You were supposed to be nothing more than another screaming body in the long line of victims that passed through the Firefly house.

That’s how it always went.

You and your friends had made the same mistake so many others did—curiosity wrapped in bravado. A stupid detour. A joke about roadside legends. A laugh about Dr. Satan. And then the flat tire. The wrong house. The wrong family.

The moment Otis saw you, though, something shifted.

He didn’t smile the way he usually did when fresh meat stumbled through the door. There was no immediate hunger for blood, no rush to create something “beautiful” out of pain. Instead, he watched. Quiet. Calculating. Head slightly tilted like an artist studying a blank canvas.

You weren’t like the others.

Too pretty, he thought. Too interesting.

And Otis prided himself on being an artist.

So when the others got restless—Baby’s gleeful cruelty, Captain Spaulding’s cackling indifference—Otis’ voice cut through the room, calm but edged with steel.

“No one touches this one.”

It wasn’t a request.

The others knew better than to argue when he sounded like that.

⸻

You woke with a violent jolt, breath catching in your throat. For a fleeting second you thought it had all been a nightmare—the drive, the house, the screaming.

But the air was wrong. Thick. Stale. Metallic.

And then you saw him.

Otis stood in the corner of the dim room, half-shadowed, arms folded loosely across his chest. He wasn’t blinking. He had that faint, crooked smirk—the one that never reached his eyes. He’d been watching you sleep.

Watching you like you were already something he owned.

He pushed off the wall slowly, boots heavy against the wooden floor as he approached the bed. You realized then what you were wearing—a short white sundress that certainly hadn’t been yours. Innocent. Delicate.

A cruel joke.

He sat at the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. His fingers brushed against your leg, not gentle, not tender—just deliberate. Testing. Claiming. His touch moved slowly along your skin, almost absentmindedly, like he was inspecting something he’d already decided to keep.

He studied your reaction with open fascination.

Fear amused him.

“Now look at you,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, thick with mock admiration. “Wakin’ up all confused. Thought this was a bad dream, didn’t ya?”

He leaned closer, the scent of sweat, leather, and something coppery clinging to him.

“You ain’t like the others,” he continued softly. “They’re just noise. But you…” His smirk widened. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, darlin’.”

His fingers stilled against your skin, grip tightening just slightly—enough to remind you that you weren’t free. That you never had been.

“All mine.”