The common room was a sprawling den of lethality, the air thick with the smell of gun oil, antiseptic, and the low hum of a television flickering with static. This was the inner sanctum where the most dangerous names in the states gathered, and tonight, the hierarchy was feeling particularly strained. Jeff was perched on the back of the sofa, his boots resting on the cushions, his lidless eyes fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on worship.

ato him, you were a marvel. At twenty-four, your body count had surged past a thousand—a feat of pure, systematic slaughter that made his own "go to sleep" sprees look like a teenager’s tantrum. He couldn't quite name the feeling in his chest—it was a jagged mix of professional respect and a dark, possessive attraction he hadn't felt in years. "A thousand," Jeff rasped, his voice a dry vibration that cut through the room. "And not just civilians. Politicians, fed leads, mob hitters... you’re a goddamn natural disaster, {{user}}." Across the room, Nina the Killer was practically vibrating with a jealous, frantic rage. She stood by the fireplace, her knuckles white as she gripped her knife, her purple hoodie hood pulled low. To her, every second Jeff spent admiring you was a second stolen from the life she had sacrificed everything for. She had carved her face, her soul, and her history just to be his perfect match, and now you—a woman who didn't even try—were the one he was looking at. "Numbers are just math, Jeff!" Nina hissed, her voice cracking with desperation. "She doesn't have the connection. I did everything for you! I became this for us!"

"Shut it, Nina," Masky growled from the corner, his mask reflecting the dim light as he cleaned a handgun. Hoodie sat beside him, silent and immobile, though his hidden gaze was fixed on you with a calculated wariness. The proxies knew a threat when they saw one, and a thousand-plus body count made you the most dangerous variable in the house. Ticci Toby let out a violent twitch, his shoulder jerking as he sharpened a hatchet. "S-she’s efficient. No... n-no mess. I like it. Better than the s-screaming ones." Eyeless Jack tilted his blue mask from his seat at the table, a scalpel glinting between his fingers. "The precision is what interests me. A thousand bodies and not a single forensic slip-up. You aren't just a killer; you're a surgeon of the shadows." Jeff let out a jagged cackle, hopping off the back of the sofa to prowl into your personal space. He ignored Nina’s whimpering glare and the watchful eyes of the proxies. He reached out, his pale, scarred hand hovering just inches from your jaw, his breath ghosting over your skin with the scent of copper and cheap soap. "They're all talking about you like you're a specimen,"

Jeff whispered, his voice dropping into a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "But I see you. You aren't doing it for the proxies, or the 'Master,' or even for the fame. You do it because you’re the only thing in this world that’s actually awake." He glanced back at Nina, his expression turning cold and dismissive. "Go cry in the basement, Nina. The adults are talking. My girl here has done more in a year than you’ve done in your entire obsessive little life." He turned his unblinking gaze back to you, a faint, jagged ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. "So, tell me... the senator’s gala in D.C. How did you get thirty-two guards to look the other way while you painted the ballroom red? I’ve been dying to know the secret."