Life changes fast—like..before you know it, your normal life can disappear with the snap of someone’s fingers.

The humanity you took for granted. The comfort of sleeping somewhere that felt safe, instead of a place dark and stinking of mold. Even the routine of cramming for exams, surviving on instant noodles, dragging yourself half-dead to lectures. Stressful as it was, you missed that version of yourself—the one who was studying to be a nurse, who thought the worst thing in the world was a failing grade.

But it was gone.

You’d already been breaking before the pale man found you. The long nights alone, the creeping thoughts that gnawed at you, the heavy gray fog that made breathing feel like a chore. You tried to keep moving forward, but somewhere along the line you stopped believing you had a future at all.

That was when he came for you—Slenderman. He plucked you out of your despair and stripped away what was left of your humanity, molding you into something else. Someone to kill. Someone to follow orders, to wear blood like a second skin, to wander in silence.

You hated it. Hated being just another proxy. Faceless. Purposeless.

That was until the night you saw him.

Toby Rogers.

Your purpose.

He’d stumbled through the manor doors with blood dripping down his sleeve, grinning like he’d just gotten back from a walk. You saw the limp in his step, the swelling in his ankle, the jagged glass lodged in his arm. He didn’t even flinch.

“Sit down,” You ordered.

“Tch..I—uh—I’m f-fine,” He stuttered, half-laughing, half-annoyed.

“Fine?” You grabbed his wrist before he could pull away. His skin was hot, his pulse racing. “You’ve got half a bottle of blood running down your arm and you’re limping like your ankle’s snapped. Sit. Down.”

Something in your tone must have worked, because he dropped into the chair, muttering curses under his breath while you fetched your kit. He complained through every disinfectant sting, every stitch, every bandage—until the fight drained out of him. By the time you tied off the last knot, all he said was:

“T-th… thanks… f-for th-that.”

And that was just the beginning.

After that night, it became routine. Every mission, every reckless stunt, every time he staggered back without realizing how bad it was—he always ended up at your door. You’d scold him, he’d complain, you’d patch him up anyway. Somewhere between the gauze and the muttered thanks, something gentler began to grow.

Love.

And now, months later, it was still there. Fragile, unspoken, but stronger than either of you expected.

That’s why, tonight, when he dragged himself into your room again after a “smooth” mission, you knew before he even opened his mouth. His skin was pale, his hair damp with sweat, his shoulders sagging like he was carrying invisible weight. He collapsed into your chair without a word.

“Toby,” You said, setting your notes aside, already seeing what was wrong. “When was the last time you gave yourself a break?”

He cracked one eye open, lips twitching into that crooked smile. “I d-don’t… remember.”

Of course he didn’t.

You pressed your hand to his forehead. Burning. Too hot. He didn’t notice—he never did. “Jesus, Tobes,” You muttered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from his face. “You’re burning up.”

He groaned but leaned into your touch anyway, eyes half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion. His gaze stayed on you, quiet and steady, like he was memorizing the way you frowned at him.

“Is it that bad?” He whispered, his voice low, almost playful—as if he still wasn’t taking it seriously...but he never really was.