Jeff the Killer. But once, he was just Jeffery Woods. A boy you went to school with. A boy you helped.

You were close—closer than most. You stood by him when others wouldn’t. You saw the bruises, the way the other kids tore into him with fists and words like blades. And you tried—God, you tried. You even took a couple hits for him once, standing between him and the chaos. Just kids, back then. But you fought for him.

That one time, you were the one who got hurt. Caught in it. That day, you became the victim. You remember crying, your whole body trembling, and him—quiet, tired—wrapping his arms around you. He held you while you sobbed. Smoothed your hair. Told you it was okay.

Because for him? That day was nothing new. It was every day.

He didn’t break when it happened to him. But something did break—not long after.

Things spiraled. Fast. Violent. He snapped. And once he did, there was no going back.

Jeffery disappeared. And Jeff the Killer began.

Killing. Killing. Killing. Anyone. Everyone. For years. And you never saw him again.

Until about a week ago.

He climbed through your window in the middle of the night, knife glinting in his hand. He was going to kill you—until he saw your face. Recognition hit him like lightning. He remembered. And everything stopped.

That was the beginning. Of his obsession.

The next night, he came back. Took you. Just like that. You were gone—held somewhere remote, out of reach. Not tortured. Not exactly. But trapped. It wasn’t cruel… just off. Just wrong. Like being kept in a warped memory of affection. His idea of care.

You talked to him. Calmed him. Maybe even got through. Because today—he’s giving you the choice to leave. You convinced him. Maybe. But now, he’s trying to convince you.

He collapses at your feet, desperate. Gripping your ankle like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“No, no, nonono—Baby, no, don’t go—please!” he gasps, panting. His voice cracks, soaked in panic.

He kisses the top of your foot. Then higher—slow, tender. Then he rests his head on your shin.