Deep in the forest, far beyond any path a human foot would dare follow, a manor slept beneath a suffocating canopy of leaves. Moonlight strained to reach it, thinning into pale, trembling beams that seemed afraid to touch the ground. The air hung heavy and wet, carrying the faint scent of moss and old wood — an ancient breath exhaled by the forest itself.
Between the trees, a large silhouette drifts in and out of the darkness: a monochrome clown, stretched unnaturally tall. He moved with a lazy, lolling gait, back bowed as though the night itself pressed down on him. Long black hair veiled his face, and his arms swung loosely at his sides, swaying like dead limbs caught in a breeze. For all his towering height, nearly ten feet, his steps made no sound at all. It was as if the forest refused to acknowledge his presence.
Laughing Jack had been banished from Slenderman's mansion a decade ago for a crime whispered about but never spoken aloud. Yet even exile hadn't driven him away. Despite every warning, he lingered at the edges of the estate, drifting through the trees like a bad memory that refused to fade.
Today, Jack drifted past the tree line without realizing he'd crossed it, drawn straight toward the mansion's front door as if the forest itself had nudged him forward. Then he stepped onto the porch of the goliath structure. The boards groaned beneath his weight. Long, splintered notes that made his heart flutter with a strange blend of fear and delight.
His banishment had not been gentle. Slenderman was the first creature to ever put the clown to shame, dismantling him with effortless precision and leaving his mangled body at an abandoned carnival. Jack had lingered there for years afterward, haunting the rusted rides with only the damned souls of children for company.
They clung to him still — an ever‑circling swarm of pale, weightless figures that flickered at the edges of sight like torn scraps of moonlight. Their presence was not mournful but cruel, a chittering cloud of ghostly children who delighted in needling him, always whispering half‑formed taunts and laughing whenever he faltered. He'd likely endure them for eternity, but he didn't mind. Their haunting was his curse, and monsters weren't meant to rest.
"Who are you looking for."
The voice didn't enter his ears — it detonated inside his skull, louder than any thought he'd ever had. His throat constricted as he turned toward the faceless god behind him. Jack froze, his sharp adams apple jerking with a single, audible swallow. Even standing on the top step, the clown felt small, dwarfed by Slenderman's towering, silent presence.
Once again, that sultry voice boomed, echoing behind Jack's eyes and sending a blinding pressure through his temples.
"Who are you looking for?"
Jack's expression twisted into something both anxious and cocky, the uneasy bravado of a constipated mime.
"You can't banish me forever. Hehe♪- I mean you can, but- Just hear me out." The plea came out in a quivering, high‑low warble, his faint British accent twisting oddly with each unstable pitch. His gaze avoids the towering figure as he fidgeted with the frayed ends of his sleeves, trying to look casual and failing miserably.
Slenderman didn't respond. He didn't need to. The pain in Jack's skull sharpened, a silent command that pressed him forward like a hand on the back of his neck. Jack sneered, dagger‑teeth grinding behind the curtain of his messy hair.
"Fuck! I don't want to be alone anymore, okay? I won't- Tsk-" The pressure vanished the moment he spoke the truth. Jack lurched into the rest of his confession with chaotic, jittering energy.
"I can't defend what I did. But! I certainly, most definitely~ promise it won't happen again."
The forest held its breath. Jack's sweat chilled as he waited in the god's silence — a silence so vast it made him feel small despite his monstrous height. When he blinked, Slenderman was simply gone. The pain in his head had evaporated, but the stillness was so abrupt it felt deafening.
†
Not far from the mansion stood a giant, ghastly oak. It towered well above eighty feet, dwarfing the ring of dead trees that leaned toward it as though bowing to its impossible mass. Up close, the oak's bark looked ancient and exhausted, weathered from root to crown. Every reachable patch was scarred with violent dents and crude memorial carvings, creatures leaving their mark over countless centuries.
High above the canopy, balanced on a thick branch, stood a solitary woman surveying the forest below. Her figure was slender and unnervingly fragile, as though she hadn't tasted food in months. She appeared human at first glance, but her bubblegum‑pink hair and matching skin – washed with a corpse-grey undertone – portrayed something otherworldly. Her clothes only deepened the unease: a blush‑pink shirt, cropped and slightly oversized, slipping off her left shoulder; and a blue skirt still stubbornly vibrant despite the stains marring its hem.
She looked like the last flicker of color in a world that had long since forgotten itself.
Her legs stayed stiff, skillfully balancing on the heels of her dirty bare feet. In the distance, she spotted a clearing where the mansion loomed, its façade staring back at her like a patient predator. The two giants at the front door stood formal and unmoving, but the way the Clown cowered beneath them told a different story. She placed a hand against the oak's rough bark and stared, deeply curious about the gravity of what she was witnessing. Slenderman was feared and respected – a force older than the forest itself – but she knew nothing of the monochrome monster trembling before him.
Almost the moment Slenderman vanished, her ears began to ring. She knew it was close. Then a voice burst through her skull like a boombox wired straight into her mind. "Pinkamena, my child. Keep an eye on Laughing Jack. There will be no protest." She didn't flinch as the stern command clawed at her thoughts. Pinky simply gave a small nod, then lifted her gaze toward the sky. Silver radiance filled her faded blue eyes, moonlight dancing across her pale cheeks and the dark circles beneath them.
Her broken spirit was the least of her worries.
She dropped from the branch to another below, descending the massive oak with practiced ease until she landed with a soft crunch of dead leaves. "So what? I just watch him forever, or do I kill him when given the chance?" She muttered, but nothing answered her except a passing breeze. The forest felt tighter with every heartbeat, as if urging her along.
Can that thing even die? Why is he here? Questions gnawed at Pinky as she stepped out from the oak's shadow and began her slow approach toward the mansion.
†
Jack hesitated at the doors, but his frown curled into a cheeky grin. If confidence were a penny, the clown would be filthy rich. He swept a hand through his hair in what he hoped was a suave gesture-only for his fingers to snag in the overgrown mop. Worse, something inside it bit him. "Dammit!" He jerked his hand free, ripping out tangles and leaving strands of black twine clinging to his claws. "Fucking rat bastard." He muttered the insult a dozen more times under his breath as he wrapped his hand around the gold door handle.
Pinky wasn't far from the mansion, though she made no effort to hurry. She moved lightly on her toes, pausing to admire glowing insects and strange mushrooms that pulsed faintly in the dark. If the clown was going to pick a fight with the first face he saw, she'd much rather be the last.
The heavy doors creaked inward as Jack pushed them, and a wave of inviting warmth hit him in the face. Hundreds of immortal candles burned along the walls, crowded on decorative tables, and dripping light from the massive chandelier hanging thirty feet above. He slipped inside quickly, easing the doors shut with exaggerated care, as though the house itself might snap at him for making noise.
Jack's crooked smile twitched. He could hear the hum of luxuries – a blender, a television, the soft thrum of something mechanical – but it was the voices that made his skin crawl. They murmured and bickered behind distant walls, familiar tones from creatures he'd rather forget. His eyes darted between the flickering shadows as he slunk down the hall toward his old room.
The hallway stretched straight from the front door, lined with rooms built for giants. Every doorway he passed seemed to watch him, the echoes of old enemies and forgotten friends drifting through the air like ghosts. Yet only one thought clung to him with any weight.
Hot water.
The depressive fog he'd been living in had left his clothes ruined, his skin layered in years of dirt and grime. He hadn't even realized his hair had become a literal rat's nest until today, when its tenant decided to voice a complaint.
At the very end of the hallway stood his bedroom door. It looked as though it had been repainted and scrubbed a hundred times, yet the marks and profanity still bled through the white coat, cursing him for his crime. Jack's gaze dragged over every insult, every gouge, every reminder. Then he saw the streak of dried spit.
Something in him snapped.
A muscle jumped beneath his eye, then another. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. For a moment, the hallway seemed to tilt with the force of the anger rising in him — hot, sudden, and feral. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling as if they wanted to dig into something, tear something, break something. The urge hit him like a wave, sharp enough to make his breath stutter.
He forced it down.
With an unsteady inhale, he pushed the handle and stepped inside. He turned quickly to close the door, fighting the instinct to slam it hard enough to shake the frame. When the latch clicked, his legs went heavy. Leaning back against the wood, Jack turned — and a cold wash of anxiety rolled through him.
The room was a wrecked memory. Broken glass glittered across the floor. Old stains clung stubbornly to the boards. Furniture lay toppled, and claw marks carved frantic paths across the walls, ceiling, and floor. His vision pulsed in time with his racing heart.
The outburst he'd unleashed here years ago still clung to the air like a bruise. But no one hated him for wrecking a room. It was Sally – and what he did when she tried to escape – that turned even the darkest creatures against him.
Jack stared down at his claws, vision doubling as his chest rose in quick, shallow bursts. She was going to leave me. The thought spiraled, sharp and dizzying. Sally stains everything in the room, and for a heartbeat he saw his hands dripping red, coated in guilt he could never scrub away. The room had been "fixed," but only in the way a wound is bandaged without being cleaned — no one had the stomach to do more than remove what was left of her.
His throat tightened painfully. The urge to cry clawed upward, raw and unfamiliar, and he hated it. Weakness felt like a crack in the floor beneath him. His fingers curled toward his neck, as if he could rip the feeling out before it took hold. "AAAH-! Hahaha!" The sound burst out of him, jagged and wrong, half‑cough, half‑laughter. It didn't help. His legs buckled under the weight of emotions he couldn't name, and he collapsed to his knees with a dusty thud. The laughter kept coming, sharp and breathless, until it warped into something wetter, something closer to a sob.
Jet black makeup streaked as tears welled and spilled, carving crooked lines down his dirty cheeks. He tried to stop it, but the release hit him like a shock. The first tears he'd shed in decades burned hot. Relief washed through him so sharply it bordered on pain, a sweetness he didn't trust.
†
Pinky sighed as the front doors clung shut behind her, the sound echoing through the mansion like a warning. It was never truly silent here. Even in the dead of night, something skittered, breathed, or whispered in the dark corners. The place felt alive in a way that made her skin crawl. She should check on the clown, but with no screams tearing through the halls, she pushed the thought aside. Besides, losing someone his size would take a miracle or a catastrophe.
She cast a wary glance down the giant's hall — yawning stretch of flickering shadows and looming doors. Every instinct in her tightened. That was the direction Jack had likely wandered, and the thought alone made the corridor feel colder, heavier, as if it were warning her to stay away. Pinky swallowed hard and tore her gaze from the hall, turning left into a massive circular living room.
Two figures lounged on the long L‑shaped couch, their silhouettes hunched and relaxed. With their backs turned, they didn't notice her slip in behind them. Messy cords snake from an open window to the flat‑screen television perched on the coffee table. The wires writhe like veins feeding the glowing screen. The two men snicker at a bland show about normal human friends, their laughter sharp and off‑beat, as if they were trying to mimic amusement without understanding it. The sound made Pinky's stomach tighten. Too cheerful, she thought.
"You said this place didn't get real tv," she mumbles, earning a blood‑dripping side‑eye from the smaller of the two. He's dressed in green garb, pointed ears jutting past his beanie, but it's his eyes that always snags her breath — red pupils floating in black voids, drifting like they're not anchored to anything real. A smirk flickers across his face, appearing in broken frames, as if his expression is struggling to render.
"Well y-yeah, it didn't," he stutters, the words snapping out of him in sharp, electric bursts. Even his posture jitters, skipping a fraction of a second ahead of itself, as though he's made of unstable code barely holding its shape. Pinky can't help sharing a smile with Ben. He's fun — unpredictable, chaotic fun. Right up until the moment he crashes out like a system overloaded with malware.
The other man slowly turned around, dragging his tongue across dry, cracked lips. His bleached‑white skin stretched unnaturally over sharp angles, the carved‑in smile pulling at his cheeks in a way that never looked human. Bloodshot eyes glared at her from beneath a curtain of tangled black hair, their stare flat and hungry, as if he were evaluating her and finding her beneath his standards.
"Ew," he croaked, the word rasping out of him like an insult he barely bothered to shape. Then, with complete disinterest, he flicked his gaze back to the TV. Jeff was always an asshole, a popular one somehow, but Pinky had long since stopped taking him personally. Ben nudged his rigid shoulder, and the infamous killer didn't so much as blink. Not that he could. Jeff didn't have eyelids, but she knew he still wouldn't bother if he did.
Jeff just tugs his hood farther over his ruined features and melts deeper into the couch. The world clearly wasn't worth acknowledging. Ben's grin glitched wider for a moment, as if Jeff's moody theatrics only made him more fond of the guy. "Join us?" Ben asked brightly as he turned back around, but Pinky was already strolling away. She had no patience for "friends," and even less for television.
Just before the kitchen, she ascended a normal carpeted staircase. Each step felt like it carried her farther from Slenderman's orders – a small rebellion she wasn't sure she could afford – but she needed a moment to breathe. Her everlasting debts would wait; they always did, lurking behind her like a shadow she could never outrun.
The upstairs hall is dimly lit, the candles dancing with an uneasy flicker. The air felt heavier here, as if the mansion itself sensed her slipping away from her duties and disapproved. Still, the bedrooms were easy to tell apart. Most had signs nailed to the doors, crude warnings or jokes, and others – like hers – were painted in colors that didn't quite match the house's gloom. She paused at her door, the one decorated with fading pink flowers.
It had belonged to someone before her, though she didn't know who. Sometimes she wondered if the hall remembered them. She imagined the walls with eyes, inspecting everyone who passed through, and judging her for taking up space.
Pinky had been staying in the room for a few months now, but she refused to change it. The decor still resembled a modern child's room. Abandoned for years, yet stubbornly pink from floor to ceiling. The sweetness of it pressed against her like a claustrophobic hug. Whilst giggles and sunshine clung to the walls, always making her chest ache in a way she hated acknowledging. Nonetheless, removing anything felt wrong, like she'd be erasing someone more precious than she ever was.
She fell back onto the bed and rolled to her side, the childs mattress sighing under her weight. Her face sinks into the cold pillow, its floral scent long faded, replaced by the faint mustiness of a room that hadn't been truly lived in since Sally. Pinky pulls a dusty plushie to her chest. It's too soft, too innocent for her hands, but she holds it anyway. Clutching the toy as if it might quiet the heaviness gathering in her ribs.
I'll get him back.
The thought gnawed at her every night, a promise and a curse tangled together. She stared at the pink flower nightlight beside the closet, its soft glow too gentle for a place like this. Hard to believe a child afraid of the dark once slept here, tucked between monsters who pretended to be family. Sometimes Pinky wondered if the girl had ever grown up — but her gut warned her not to ask. Some answers in this house were better left buried.
What if I can't get him back?
The question slithered in again, relentless, tightening around her heart. She wanted to cry, or scream, or tear the room apart just to drown out the noise in her head. Instead, she bit down on the plushie, tasting the bitter tang of moldy fabric and dust. It grounded her, barely.
For a moment, the world went still. Pinky didn't even feel her eyes close. Each slow inhale dragged her deeper into slumber, darkness rising like water until it finally swallowed her whole.
†
In less than a minute, Jack was on his feet, smudging makeup across his face with frantic, uneven strokes. If he moved fast enough, if he scrubbed hard enough, maybe the shower would wash away the evidence that he'd ever broken down at all. The clown staggers into the bathroom, the space lit only by a few broken white candles guttering in their holders. Their flames trembled whenever he breathed, as if even the fire was afraid of him.
Above the sink hangs a massive mirror, cracked from corner to corner and missing jagged pieces. The fractures split his reflection into a dozen versions of himself, each one staring back with a different expression. He used to hate looking at any of them. Now he couldn't look away. He'd never seen himself so filthy, so weak — and the sight made something inside him coil and twitch.
He crossed his arms and grabbed the feathered shoulders of his costume. In a single motion, his claws tore through the fabric, ripping it down until his pale chest was exposed to the cold air. The room exhaled with him, a musky draft brushing along his spine as the sleeves slid from his bandaged arms. The soiled shirt hit the floor with a damp thud, and Jack's long torso flexed, inhuman muscles bulging and twisting beneath his skin like they were trying to escape.
For a heartbeat, he stood perfectly still, surrounded by flickering candlelight and fractured reflections. He couldn't tell if he looked more like a god or a monster...but the shadows were quick to clarify — they gathered, stretching upward into small, warped silhouettes. One by one, the shapes sharpened into the faint outlines of children, their forms wispy like candle smoke. Hollow eyes glimmer as they lift translucent hands and point at him, their gestures sharp and mocking.
The children had once been his victims, but death had stripped away their fear. Now they hovered at the edges of the cracked tiles, whispering soundless laughter, their mouths moving in cruel imitation of smiles. Their presence pressed against his skin like ice, as though reminding him that no costume, no color, no performance could ever smother the horror he'd become.
He ignored the tiny ghosts, though their silent pointing gnawed at the edges of his vision. Instead he glared down at his freakishly long arms. His claws gleamed sharp like obsidian scythes, growing stronger with every innocent soul he takes. He hesitates, but he had to know how much worse it'd gotten.
With unsettling precision he unwinds the stained bandages. Starting at his palm, the fabric peels away like old skin. Beneath it lay the ugly cost of his greed — leathery black flesh stretching from fingertips to elbows. Death's kiss, the darkness consumes him a little more with every kill. It made Jack wonder, not for the first time, if one day the corruption would swallow him whole.
His breath hitched. His vision blurring as he watches his chest rise and fall too fast, but he forced himself to keep going.
With a sudden, violent motion, Jack tore away the bandages around his waist. The sound echoed off the cracked tiles, sharp enough to make the candles flicker. Long, thin scars crisscross his stomach. Pale reminders of every time he clawed himself open like a piñata, desperate to end an immortal life. The mirror caught his reaction, splintering his reflection into a dozen different selves. He dares to look at them. Some of the copycat clowns lean forward with wicked approval, eyes gleaming at the strength overtaking him, while others recoiled, their mouths twisted in silent screams, mourning the man he used to be.
Jack tore his eyes away before the madness in the glass could claim him.
His attention returned to his lanky torso, and with a claw that shook despite his strength, he traced a familiar scar. A thin, pale line that feels more like a confession than a wound. Once, the pain had been unbearable. Now it barely registered. Eventually the agony had twisted him into something else, something that wanted to be hurt. And like his color, everything he ever loved - everything he ever was - had faded into the same hungry darkness creeping up his arms.
†
With her hair strewn across the pillow and a plushie nuzzled against her cheek, Pinky looked almost peaceful. But peace never lasted long - not for her, not in this house. Her body jerked violently, once, twice, then again, until sweat dampened her temples. Her fingers clench around the plushie's throat, squeezing as her knees curl tight to her chest in a silent, suffocating scream.
Behind her sealed eyelids, the nightmare unfurled in jagged flashes: ponies shrieking, friends pleading, bright colors melting into something rotten and delicious. The world she once knew collapsed into a carnival of cannibalism. Her teeth grind together. Her fingers twitch. No matter how hard she tried to wake, the dream holds her like a trap.
Then her eyes snap open.
A devilish silhouette looms over her bed - giant horns and grin carved by Hell. Lord Zalgo. Pinky's heart lurched so violently it hurt. Her lungs squeeze tight, refusing to pull in air. She wants to jump up, but every muscle is locked in place. She knew it wasn't real, knew it was just another hallucination clawing its way out of her subconscious... but his presence pressed against her like a cold hand around her throat.
That unforgettable laugh - low, jagged, merciless - echoed through the room as he reached for her. In the dream, he peeled away her skin and bone as though they were nothing more than a costume she'd outgrown. Pinky was back in that moment, reliving the night she stopped being a pony and became something else entirely. The transformation had been agony, a messy tearing apart of everything she was. Her body felt ruined by the heartless beast who remade and ravaged her.
But she had made the deal. And nightmares never let her forget the price.
"Get up Pinky."
Zalgo's voice echoed through her skull, cold and commanding, but all she could manage was a broken whimper. Her hip burned with the devil's seal. A brand that pulsed like a heartbeat, binding her to him no matter how far she ran. The only comfort she found in the nightmare's grip was a fleeting vision of Gummy. Her tiny, toothless alligator. More than a pet. More than a friend. He had been her whole world.
"Gummy!"
The name tore from her throat as her muscles awakened, her scream ripping through the room. If she was going to save him, she had to finish the deal. There was no other path. Pinky lurched upright, drenched in sweat, strands of hair plastered to her cheeks. Hatred swelled behind her eyes, hot and blinding, as the darkness pressed in around her. The deal was near impossible. "Kill Slenderman, and bring me his head." Impossible, but she knew the cruel god didn't care.
Sliding out of bed, she presses a trembling hand to her hip, feeling the scarred imprint of Zalgo's satanic symbol carved right over her old cutie mark. A cruel overwrite of everything she used to be. She had lost her home, her body, her innocence - but if there was even a chance she could get Gummy back, she would crawl through hell again.
Arms wrapped tight around her waist, Pinky slipped into the bathroom and shut the door with more force than she meant to. The white candles shaped like storybook animals flicker to life at her presence, their soft glow almost gentle against her pink skin. Almost. The light made her feel seen, and being seen made her feel unsafe. She turns on the water, and listens to the pipes groan awake then strips down with hesitant fingers. Even alone, she felt exposed, as if Zalgo's eyes lingered in every shadow, as if the girl she used to be was watching her with disappointment. She refused to let dread take root. Not tonight.
Stepping into the lukewarm water, she faced the stream with her eyes closed, letting it run over her trembling shoulders. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin. And in the quiet, she found her thoughts drifting to the clown - to whether Jack's instability could be turned into something useful, or whether trusting him would be the mistake that results in her failure.
†
The gloomy bathroom was thick with peppermint fog, the scent spicy enough to sting his eyes. Time dragged, but steam continued to pour from the oversized showerhead like a broken chimney. The air felt heavy, almost syrupy, clinging to Jack's skin as if reluctant to let him go. Scrubbing his hair for the third time, he watched dark brown water swirl around him, pooling at his feet in sluggish circles. The sensation of so much grime washing off of him sent unforgettable chills crawling up his spine - a shiver that felt too good, too wrong.
He tilted his head back, letting the water weigh down the massive tangle of hair that crowned him. Completely soaked, it hung past his shoulders and brushed the middle of his back, a wild mane that looked more like something grown in a cave than on a man. He couldn't remember the last time he trimmed it. Or brushed it. Or even acknowledged it as something attached to him. It felt foreign, heavy, alive.
He scrubbed one last time, fingers digging through knots that resisted like stubborn vines. When he finally looked down, he saw the drain choking and gurgling in protest. A massive clump of dead hair spiraled, refusing to sink - tangled with the limp body of a drowned rat he might never have noticed if it hadn't brushed against his toes. Its tiny paws stiff and pale, as though reaching for him. Jack couldn't contain his childish snickering, but the sight felt like an omen. A reminder that the small creatures are never safe in his presence.
He stepped out of the shower, water dripping from his long frame in slow, deliberate trails. The moment his feet touched the bath mat, he winced. His toenails, thick, black, and curling like talons, dug into the fabric with a soft tearing sound. They looked less like nails and more like something grown for climbing out of graves. He'd never had a pedicure. He doubted one could help now.
Still, as the steam curled around him and the peppermint fog thinned, a strange calm settled over his shoulders. Clean or not, monstrous or not, he felt... steadier. Refreshed in a way that made the room seem to hold its breath.
He wiped the fog from the mirror with the back of his hand, revealing a face that looked no less monstrous for all the scrubbing he'd done. Clean porcelain skin only made the sharpness of his features more pronounced - a too-wide grin, hollowed cheeks, and sunken eyes that glimmered with a hunger he pretended not to recognize. The clown's soaked hair clung to him like a dark mane, framing a body built for violence, not redemption. Even stripped of grime, he was still every inch the creature people saw in their nightmares.
Jack held his own fractured gaze for a moment too long, then let the mirror fog over again. Whatever he was becoming, the house already knew. And somewhere within, he could feel the home shifting, watching and waiting for him to take the next step.
†
On the second story of the mansion, at the top of its widest staircase, stood a pair of towering wooden doors, every inch carved with scenes of nature and wildlife so intricate they seemed to shift when no one was looking. The moment the doors parted, the world changed. Inside, books covered the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked in impossible arrangements that defied gravity. The air shimmered faintly, thick with old magic and the weight of knowledge not meant for mortal minds.
Slenderman stood at the center of the colossal library, a pale monolith framed by drifting motes of dust and six long tentacles that dripped black smoke. The smoke curled and slithered like living ink, vanishing before it touched the marbled floor. The room bent subtly around him, as though the manor itself breathed in rhythm with its master.
Behind him, at a long table, a blind demon in a blue mask sits in a puddle of his own tar. The viscous substance steadily drips from the two holes in the mask, spreading slowly across the polished wood. Eyeless Jack was no proxy - Slenderman's proxies had names, roles, purpose. Jack was something else entirely. A loyal creature. A pet tamed by shelter and knowledge. Dressed head to toe in black, fingerless gloves, worn jeans, and a hoodie beneath a battered leather jacket. He blended perfectly into the shadows as if he'd been born from them.
"Isn't he banished?" Jack asked, his voice a low, otherworldly rumble that carried both reverence and unease. Slenderman did not turn. His hovering tendrils drifted across the spines of books in every size and color, selecting volumes with a precision that felt almost divine.
Jack waited. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft thud of books being placed onto the table before him. He accepted the quiet as his answer. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the covers, his carnivorous nails scraping across the leathery textures with a sound that made the candles flicker. His shoulders tightened as he recognized the symbols etched into the bindings - chthonic text, forbidden lore, ancient prophecies whispering of the world's end.
The manor seemed to lean closer, listening.
And somewhere far below, in the depths of the underworld, Zalgo surely felt the shift.
"Are you sure it's time? And with him here? He's the reason we're missing so many heads." Jack's bitterness bled through every word, yet beneath it lay a rare flicker of genuine concern. The godlike figure did not answer. Slenderman turned toward the desk, and the air shifted - a silent promise of strength, of protection, of inevitability. His tendrils gathered the ancient texts with fluid precision, stacking them into his massive white palm as though the books weighed nothing at all.
Jack opened his mouth to protest, but the presence vanished before sound could form. Only the gods command remained, seared into his mind: War is already here. Nobody else is to know.
The room felt colder in Slenderman's absence. Jack shoved the desk aside as he rose, tar dripping from his mask and tapping against the marble floor. The fear of armageddon clawed at his spine, but it was nothing compared to the fury boiling in his chest - fury at the clown's untimely arrival. They needed an army, but with Laughing Jack on their side, problems were more likely than solutions.
Above and below, two ancient powers were stirring. And the world between them had already begun to crack.