me — not like that hotel room on our weird little family trip, either. That one was a mess. You should've seen the kid, all wide-eyed and clinging to Nicky like she hung the moon. And Nicky? She was trying to act like we weren't two steps from burning the whole suite down with spiritual residue and one too many cursed snacks. that's the part I can't say out loud without losing the edge in my voice.
Lupa surprised us by tossing a dusty book onto the floor with a grin, her fingers still stained with some kind of black residue. "Found it in the upper bedroom. Pages smell like spells." Her smile faltered a little, and we all instinctively looked to Raven.
Meanwhile, Nicky had finally sat down, the weight of the poison settling into her bones. She wasn't twitchy anymore — just quiet in that unnerving way, like her soul was trying to unplug for maintenance. Sir Glom moved without a word, kneeling beside her with a small ceramic vial etched in runes. He uncorked it, and the scent hit us first — bitter, coppery, and oddly floral.
"Drink," he said, his tone flat but firm. She took it from him with a slight nod, her hands steadier than expected. The potion shimmered like dusk in a bottle.
Watching him, you'd think this was just another case. Another cursed operative. But the way he hovered — professional, yes, but almost... familiar — made something twist behind my ribs. The way he touched the vial, the way he spoke to her — it reminded me of the way her ex used to talk to her, back when things were messier and far less controlled. Then again, Nicky wasn't exactly in control back in the '50s, was she?
He wasn't just checking vitals. He was watching her like she was glass that remembered being shattered — and he was the archivist who'd cataloged every crack.
Anyway, let's talk about the book.
See, it's not the reading that's dangerous. It's not even the words. It's the voice. The breath. The act of speaking them aloud. That's what brings cursed text to life. Someone once tried the whole "if you're reading this, you're cursed" trick — turns out, it works better when spoken into the air with intent. Sound has weight in this kind of work — the kind that can fold a room inward or make spirits weep. That's why Raven doesn't even blink until she hears someone exhale the first syllable.
That's when Nicky slid behind me like fog and wrapped her arms around my waist — not that we're official or anything. But you spend enough nights patching someone's wounds and sharing anti-venom smoothies, and the line starts to blur. I felt her breath on my neck before I heard her fake southern belle voice, all syrup and shadows. She knows I'm a sucker for cowgirls — promised she'd keep that one for the bedroom, but here we are, mid-mission, and I'm already two seconds from folding like a cursed lawn chair.
She was squeezing a little too tightly — the kind of hold that says 'I trust you' and 'don't leave' in the same breath. The kind of sweetness she rarely shows out loud, soft and fierce in the same motion. Nicky's not usually gentle — trust me, I've tried that approach, and she prefers things fast, rough, with no time for slow-burn softness. But this? This was different.
And me? I let it happen. Let her lean on me like that, didn't care who was watching. Didn't care that it might look too intimate, too real. It didn't need a label. Didn't need permission. Just her arms around me and the understanding that for one rare second, she was letting herself be held — and I was damn well going to be the one holding her.
Sir Glom's gaze lingered on us for a second too long. Raven gave us one of her unreadable looks. I knew exactly what they were thinking — but I wasn't about to explain. Nicky gets clingy when she's hurt. And right then? She was terrifyingly tender.
I waved them off. Let them look. Let them judge. "I'm taking my cuddle time," I muttered. "Y'all can deal." Then louder, just to cut the tension, I barked, "Take your phones out. Send everything you've got to HQ, alright?"
Yes, we still have phones. Hasher wireless isn't just good — it's reality-bending. You could be deep inside a cursed forest, mid-exorcism, and still get five bars and a notification from your grocery app. We can literally summon our phones from the void once we're out of danger. And yeah, we've got day jobs too. Not everyone wants to wake up screaming next to hex ink and spiritual debt — some folks just handle dispatch, charm research, or cursed object returns. It's not glamorous, but it keeps the horror economy running.
Nicky grabbed my arm and gave it a lazy bite, her teeth grazing my skin like some half-conscious housecat staking her claim. I barely flinched — this wasn't even the strangest part of our night. She looked up at me with that glazed-over, dreamy kind of smile, like biting me was some weird love language only she understood.
The doll — Delil's ex, apparently — glanced around at all of us. There was a faint shimmer as her stitches began to unwind and repair themselves. You could see nature blooming in her veins, moss and root magic reawakening under her skin. She was becoming something new, something old — druidic, maybe, but fractured still.
She opened her mouth, started thanking us in a voice that sounded like wind through trees and ancestral lullabies, and said she wanted to explain what really happened. But I wasn't about to let her skip the fine print. I pulled open the Hasher app and ordered a truth crystal — expedited, arcane-priority. It dropped from the void like a cursed relic summoned by oath, still humming with binding runes that flickered in tongues older than bone.
"Swallow this," I said, holding it out to her with a sigil-marked glove.
She hesitated, blinked like something behind her eyes was remembering a past life, then took it delicately — like a priestess receiving a relic. She popped it into her mouth like a communion wafer carved from moonlight. Swallowed. Gasped. The air around her shimmered, her aura sparking violet for a heartbeat.
Then I asked the most important question I had: "What's your honest opinion of my skin tone?"
"Like obsidian in a thunderstorm," she whispered. "Beautiful, and a little dangerous."
Nicky snorted behind me, voice coiled with arcane edge and territorial heat. "She ain't wrong — but let me make this divinely clear. He's mine right now. You even think about stepping closer and I'll hex a boundary line through your soul so deep, not even the Ancients will chart your return. Blessed be, bitch — back the fuck off."
I turned slowly, leveled her with a look, and raised a brow like I was lifting a shield. "Nicky," I said, calm but cutting. "You're high off curse fumes and ego right now, and you still gotta apologize. No matter how high you get, you don't get to be rude. Not to our client, not to me, and not to the universe."
I didn't say any of that out loud, of course. Just let the moment pass with a sigh and turned to my own thoughts. I don't know what it is about me that makes her act like I'm territory — sacred ground she needs to guard with spellfire and snarls. Maybe it's the ears. Maybe it's the scars. Maybe it's just the way I let her hold me when the venom hits and never pull away. But damn if she doesn't mean it.
Still… doesn't give her the right to be rude. No matter how high you're riding on magic or memory, that kind of edge slices more than it shields. She'll need to apologize. Eventually.
I glanced back at the doll. She was watching us with those soft, glassy eyes that looked too real, like memory trapped behind crystal. I asked if she wanted a new name — she tilted her head like a cat hearing a name it remembers from another life. After a long pause, she whispered, almost shyly, "Baby Doll."
It hit like a spell rebinding itself. Not just a name, but a reclamation.
She told us her story in fragments — brittle shards of memory that cut deeper the longer you held them. How Delil kept her tucked away like a cherished secret turned sick obsession, feeding off her essence each night like she was a living chalice of sorrow. Her body never aged, but her spirit wore thin — thinned by repetition, by ritual, by the same harrowing night re-enacted endlessly.
It always started the same: the needle, the thread, the hush of binding spells as her mouth was sewn shut with silver-glinting wire — and lower, too, where the violation turned unspoken. Sewn silence. Sewn obedience. Delil didn't just stitch flesh; she stitched compliance, stitched helplessness into her marrow. Sometimes the threads would come undone, just enough for Delil to pry loose a scream, a sob, or a forced moan — whatever suited the evening's cruelty.
And when Baby Doll spoke of it, her voice trembled like a wind-up music box losing tempo — beautiful, broken, and laced with the kind of horror that echoes in dreams long after the waking.
But lately, the feedings had grown weaker. Her magic was starving. That's when the witch sent a minion to replenish it — to keep her alive long enough to serve again.
The moment stretched thin when the minion arrived. It wasn't Nicky who stepped in — it was one of the others. I couldn't even turn to watch, because Baby Doll clawed into my arm like staying with me was her only anchor.
"Don't fight," she begged, her voice a fragile rasp, barely stitched together with breath and panic. "Stay with me. Don't let me be alone again."
Her claws weren't sharp, not really — but they dragged against my skin like a memory that didn't want to be forgotten. Desperation pulsed through her grip, raw and wild. And getting a huge glare from Nicky didn't help either — that kind of glare that sizzled like a curse half-cast, like she thought I was already halfway to being stolen. I stayed still anyway. Let Baby Doll cling. Let her desperation tangle with my guilt. Let her name echo in the space between us like a lullaby cut from old wounds and half-rewritten fates.
Her claws weren't sharp, not really, but the desperation behind them cut deeper than any blade. I stayed still. Let her hold on. Let her name settle into the space between us like a lullaby finally freed from a stitched mouth.
When the minion dropped, smoke curling from its corpse, I ordered fireworks. Real ones — cursed ember-burst types with sigil-triggered fuses. I planted them around the house like a pyromancer decorating for apocalypse. We could already hear more minions laughing in the trees, that kind of forced, too-loud laughter that sounds like someone trying to imitate joy with a blade at their back.
I handed Baby Doll the match.
She didn't hesitate. Lit it with a snap, eyes glowing faint blue. Her voice curled out sharp and fae-sweet: "Bitch get burnt."
She tossed it. Flame licked the warded runes, triggering a chain reaction. Somewhere in the forest, something screamed — a sound that made the birds scatter and the roots groan.
Then Baby Doll stepped forward, fingers dancing through the smoke like she was playing a cursed harp, and peeled open a wooden portal with a single, delicate touch. It didn't just bloom — it shuddered open, like an old wound being picked raw, oozing with bark-slicked memories and the groan of forgotten names. You don't gotta tell a group of Hashers twice when a new development's on the table — we take chances like they owe us rent.
If you're wondering when help might come — don't. This trip, before the object got altered, was scheduled for three weeks. No one's coming until at least then. Plus, we've got people who closed this place off tight, laid down perimeter wards and anchor runes so heavy you'd think the forest signed a non-compete clause. It's just us and whatever slasher thinks they've still got a puncher's chance. Spoiler: they don't.
Right now? We're enjoying the house. The eerie quiet. The smoke still curling from the rune-burnt soil. And Baby Doll — she's showing us things. Secrets stitched into the bones of the estate. And for once, we're not running. Yet.
Anyway — helpful tip: don't make someone like Nicky jealous. She'll tear your favorite shirt and your emotional stability in the same breath. Trust me.
Though… she does look sexy as hell asleep like that. All limbs tangled, mouth slightly parted, like a demon finally at peace. Which should be a contradiction, but somehow it ain't.