Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ashley’s footsteps crunched through the thick layer of snow on the cracked pavement, her soaked sneakers barely holding on as the icy slush seeped through. Snow came down in heavy clumps, blanketing everything in sight, turning the street into a haze of white and gray, blurring lights and shadows alike. She stumbled, her legs shaky, each step an effort as the cold gnawed at her bones. Her cheek throbbed from a fresh bruise, her split lip stinging in the chill, and a small trail of blood freezing on her chin.

 She was just coming back from her college lessons, her mind still wrapped in the quiet hum of what she had learned. After all, she was trying to become a forensic pathologist—a dream she had held onto since she was a kid. It was strange, she knew that. Not many people understood why someone would want to spend their days studying death, dissecting bodies, and trying to piece together the stories they told. But for Ashley, it was different. Something was fascinating about the way the human body worked, the secrets it held. Every scar, every wound, every bone—each piece told a story, and she wanted to know them all.

She remembered her childhood, sneaking into her mother’s medical books. Her mom had been a doctor, always busy but always passionate about her work. The books were thick, heavy with knowledge, and filled with detailed illustrations of human anatomy, diseases, and autopsy reports. Most kids played with dolls or toys, but Ashley had always been drawn to something different, something that made her feel like she could understand the world in a way others couldn't. Her mother’s books were her quiet rebellion, her way of connecting to a world that often felt out of reach.

The older she got, the more her fascination grew. Her mom had passed away many years ago, but those books remained, tucked away in a dusty corner of Ashley’s house. She would sit for hours, flipping through the pages, tracing the lines of muscles and organs with her fingers, imagining the stories behind each condition, each injury. It felt like the only part of her mother she had left—something that wasn’t about the life she lived, but the life she had dedicated herself to saving.

Her old classmates often found it odd, and sometimes they made jokes about it, harassing her for it when she was a kid. But Ashley never let it bother her. She knew what she wanted, and despite the darkness of her path, it felt like the one thing in her life that gave her purpose. Even if it was a little strange, it was hers.

Well, it would be hers, but there was one thing stopping her from becoming what she had always wanted to be. It was her fear of blood and human insides in general.

She hated herself for that.

She was weak, and she knew it.

She cursed under her breath breaking her train of thought, clutching her side where one of the bastards had kicked her, it was one of her bullies, and the ache of what they did pulsed with every breath she took. Her clothes clung to her body, wet and freezing, turning her skin numb beneath the layers. She’d forgotten her coat in the rush this morning—of course, a snowstorm would hit now. Just her luck.

The streetlights were dim, half-hidden by snowflakes swirling thick in the air, their pale glow barely slicing through the wintry fog. She strained her eyes, struggling to make out where she was, but everything was a blur. All she could see were dark, vague outlines of buildings, looming like ghosts in the storm. A car passed, tires crunching over snow, but she barely noticed, too worn out to care.

Ashley glanced up, snowflakes pelting her face, their icy touch biting her skin. Her fingers were trembling—whether from the cold or the ache in her bruised ribs, she wasn’t sure. She reached for the chain around her neck, gripping it tightly, a small warmth in the bitter night.

With a heavy sigh, she forced herself to keep going. This wasn’t the first time she’d ended up like this—bruised, alone, trudging through the snow. And somewhere deep down, she knew it wouldn’t be the last. They wouldn't leave her alone, no matter what, and she would not stay silent. She had always talked back whenever they tried talking down about her dreams because it was in her nature, she wouldn't let them ruin her dreams, not like that.

It was Christmas, but it didn’t feel like it. The air was heavy with the usual winter chill, but there was no warmth, no sparkle of cheer in Ashley’s heart. Her parents died in a car crash so her only family left was her Aunt, a sharp, rich businesswoman who carried herself with the kind of cold perfection that felt almost inhuman. Her aunt had been her legal guardian not long ago, back when Ashley had no choice but to rely on her. But now, at 21, she was her own person. Her aunt no longer had any power over her.

Still, her aunt helped, in the only way she knew how—money. She’d always told Ashley it was because she felt responsible, but Ashley knew the truth. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t kindness. It was a pity. It stung, but she didn’t let it show. The money meant freedom. Because of it, she had her own house now, a nice, quiet place that was hers. She could afford the things she enjoyed, it was the little comforts that kept her going through days like today.

But today, she wasn’t feeling any of that. Her feet shuffled through the snow as she walked, each step slow, her body was heavy from the bruises and aches she had. She stopped in front of a small laundry shop, its warm light glowing through the foggy windows. Normally, Ashley would’ve done her laundry at home, but today was different. Her clothes were stained with blood, her blood, and she didn’t want to risk making a mess in her own laundry room. The thought of it made her stomach turn. She didn’t have the patience for the mess, the smell. Not today.

Thankfully, she had a change of clothes in her backpack. Her current outfit—torn, bloody, and heavy with the weight of her day—was something she couldn’t wait to get rid of. The fabric stuck to her skin, cold and uncomfortable. She sighed and pushed open the door to the shop, the bell above it ringing softly.

The warmth inside was a small comfort, and Ashley hurried to the washing machines, feeling the weight of every bruise, every scrape pressing down on her. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, too tired, too drained to look up at anyone or anything. She just wanted a moment of silence, of relief. The laundromat was empty, no one else around to disturb her, and it made the quiet feel even heavier.

She made her way to the bathroom, the soft hum of the machines was the only sound around her. Once inside, she quickly stripped off the soaked clothing clinging to her skin, her body ached with every movement, but she fought through the dread. The cold air hit her, it was a sharp change to the warmth of her sore body. She pulled on a clean hoodie and sweatpants, the fabric soft and comforting against her bruised skin.

 For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, just standing there, letting herself breathe, letting the exhaustion wash over her.

When she stepped out again, the place still felt deserted. She walked back to the rows of machines, the air cold as she slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. The simple act of feeding it into the machine felt like something small she could control in a world that never gave her that luxury, it was comforting in a way she couldn't explain. She put her dirty clothes into one of the washers, the damp fabric still heavy with blood, the stains faded but still there.

Ashley pressed the button, and the machine started with a soft whir, the sound echoing through the empty space. She took a deep breath, her shoulders sinking in relief. The emptiness of the laundromat gave her a small, strange peace. No one was there to watch her, no one was there to make her feel small. It was just her and the quiet hum of the washers.

Until it wasn’t just her.

A soft noise on her left caught her attention. It was subtle at first, just a rustle, but there was no mistaking it. Someone else was here. She frowned, looking up briefly. It was late, around 10 PM, and she hadn’t expected anyone else to be at the laundromat. The place was usually emptied out by now. But she didn’t want to disturb whoever it was, so she stayed quiet, hoping the stranger would just mind their own business.

She wasn’t very lucky.

The sound came closer, and soon, the stranger stepped into view, moving to the other side of the machines. Ashley froze, not out of fear, but confusion and—strangely—interest. The person wasn’t what she expected at all. The stranger was... well, a clown. A monochrome clown at that. His entire outfit was black and white, and the first thing she noticed was a little black hat perched on his head.

 A clown. 

In a laundromat.

 At 10 PM.

 Ashley blinked, unsure if she was seeing things. Life sure had a way of surprising her.

The clown froze too, his eyes squinting in confusion as he stared at her. He hadn’t heard her, and the sight of her standing there seemed to throw him off. She must have been quieter than she thought. After a moment, his surprise faded and she decided to speak. "Oh! Uh, hello. I’m sorry if I startled you," she said, her voice breaking the stillness of the room. His head tilted slightly as if not expecting for her to speak to him at all, but he quickly raised his hands in front of him, palms out, signaling ‘No problem.’

Ashley smiled slightly at the awkward gesture. “So... what’re you doing in here so late in the evening? Costume party gone wrong?” she asked, her tone teasing but light. She found herself feeling a little braver than usual. Usually, she was a quiet person, an introvert one would say, but something about the clown not speaking made her more confident. After all, if he did not speak, he could not judge her, at least not in words. "You’re a little late for Halloween, aren't you?"

The clown didn’t respond with words, but instead, he put a hand on his chest and pointed to himself, then gestured to the laundromat as if to ask, ‘What about you?’

Ashley raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming. “Me? Well, just trying to get these stains out. Guess we both found some weird places to be tonight.” She didn’t mind the silence anymore—it felt strange but easy. Something about it made her more open than she usually was.

He silently giggled at her question, and it made her laugh in return as well. He nodded and shrugged his shoulder, 'What can you do?' was probably what he wanted to gesture. His motions were pretty spot-on because she could understand him even though he had not uttered one word since speaking to her. 

"You're a quiet one, aren't ya?" she asked, glancing at the clown. In response, he shook his head.

Ashley blinked, puzzled. He definitely hadn't said a word, so what was that supposed to mean? "Not quiet? So you make a lot of noise, huh?" she ventured, her curiosity growing. To her surprise, the clown nodded eagerly, his face lighting up as if she’d gotten something right.

She couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re a funny one…” Her words trailed off as her washing machine suddenly beeped, signaling that her laundry was done.

Ashley glanced at the machine and then back at the clown. "Sorry, let me just—" She sighed, reaching for her laundry. When she pulled it out, though, her heart sank. The blood stains hadn’t come out. If anything, they looked worse—darker, more spread out, as if they had soaked deeper into the fabric. It was her favorite shirt. She didn’t want to throw it away. She bit her lip, staring at it, frustrated.

The clown made a hand motion to catch her attention, and she looked up to find him pointing at the shirt. She tilted her head, unsure. Was he asking about the blood stains? It seemed like it.

"Are you asking about the stains?" she exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. The clown nodded again, his expression almost serious now as if waiting for her to explain.

"Oh! Yeah, well, let's just say I fell down the stairs..." she lied, forcing a smile. She knew it was a half-baked excuse, but it was all she had.

The clown didn’t seem impressed. He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow as if he could see right through her story. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he pointed at the bruises covering her face and arms.

Shit.

 She’d completely forgotten about the bruises. She hadn’t even noticed how much they’d spread or darkened over the past few hours. The cold air had numbed her skin, but the clown's silent gaze made it all feel too real.

Wait.

Now that she looked at him better, Ashley realized something that made her stomach churn. The clown had blood on him too.

It was coming from his chest.

At first, she hadn’t noticed—too distracted by everything else, maybe—but now, it was undeniable. There was a bloodstain spreading across his chest, slowly soaking through his white outfit.

"Oh my god! You're bleeding!" she shouted, her voice full of panic. The clown flinched in surprise at her sudden outburst. His eyes flickered down to his chest, where the blood was starting to seep through. He sighed, a soft, inaudible sound, then waved his hand dismissively as if to say, 'It’s nothing.'

"Oh hell no, I’m not watching a clown bleed out in front of me, n-no thanks," Ashley stuttered, her hands trembling. She watched in horror as the blood seemed to flow heavier, the stain expanding at an alarming rate.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She was a medical student, for god’s sake. She should know what to do. But the sight of blood? That always made her feel dizzy, lightheaded—like she couldn’t breathe. Her thoughts scattered as the scene in front of her became overwhelming.

"Just—sit down! Right now," she said, her voice tight with urgency. She couldn’t look at the wound. Instead, she grabbed his shoulder and, with as much force as she could muster, pushed him gently to sit on the floor. Thankfully, he complied even though he looked more than surprised by her actions.

"Right—I'm gonna go find a medkit, stay here," she told him, her words rushed and clipped. She didn’t wait for a response. She turned on her heels and hurried to search the small laundromat, her mind racing.

Stay calm. You can do this. You know what to do. She repeated it like a prayer, but even with the words, it felt impossible to control the panic rising in her chest.

Chapter Text

Ashley smiled, a wave of relief washing over her as she finally prepared to leave. After the strange encounter, she was eager to head home and unwind. “Hey, I’ve gotta go now,” she said, tossing her clean laundry into her backpack. “It was nice meeting you, really. You… kinda made my day, so thanks.” She turned to go, only to feel a gloved hand grip her shoulder.

She stopped, frowning as she looked back. “Yeah? What’s up?” There was a hint of irritation in her voice, not entirely masked.

The clown, still standing there with his ridiculous costume and bandaged wound, looked around, as though trying to figure out how to express himself. He seemed to think for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. Ashley’s gaze zeroed in on his teeth, realizing with a start how grotesque they looked—stained with blood, unsettlingly real. Was that part of the costume? It was a convincing touch, she had to admit.

He pointed at his wound, then at her, as if to say something. Ashley tilted her head, trying to follow. “Are you… thanking me?” she asked slowly.

The clown nodded, but there was something else, something more he was trying to convey. His hands moved as if sewing, and then he pointed at her again. Her eyes widened as realization dawned.

“No way. You want me to stitch you up?”

He nodded again, looking at her expectantly. Ashley gaped, feeling her stomach twist. She’d been okay disinfecting the wound, but sewing it shut? The thought made her queasy. “Yeah, no. I’m not stitching you up,” she replied, backing up a little. “I’m… kinda off-limits in that area.” She felt a little foolish admitting it, but he looked genuinely confused.

“It’s stupid, but I’m not a fan of… blood,” she muttered, looking down. “Or… you know, human insides and stuff.” She rubbed the back of her neck, laughing nervously. She’d come all this way as a medical student, but when it came to blood, her nerves still got the best of her.

The clown watched her in silence, his expression covered in confusion as he shook his head. He pointed at her, then at the bandage she’d just wrapped around his wound, almost as if saying, But you managed that just fine.

She shrugged. “Bandaging, I can handle.” Yet something lingered in her mind. Maybe this was an opportunity—a chance to finally try and get over her fear, to prove herself. Maybe, just maybe, she could push through and show her professors, and her classmates that she could handle this, that she was not weak. The clown seemed to sense her hesitation, his eyes glinting with sudden interest.

Seizing the moment, he put on a pleading expression, acting as if the wound was agonizing, as though he might faint from the pain. Ashley couldn’t help but laugh a little at his exaggerated theatrics. Despite everything, he had a way of pulling her in, making her forget her own fears.

“Oh, alright,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, though a faint smile crept onto her lips. “I’ll… try to stitch it up.” Maybe this was just what she needed.

Ashley froze as she realized a minor but critical detail: she didn’t carry a needle or stitching supplies in her backpack. Which meant, if she was going to help this clown properly, she’d have to bring him back to her place. The idea sent a chill down her spine. Inviting a stranger—even one who seemed more mischievous than menacing, and was wearing a costume—wasn’t her wisest move. And this wasn’t just any stranger. This was a blood-smeared, silent clown, and that wasn’t exactly the most reassuring image.

She glanced at him, weighing her options. The pharmacy would likely have what she needed, but it was far away, and she was already drained. Plus, the stores were closing soon. After a deep breath, she sighed and looked back at him.

“Alright,” she started, eyes narrowing. “I’ll let you come home with me if you promise not to turn out to be some cold-blooded killer that’s going to murder me the second I turn my back. Deal?”

The clown’s reaction was immediate: he gasped, covering his mouth in mock horror, as if deeply offended by her suggestion. Then his mouth twisted into a mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of humor and something else she couldn’t quite place. A little unnerved, she shook her head.

“Yeah, right. Somehow, I don’t buy it. But fine.” She tried to ignore the unsettling edge to his smile. “I’ll stitch you up, Mr. Murder Clown,” she joked, feeling slightly more comfortable with a nickname to keep him at arm’s length. The term “Murder Clown” felt weirdly familiar, but she brushed the thought aside. Her focus had to be on getting him patched up and out of her life, preferably sooner rather than later.

As they left the laundromat, Ashley kept a cautious distance, clutching her backpack with the freshly cleaned laundry tight against her side. The streets were silent at this hour, with flickering streetlamps casting long shadows that danced around them. She glanced back at the clown, who trailed behind her with an oddly cheerful spring in his step as if this strange, late-night trip to her house was a casual evening stroll.

When they reached her house, she hesitated a moment before unlocking the door and letting him inside. “Alright, don’t touch anything,” she muttered, hoping he’d actually listen.

The clown looked around with wide-eyed curiosity as they stepped into her small, cozy space. He took in the modest furnishings, her scattered books, and the sparse but comfortable decor. Meanwhile, Ashley dug through a drawer in her living room, pulling out a basic sewing kit. Her hands already felt shaky as the reality of what she was about to do settled in. She was really about to stitch up this stranger—a clown, no less—in her own home.

“Okay,” she murmured, laying out the supplies on the coffee table. “Sit there. And no funny business.”

To her surprise, he complied, sitting down obediently. Ashley took a deep breath, willing her nerves to settle as she reached for the needle and thread. Her gaze drifted to his bloodstained costume, her mind buzzing with questions she didn’t dare ask. Instead, she unzipped his costume once more without skipping a beat.

“Right,” she said, exhaling to steady herself. “This… might sting.” She leaned in, needle in hand, her heart racing. Just as she was about to start the first stitch, the clown gave her a wide, unsettling grin that made her pulse skip. Something in her screamed danger as she looked at him, but she decided to ignore it. Fuck yes, there was something wrong with this guy, but she wasn't about to fuck around and find out, not today, not when he now knows where she lives.

“You’d better not move, got it?” she warned, narrowing her eyes. He raised his hands in a show of mock surrender, though his mischievous smile never faltered. Was he enjoying this? She hoped not, because that seemed a little out of line, even for her.

“Good,” she whispered, her voice barely steady as she began the first careful stitch.

Chapter Text

The first prick of the needle through his skin was the worst. Ashley felt it—felt the resistance of flesh, the pull as the thread passed through, and the tension as the wound closed bit by bit. Her stomach churned, and her palms grew damp, but she gritted her teeth and kept going. She had no choice; the clown was still bleeding, and she had no idea how much blood he had left to lose.

As she continued stitching, she couldn't help but feel his gaze on her. His eyes were unsettling, never wavering, locked onto her with a kind of eerie curiosity. What was he thinking? Was he even grateful she was helping him?

In truth, gratitude was far from his mind. The clown's thoughts were dark, and calculating. He stared at her, silent, considering all the ways he could end this strange little interaction. He debated whether to kill her here and now or let the game play on a bit longer. There was something about her—a naive kindness, an almost innocent nerve. She hadn't a clue who he was, nor the chaos he was capable of. Perhaps he should show her, he mused. He could see just how much pain she could bear before she broke, how many of his tricks she'd endure before her body and mind snapped.

His thoughts were interrupted as Ashley sighed, pulling back slightly. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and a frown crossed her face. "Do you have to be so quiet? It's... kinda hard to work like this," she mumbled, clearly uncomfortable under his silent stare. "I'm not exactly a pro at this." Her hand was still resting on his chest, steadying herself, but she could feel his muscles tense beneath her touch, almost as if he bristled at her words. Why would she expect him to talk? It wasn't as if he could.

Noticing his discomfort, she shifted her gaze, looking down at her trembling hands. "Sorry... I'm just nervous," she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The clown's expression didn't change. If anything, his stare grew more intense, as though he were sizing her up, calculating her breaking point. His gaze held a strange amusement, like a predator amused by its prey's obliviousness. But instead of snapping at her, he remained still, letting her finish her work, letting her believe she was helping him. Maybe he could let this play out a bit longer, it was interesting after all.

Ashley took another steadying breath and resumed stitching. Her fear chipped away a bit with each stitch, replaced by a shaky confidence. She could do this. Yet, beneath her concentration, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that his gaze wasn't just from pain. 

But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on her task. For now, she was just a girl stitching up a stranger. 

Ashley kept stitching, eyes fixed on the needle's slow, steady pull through his skin. The thread soaked up his blood, darkening from bright red to a deep, haunting shade that seemed to hold its own strange beauty. She caught herself watching the crimson liquid as it trickled, fascinated, and at that moment, hated herself for it. It was sick, she thought. Disgusting, even. This wasn't right; she should never find blood beautiful.

She clenched her jaw, swallowing down the wave of shame and nausea that rose up. Why did her mind go to these places? She wanted to stop it, to smother this twisted fascination before it grew, but it felt like it had taken root inside her, feeding off every uncomfortable moment like this.

Ashley's throat felt dry, and she let out a shaky breath, her stomach churning. She shouldn't be thinking like this. The way the blood flowed, its vibrant red contrasting against her pale fingers—it was... compelling. She couldn't help but think of it as a dark, twisted art piece, like the ones she kept around her house to confront her fears. But this was no painting. This was real, warm, pulsing life spilling out, and she was here, entranced by it.

No. She couldn't let herself sink into that. She had to pull back, and fast.

Suddenly, she jerked away from him, dropping the needle on the table with trembling hands, and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. Her stomach lurched as she made it to the sink, bile rising in her throat. She heaved, barely holding herself up, gasping as the taste of bile burned her tongue. She looked up at her reflection, face pale, eyes wide with horror. The thoughts, the dark fascination—they gnawed at her, eating away at her from the inside, and she couldn't escape them.

She turned on the tap, splashing cold water over her face, trying to shake the feeling. Disgust clawed at her chest, mingling with a shame so deep she wanted to curl up and disappear. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she just be... normal? Maybe her bullies had been right, she thought bitterly. She was a freak. Who else would find themselves lost in the beauty of blood?

Her thoughts spiraled, looping over her own self-loathing. She felt trapped, bound by her mind's cruel twists. She was broken, she decided. No one could help her now, and getting a medical professional would only confirm what she feared: that this darkness inside her wasn't going away. The thought of anyone knowing, of exposing herself that way, felt too raw, too real.

She closed her eyes, hands braced against the sink. She took a shaky breath, steadying herself. She had chosen to help that clown, and now she was paying the price, her own mind punishing her for it. If only she could shake this feeling—this deep, gnawing sense that, no matter what she did, she couldn't outrun who she was becoming.

With a deep breath, Ashley stepped out of the bathroom, bracing herself before she met the clown's eyes again. His gaze held a strange curiosity, and she looked away quickly, embarrassed. "Sorry... Like I said, I'm not the best at this. Let's keep going," she said, picking up the needle again.

The clown tilted his head, then raised a hand, motioning as if to ask if she was alright. She was getting better at reading his gestures. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replied, sounding steadier than she felt. She took hold of the needle once more and focused all her energy on finishing. Her thoughts stayed silent this time; she kept herself in the present, each stitch carefully placed until, at last, she finished.

With a relieved sigh, Ashley stepped back, smiling. "All done! Take a look," she said proudly, watching as he glanced down at her work. The stitching actually looked clean, and professional. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she couldn't help but grin. "No need to thank me! I guess I'm pretty good at this," she joked, though the clown's raised eyebrow told her he wasn't entirely convinced.

"Well... almost good at this," she admitted sheepishly, tucking her hair behind her ear. They both fell silent, the clown just sitting there, watching her, and for a moment, she wished he would take the hint that she was about ready to call it a night.

Finally, he stood up, and she saw a dark, bloodstained patch on the couch where he'd been sitting. Oh, great. She should've seen that coming. His costume was filthy.

And then it hit her—he hadn't taken his laundry from the laundromat. Her face flushed, realizing she'd been so caught up in the whole situation that she'd led him away without letting him grab his clothes. "You... you don't have anything else to change into, do you?" she asked, watching his expression shift from surprise to amusement. He found her realization funny.

Ashley laughed with him, nerves easing just a bit. "I'm so sorry! I was so nervous about everything, I made you forget your laundry," she apologized, rubbing the back of her neck. "How about this: I'll wash the costume you're in right now, and you can... uh, you can take a shower here?"

As the words came out, she cringed internally. That sounded a bit... well, she didn't want him to get the wrong idea. Her cheeks flushed a deep red. "Right—no funny business or anything! Just, you know... the bathroom's right there, and if you hand me the clothes after, I'll throw them in the wash. It'll be quick!"

The clown chuckled again, and Ashley couldn't help but feel a little flustered. "Deal?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound as awkward as she felt. He nodded and headed down the hall toward the guest bathroom. With the door mostly closed, he handed her his costume piece by piece, and she took them gratefully, making her way to the laundry room.

As she tossed his clothes into the washing machine, she realized it wasn't as awkward as she'd thought it would be. Something about helping him—this strange, silent clown—was almost comforting. She couldn't quite explain it, but he didn't seem like a bad guy. Maybe she'd just gotten the wrong impression.

With a sigh, Ashley leaned against the counter, waiting for the machine to finish. 

When the dryer finished, Ashley pulled out the clown's costume, now fresh and warm, smelling faintly of flowers and vanilla. She hoped he'd like the scent; it was one of her favorites. She gave the costume a quick look-over, pleased to see it looking nearly new. Feeling a bit more at ease, she knocked on the bathroom door, calling out, "Your clothes are ready!"

She left them outside the door and returned to her living room to tackle the bloodstains on the couch. Armed with bleach and a couple of cleaning supplies, she scrubbed at the mess, relieved it came out quicker than she'd expected. Just as she finished, she heard the bathroom door open. She looked up to see the clown stepping out, his costume back on and his face still painted in that eerie, unmoving makeup, though he was now scrubbed clean from the grime of the night.

In the brighter light, she could appreciate his features a bit more. There was something oddly appealing about him, a strange magnetism that made her wonder what he looked like under the makeup. She smiled, "Did you enjoy the shower?"

The clown nodded, though his expression was one of slight confusion, as if unsure what to do next. Ashley felt a similar uncertainty—how exactly did you wrap up a night with a clown you'd patched up on your couch?

"Right... Well, how about we call it a night? I've got school tomorrow, and I need to sleep," she said, hoping he'd take it as a friendly send-off rather than a dismissal. The clown tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to consider something deeply. A small flicker of an expression crossed his face, something unplaceable, almost nostalgic, but before she could read into it, he gave her a slight nod. With a playful wave goodbye, he stepped toward the door.

He paused for a moment in the doorway, glancing back at her with a look that was hard to place. There was something about the way he stared, something that lingered just a moment too long. Ashley felt a slight chill, but quickly brushed it off.

He nodded once, then stepped into the night, the door clicking shut behind him.

Ashley locked up and took a moment to lean against the door, replaying the night's events. A shiver ran through her, not quite fear, but a strange thrill at having met someone as peculiar as him. 

She wondered what went through his mind when he paused in the doorway.

Chapter Text

In the weeks following her strange encounter with the clown, Ashley was back in the tight loop of her daily life. Her routines had always felt suffocating—waking up, getting dressed, trudging through her classes, enduring the same tired bullying, heading back home, studying, sleeping, then doing it all over again. The monotony was grinding her down, and she felt it more sharply than ever. The small, strange break in that pattern—the clown she’d met—had given her a taste of something else. His presence had lingered in her mind, an odd interruption to her dull, gray world.

Ashley sighed, kicking a stone from her path.

But now? He was gone, likely forever, and she found herself missing that dangerous spark he brought with him. The monochrome stranger with his eerie charm had been something vivid against her routine, someone she couldn’t understand yet was drawn to. The more she thought about him, the more she felt a gnawing desire to know who he really was.

Still, something held her back. She could have easily looked him up online, even typed “clown” into the news to find out more, but each time she reached for her phone or sat at her computer, a hesitation stopped her. She had a feeling about him, a quiet suspicion. Whispers had drifted around her for weeks now about someone—“The Miles County Clown”—and she could feel the truth threading through those words. But she ignored it, told herself it was just a coincidence.

A part of her wasn’t ready to confirm what she already feared. Maybe she was better off pretending he was nothing more than a peculiar stranger with a bleeding side. After all, there had been something fascinating about him, something beyond his silence and the oddity of his presence in her life. She thought about the way he’d watched her as she stitched him up, his expressions, his silence. She’d felt drawn into something unknown, and that pull hadn’t released her yet.

It was unnerving to think about, but she realized, as she sat alone in her living room, that he’d somehow left a mark on her. No matter how hard she tried to focus on her textbooks, and on her studies, her thoughts kept slipping back to him. She’d patched him up, and now it felt like some invisible thread bound her to him, leading her back to that night, over and over again.

A strange thrill pulsed through her at the memory, a sense that she was playing with something dangerous, but she didn’t pull back. She’d let the mystery of him live in her thoughts for now, even if part of her knew better than to dwell on it. Because deep down, she understood that he wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. He wasn’t safe, wasn’t good, and as her mind wandered to his dark, silent gaze, she wondered what thoughts might be lurking behind it—the kind she wasn’t sure she’d want to know.

With a deep breath, Ashley shook herself free of her thoughts. Evening had crept in, and she’d just finished a long day of lessons, leaving her feeling both drained and famished. Normally, she’d throw something together to eat at home, but the thought of doing dishes tonight had her feeling restless. Instead, she decided to head to the diner nearby.

It was a small, family-run place she visited often, a cozy spot with food that hit the right spot every time. She even knew the owner, Bella, personally. Bella was an older woman who’d lost her children years ago, and while she was kind to all her customers, Ashley sensed a quiet loneliness about her. Over time, they’d grown close, and Ashley would often visit just to spend time with her. She didn’t do it out of pity—she did it because she understood that loneliness in a way that words couldn’t capture.

Ashley’s cold fingers wrapped around the diner’s door handle, and a soft ring greeted her as she stepped inside. Warm air and the familiar smell of spices and freshly cooked food wrapped around her, melting away the chill in her cheeks. She loved that place; it felt like home, and right now, that was exactly what she needed.

As soon as she entered, Bella’s face lit up. “Darlin’! I was wonderin’ when you’d come by, you sweet thing!” Bella said, her arms open for a warm hug. Ashley stepped into it, feeling a rush of comfort she rarely found anywhere else. Bella felt more like family to her than anyone she knew, and though it sounded dramatic, Ashley would have done anything for her. That’s how much she loved the old lady.

“Hello, Auntie,” she replied with a smile, slipping into a seat at one of the far tables. She always chose the hidden corners, where she could keep an eye on everything but still feel tucked away. It was just a few feet from the counter where Bella often stayed, and from here, Ashley could watch her cook. Bella handed her a menu, though Ashley already knew what she’d order.

“What can I get for you tonight, sweetie?” Bella asked, beaming.

“Curry with rice, please.” It was her favorite, a dish that reminded her of her mother. Bella’s curry was the closest to her mom’s cooking she’d ever tasted, and it brought back memories every time.

“Coming right up!” Bella responded, moving toward the kitchen with a smile.

Ashley leaned back in her chair, letting herself relax. The warm light, the faint sound of old tunes from the jukebox, the smell of spices—all of it wrapped around her like a blanket. She wasn’t sure how many places she could go and feel this safe. The diner, with Bella’s warmth and the simple joy of a hot meal, was one of the few places she could feel at peace, even just for a little while.

And that little while of peace seemed to vanish the moment the bell above the door jingled, signaling someone’s entrance. A chill crept down Ashley’s spine, a tense sensation she hadn’t expected.

She turned toward the door.

Oh.

It was just two girls, maybe her age, stumbling in with flushed faces and the unmistakable air of a long night out.

Who the hell had she thought it would be?

Jesus, she seriously needed to get a grip.

One of the girls spotted Bella and called out, a little too loudly, “Excuse me!” Her voice was bubbly, half-laughing as she stumbled up to the counter. Both girls were dolled up in bright, fading makeup, and their short dresses had seen better hours. A long time ago, Ashley might’ve felt envious, watching them, but now, as she sat in her usual corner, a dull emptiness replaced any spark of comparison. The edges of her jealousy had worn down, replaced by something she couldn’t even name.

The second girl chimed in, voice a bit slurred, “Can we get, uh… the pepperoni pizza? Thanks!” Bella, ever the warm host, took their order with her usual grace, sending them a kind smile.

Ashley kept her gaze low, hoping to avoid their attention. She wasn’t in the mood for an awkward encounter and could tell by their expressions that these two probably weren’t the kind to leave her alone if they noticed her. They giggled to themselves as they slouched into the seats near the window, far enough from her table but close enough that she could still hear their chatter echoing through the small diner.

She glanced back to Bella, who caught her eye with a comforting look as if sensing Ashley’s unease. It was a small gesture, but it made her feel safer.

Then the bell rang again.

It was him.

The monochrome clown stepped into the diner, his shadow stretching long under the dim lights, and made his way to a table near the entrance. He didn’t seem to notice her there, seated in the corner. Ashley stayed still, hoping to keep it that way—they were just strangers, after all. She’d helped him out one night, nothing more, no strings attached. Right?

Right, she told herself firmly, forcing her gaze down to her plate.

But the two girls had noticed him, too. Low, mocking laughter rippled between them as they eyed him from across the room, the glances and giggles growing louder, more deliberate. Thankfully, the clown seemed oblivious, or at least unbothered. For their sake, Ashley hoped it stayed that way.

Bella’s voice broke her thoughts. "Here ya go, sweetie, your curry’s done." She set the steaming bowl before Ashley with a soft smile, and Ashley managed a grateful nod in return. She took a bite, savoring the warm, familiar flavors, trying to let them calm her unsettled mind. The diner, normally a sanctuary, didn’t feel as safe tonight.

Her peace was short-lived, though, as one of the girls decided to raise the stakes. "Hey! You!" one called out in a bright, teasing tone, waving across the diner at the clown. She was practically inviting trouble, and Ashley tensed, wishing they’d just let him be. From what she’d seen, he didn’t look like the type to handle ridicule lightly—and who knew what he might do if someone pushed him just a little too far?

Her dad, a psychology professor, always said, “We can all go insane with just one bad day.” Ashley had never forgotten those words, and now, watching the clown’s slow, expressionless gaze lift to meet the girls, she couldn’t shake them from her mind. She didn't want these girls to become the reason for his “one bad day”—especially not here, not now.

One of the girls, apparently undeterred, leaned forward and called again, in a high, mocking voice, “Why so sad?” She puckered her lips, pulling a face, her laughter echoing against the diner’s tiled walls. Ashley shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two girls and the clown, wishing she were anywhere else.

The clown’s eyes fixed on them, and though he didn’t smile or move, something in his gaze was unsettling. It was like a silent warning, something dangerous. He was watching them with an unnerving stillness, his face completely blank, yet somehow more menacing for it.

Ashley’s pulse quickened. She could practically feel the tension thickening in the air, each second tightening the thread between them all. It was late at night, and the girls didn’t seem to realize that baiting a strange, silent clown in an empty diner might be the worst decision they’d ever make.

With a resigned sigh, Ashley stood up and walked over to the two girls, bracing herself. “Hey, you two,” she said loudly, drawing their attention away from the clown. She avoided looking in his direction, not wanting to know if he was watching her too, though she felt sure he was.

One of the girls, looking surprised, raised an eyebrow at her. “Yeah…?”

Ashley clenched her jaw, channeling all her frustration into her tone. “You two are loud as hell. Can you keep it down?” she shot back, letting as much venom seep into her words as she could.

For a second, they just stared, stunned. Then, the shock turned into laughter, their voices blending into shrill giggles.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” one sneered. “Make us?”

Ashley narrowed her eyes, feeling her patience snap. “Be quiet, or I’ll make sure everyone on social media sees you two in this state.” She let her gaze drift to their faces. “Seriously, take a look in the mirror. Your mascara’s running, and your foundation looks like it's crumbling off.”

Their expressions instantly shifted from mocking to horror. They whipped out a small mirror, checking their makeup.

“Oh my god!” one of them squealed, covering her face. She grabbed the other’s arm. “Come on, let’s go!” she said, tugging her friend along as they scrambled out of the diner, leaving the bell jingling in their wake.

Ashley let out a deep breath, feeling a mix of relief and exhaustion. That had taken more courage than she cared to admit. She hadn’t looked at the clown since, but as she turned back to her table, she noticed he was smiling at her—a real smile, one that made his face look almost… happy.

He was happy to see her.

With a tired smile, she greeted him. “Yeah, it’s been a while, huh? How’s the wound holding up, big guy?” Her tone was softer, letting him know that she was checking in, maybe even making him feel less embarrassed. She knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of mockery, and she wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

The clown raised a thumbs-up, then gestured to the empty seat across from him as if asking her to join him. She hesitated for a second, but then shrugged and brought her plate over to his table. What’s the worst that could happen? she thought. Maybe she’d been misunderstanding him all along; maybe he was just a nice guy with an odd hobby of dressing up as a clown.

As if sensing she was lost in her thoughts, he waved a hand in front of her face, snapping her back to the present.

“Yeah?” she asked, and he pointed at her.

“Are you asking how I am?” she guessed, and he nodded. She sighed, then shrugged, deciding to be honest. “Well, things could be better. I’m barely scraping by in my anatomy exams, and school life’s pretty much killing me, but hey, it could be worse. What about you?”

Before he could respond, a familiar voice cut in. “Ashley, sweetie, what’re you doing over here with this fella?” It was Bella, her face lined with concern as she looked between Ashley and the clown.

The clown glanced back and forth between her and Bella, his expression shifting as if he were trying to figure something out. He pointed first at Ashley, then at Bella, as if connecting the two of them somehow.

“What?” Ashley asked, frowning a bit. Bella repeated her question, a bit softer this time. “Ashley, everything alright?”

The clown pointed again, clearly expecting something. Oh. He must be asking for her name. She hadn’t even told him yet, had she?

“Oh! Right, sorry,” she said, feeling a little foolish. “My name’s Ashley.” The clown’s eyes brightened, and he mimed a cheer, clearly pleased by her answer.

Ashley turned to Bella, flashing her an assuring smile. “I’m fine, Auntie. This guy is… a friend,” she said, though even she wasn’t entirely sure what to call him. Thankfully, Bella seemed to accept it, giving the clown one last look before returning to the kitchen.

Ashley turned back to him, tilting her head with a small smirk. “So, what’s your name, then? Or should I just call you Mr. Murder Clown for eternity?” She watched his expression closely, her words light but her curiosity genuine.

He seemed to think about it for a moment, glancing around the room, before his eyes landed on a piece of artwork hanging on a nearby wall—a painting in bright colors with bold, striking shapes.

“Art?” she asked, not sure if she was interpreting it right.

The clown’s face lit up, and he gave an enthusiastic nod, clapping his hands together. Ashley couldn’t help but laugh a little. It suited him, somehow, in a strange way.

“So, Art it is,” she murmured, glancing at him thoughtfully. It was hard to tell what exactly she thought of him, but she couldn’t deny he intrigued her.

They— and by they, she only meant her, because he did not eat— ate in silence for a few moments, and Ashley noticed Art watching her with something close to amusement like he found her presence comforting, or maybe even entertaining. She had to admit, she hadn’t felt this kind of curiosity about anyone in a long time.

When she’d finished her meal, she glanced over at him. “So, what brings you to a diner late at night, Art? People-watching?” she teased lightly, taking a sip from her glass.

Art tilted his head, a small, playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t answer with words—she wasn’t sure he even could—but he shrugged in a way that seemed to say, Maybe.

Somehow, that simple, silent exchange felt more real than most conversations she’d had in recent memory. It was as if, without words, they both understood something about the other, even if they couldn’t fully put it into language. She didn’t know what kind of life he lived or what drew him to her, but at that moment, it didn’t seem to matter.

Art, huh? That name suited him.

Chapter Text

It was as though a quiet force kept drawing her thoughts back to him, like a flicker in the dark that she couldn’t quite ignore. Art was just a stranger, she reminded herself—a strange figure who’d crossed her path only once or twice. But each time she went to the diner, a part of her hoped he’d be there again, maybe seated in the same spot, watching the world with that unreadable look. The anticipation unsettled her, filling her with a strange, inexplicable energy that lingered even after she left.

She told herself it was just curiosity, nothing more. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met, a riddle wrapped in silence and shadows, and she just wanted to understand him. That was all. But sometimes, alone in her room or between classes, she’d find herself staring off, caught in flashes of memory—his strange grin, the gleam in his eyes, the way he seemed to notice everything and nothing at once.

 The intensity of these thoughts made her pause, but she always shrugged it off. Perhaps she was just overthinking it, making him more interesting than he was. But was she? He was so intoxicating.

Still, she caught herself wondering: where did he go when he wasn’t there? Did he ever think about her, even a little, the way she found herself thinking about him? She laughed it off, shaking her head at her ridiculousness. But somehow, these thoughts crept back in, subtle and stubborn, as if they’d settled in and decided to stay. She was scared because she didn't hate those thoughts.

Each night, as she walked to the diner, there was a quiet thrill, a tiny, lingering hope she might see him again. It made her feel silly, but also…alive, in a way she hadn’t felt in ages. Life was so routine, so painfully predictable, and Art seemed like a break from all that. Maybe that’s what she craved: something unexpected, something different. And he was different—so different that she couldn’t help but be curious, drawn in by the mystery of him.

She tried not to read too much into it, but the feeling stayed with her, a quiet restlessness that hadn’t been there before. It was just the start of something, though she wasn’t sure what. All she knew was that it was harder to ignore with each passing day.

Still, she had not seen him since that meeting in the diner. It was as if he disappeared into thin air. She wandered the streets, hoping for a glimpse of him—maybe walking through a crowded street, sitting on a bench in a park, anywhere—but there was no sign. He had vanished completely, like some shadow that never existed at all. She told herself it was just coincidence, that she had been overthinking things. He was probably just busy, or maybe even avoiding her. It didn’t matter.

But why did she want to see him again? What was it that made her want more? More than just an odd encounter, more than whatever they were, whatever this... thing was that seemed to have grown inside her, unwelcome yet persistent. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to know more. She needed to know more.

Ashley sighed, rubbing her forehead, trying to push the nagging thoughts away. They were making her dizzy. She was getting too caught up in the idea of him, in the strange pull he had over her. But it was becoming hard to ignore. She needed rest. College was draining her, squeezing the life out of her, and it felt as though she was sinking deeper with each passing day. But she couldn't stop. She had to keep going. She had to finish, to find a way out, to get that job she dreamed about someday. 

She had to stay, even if it felt like her body and mind were falling apart.

Her head was heavy with the weight of her thoughts, so she looked down, focusing on the cracked sidewalk beneath her feet. The world around her felt too loud, too real. Too much. It was suffocating.

And then, she saw it.

Blood.

There was no mistaking it. The dark, wet streak across the pavement, slick and pooling, glinting faintly in the moonlight. Her heart skipped a beat, and she didn't know if it was from the shock or from something else, something dark, something she did not want to think about.

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes followed the trail. It was unmistakable. Someone had been hurt. It was dark out already, but she could see it, the blood led deeper down the alley, like a sinister invitation to follow. 

Why was there blood out in the open?

 She looked around, but the street was empty, too empty. The kind of quiet that made the hairs on her neck stand up.

Her first instinct was to turn around, to walk away. This was wrong and dangerous. But something else nagged at her, like a whisper in the back of her mind. She had to know. Had to see what happened. It was ridiculous. Stupid. But she couldn’t stop herself.

She wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t supposed to be playing detective. But the blood… the way it sparkled in the dim light like it was waiting for her, calling her—she couldn’t ignore it.

Her stomach churned, a sense of dread settling over her. She wasn’t supposed to be here. It wasn’t her business. But the thought of someone out there, hurt, bleeding, something about it... fascinated her. What kind of wound would leave this kind of trail? Stabbed? Slashed? She couldn’t stop herself from imagining the possibilities, the shapes of wounds, the sounds, the pain.

She wanted to know how the victim obtained the wound that made them bleed like this, and why they bled the way they did.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, suppressing a wave of nausea, but the thoughts wouldn't stop.

 Blood. Wounds. The rawness of it. It was wrong. She knew it was wrong.

But she couldn’t pull herself away. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So she did what she should never do in any situation. She began following the trail of blood. 

Art stood over the body of the man, his breath ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears. The alleyway was thick with the stench of blood, and his hands were slick, coated in the warm, sticky crimson of his work. The man—his victim—lay sprawled on the cold concrete, his once-defiant eyes now dull and lifeless. The mocking words that had provoked Art still lingered in his mind: “Mime.”

Art could have finished him quicker. He could. But the man had pushed him too far, laughed too loudly, and dared to mock Art's very existence. No one, no one, could get away with calling him a mime.

Art’s gaze flickered over the man’s broken body, his limbs contorted in unnatural angles from the abuse Art had put him through. First, the knife—shoved into his side with a swift, practiced motion. Then the slow, agonizing process of watching him bleed, of listening to his groans, his gasps, his pleas.

Art had enjoyed the process. He reveled in it. The sounds of the man’s struggling breath, the blood pouring from him in a steady stream, the way his hands shook in desperation—it all fueled Art’s satisfaction. He had taken his time, making sure the pain dragged on, stretching it out with precision. No quick, clean kill for Art. No, that would be too easy. He had worked the knife deeper into the man’s chest, twisting, grinding, letting the blood spill from every wound.

Each breath the man took had been strained, each movement weaker as the life drained from his body. Art watched with a detached fascination, enjoying the play of life and death on the man’s face. His victim had screamed. Oh, how he screamed.

Art had laughed. The sharp, mute sound taunted the man, relishing every second of the suffering. It wasn’t just about pain. It was about control. The power to make someone beg, to make someone suffer—it gave Art a feeling like nothing else.

Eventually, the man’s voice faltered, his cries dying out as his body weakened. But Art wasn’t finished. He wasn’t satisfied yet.

With a cruel smile stretching across his face, Art had used his hands, cold and covered in blood, to press into the man’s throat. The gasping, choking sounds that followed were like music to Art’s ears, but he didn’t stop. He held tight, squeezing just enough to keep the man from dying too quickly, enjoying the final moments of terror as the life faded from him.

It was only when the man’s body stopped jerking when the last gasp of air left his lungs in a final, desperate exhale, that Art had released his grip. He stepped back, wiping the blood from his hands with a casual flick, admiring his work. The man’s body lay in a heap on the floor, unrecognizable in its mutilation, but Art had no remorse. No guilt. Only satisfaction.

He had sent a message. One that said nobody could mock him, nobody could make him the butt of their joke. He was the one who laughed after all.

He paused, looking down at the mess of blood and flesh. His victim had been a mess, too, but Art’s work was always like that. Sloppy. Unpolished. It didn’t matter. He created another beautiful masterpiece, one that screamed who made it.

It was then, in the silence, that a faint sound reached his ears. A noise. Footsteps. 

Someone was coming.

Art’s attention snapped to the alley entrance, his eyes narrowing as he crouched behind a dumpster, hidden in the shadows. He didn’t want anyone to see him. Not now. Not yet.

The footsteps were growing closer, and he could feel the tension rise in his chest. His victim’s blood was still warm, the air thick with the scent of death, but now Art’s focus shifted. Whoever was walking towards him, they weren’t part of the plan. They didn’t belong.

He could feel his pulse quicken. Would they see him? Would they notice the blood, the body, the mess? Would they scream? Would they run? Oh, how fun would that be.

His fingers curled, itching for more violence. But no, it was a game of waiting. He had to be patient.

He waited, watching as the figure drew nearer. He didn’t know who it was. It didn’t matter. All he needed to do now was stay hidden, stay still. He would see what happened next.

Ashley’s breaths came shallow, each one carrying the metallic tang of blood that seemed to fill the air around her. She was close now, close enough to see the full scope of what lay before her.

The alley was dark, lit only by a faint streetlamp that flickered with every gust of wind. Shadows pooled around her feet, shifting as she took careful steps toward the body. She knew she should feel horrified—a dead man was lying just feet away, his face unrecognizable, mangled almost beyond comprehension. She knew she should turn around, run back to the safety of the streets, scream for help, and call the police. But her feet refused to move away. Instead, they carried her closer.

Her heart raced, each beat quick and loud in her ears, like a drum marking her fascination. She wanted to understand, to know what had happened here. It was as if she’d stumbled upon something forbidden, something she had no right to see, and yet, here she was, inching nearer, her gaze drawn to every horrifying detail.

The man had fought back, that much was clear. His hands and arms bore bruises, deep marks where he’d tried, futilely, to defend himself. She noted the desperate claw marks, the way his knuckles were scraped and raw, remnants of a last struggle. She could almost feel the fear that must have been in his mind as he fought.

Ashley’s gaze drifted to his face, though she barely recognized it as such. The skin was torn and shredded, twisted into an expression of horror that was now frozen forever. Her stomach twisted, but there was something else too—a gnawing curiosity that urged her forward, to look closer, to see every detail of the violence that had unfolded here.

Blood.

There was so much of it. It pooled beneath him, a dark, glistening stain that spread across the alley floor. The smell was overwhelming, sharp, and sickly, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what weapon had done this, how it had ripped flesh from bone, how it left a body so shattered.

Ashley’s hand drifted to her mouth as she fought the urge to wretch. But even that, even the instinct to recoil, was confusing to her. Part of her wanted to be sick, to prove to herself that she was normal, that this scene horrified her like it would anyone else. But she wasn’t sure. Beneath the nausea, there was something else—a strange, guilty desire to understand, to take in every last detail, to see exactly what happened, to examine the body.

She swallowed, steeling herself as her gaze returned to the blood-soaked corpse. Her fascination felt like a betrayal, a dangerous urge she couldn’t fully control.

Somewhere, deep down, a part of her whispered that this was wrong, that she should walk away and leave this horror behind. But she didn’t. She stayed, letting the blood from under the man soak the ground further. Her thoughts tangled and her heart raced as she looked on, feeling both horror and interest.

Which emotion would she choose?

She didn't want to know the answer.

Chapter Text

Ashley found herself mesmerized, crouching close to the body, careful not to touch it but studying each wound with intensity. She traced the gashes with her eyes, noticing the faint glint of bone peeking through the flesh. It looked almost surreal, like an anatomy diagram brought to life. Oddly enough, she’d never been good at memorizing anatomy in her studies—those lessons always faded from her mind. But here, face-to-face with the real thing, she felt she was learning in a way that couldn’t be undone. The human body, so fragile and complex, lay revealed before her.

She couldn’t deny her fascination. It was unsettling, but at the same time, it felt like the kind of practice she’d been missing. In her classes, everything was theoretical and clinical. She could never remember every small detail or make sense of what bone connected to what. Now, though, she could see it all perfectly—each exposed tendon, each piece of shattered bone, as if this moment were teaching her something inescapable.

Without thinking, she pulled out her phone and hesitated, feeling the weight of the moment. She knew she should leave, that this was wrong on so many levels. But a part of her—a stronger part than she’d like to admit—wanted to remember what she saw here. She needed to, for her understanding. She quickly snapped a few pictures, her hands trembling slightly. They were just reference images, she told herself, something to review later.

One last glance at the body, and she forced herself to step back. The cold air hit her, and she felt a strange chill as if she was pulling herself out of a trance. She slipped her phone back into her pocket, forcing herself to breathe steadily as she backed away, the images already seared into her mind.

A gloved hand waved in her line of sight, pulling her out of her thoughts. She blinked, realizing she’d been staring off into space. "Sorry," she muttered, still haunted by images of that night lingering in her mind.

Ashley took a deep breath. "Hey, Art," she began, and he gave a slight nod, encouraging her to go on. "I know this is, like... your thing, your persona? I don’t even know what to call it. But I was wondering—how did you get into it?" She paused, trying to gather her words. "I mean, how did you... become you?"

She wished she could find herself like that—become the real version of who she was supposed to be. Right now, she felt like an empty shell, just going through the motions, with no idea of how to fill the void inside.

Art tilted his head thoughtfully, and after a moment, he looked around, spotting a napkin on the table. He grabbed it and a pen, and after a few careful strokes, he slid the napkin over to her.

She stared down at the image. It was a sketch of himself, almost a caricature, but with sharp lines that somehow brought him to life on the paper. "You drew... yourself?" she asked, a little confused. It didn’t make much sense at first, but then again, maybe it made too much. He was Art, after all.

"Huh," she muttered, the meaning starting to dawn on her. Art didn’t pretend to be anyone else; he’d crafted his identity—this strange, unsettling version of himself that was entirely his own. He wasn’t bound by the expectations of anyone else.

Creativity.

Maybe that was what she lacked. She’d spent so much time trying to blend in, dressing casually, keeping her makeup simple, doing whatever it took not to stand out. She was fitting herself into some mold that society forced upon her, trying to be what she thought everyone expected. But it was draining the life out of her, making everything around her dull and colorless.

For the first time, she felt a flicker of something different. A desire to change that, to fill her own void, even if it meant stepping outside the lines.

But then, fear gripped her again. What if the bullying got worse? It was already bad enough that she barely made it through some days unscathed. How could she be free when she felt trapped in a cage, and the only key was buried somewhere deep, out of reach?

She sighed, staring down at the sketch. What if the only way out of the cage was to fall—completely and without fear?

The thought unsettled her, but it also stirred something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She glanced up at Art, who was watching her with an intensity she hadn’t expected. Somehow, in his silence, she felt like he understood.

She smiled. Perhaps she should go shopping sometime nearby and buy clothes she will be comfortable walking in. She never likes dressing so... casually, so maybe this was for the better. "Thank you, Art." She gave him the warmest smile she could manage and he returned it with his charmistic grin. He tipped his hat and did a silly bow making Ashley let out a laugh. 

Art was what she had been missing in her life.

Being around him made her feel... alive. There was something electric about it, something she couldn't quite name but that thrilled her all the same.

“Christmas is coming up,” she said, glancing at him with curiosity. “Who do you plan on spending it with?” She tilted her head, her voice holding more interest than she intended. But who wouldn’t be curious about Art? He was so many things she wasn’t—unapologetically himself, bold, strange. She wanted to know everything, to peel back the layers and find out what made him.

Art gave a small shake of his head and pointed at himself, a simple gesture that told her everything. “No one?” she asked, and he nodded in confirmation.

Understanding.

At that moment, she felt it. A quiet, familiar loneliness. She, too, had no one to spend Christmas with. Her life was empty in ways she could never quite fill, and now here was Art, mirroring her own solitude.

She hesitated, unsure if she was overstepping, but the words spilled out before she could stop them. “Hey, I know this might be a little out of line, but... would you maybe want to spend Christmas with me? I mean, I’m alone this Christmas too.”

She expected him to shake his head, or perhaps even look at her like she was crazy. After all, they’d been strangers not too long ago. They hardly knew each other. If he declined, she wouldn’t take it personally.

But instead, Art’s face split into the biggest smile she had ever seen from him. His whole expression seemed to brighten, a genuine glimmer of excitement and surprise.

Oh.

He wanted to spend Christmas with her.

“Really?! Okay!” She felt a strange flutter in her chest, a mix of relief and happiness she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Just so you know, I’m a decent cook, but don’t expect too much.” She grinned, launching into a flurry of questions. “Do you have any allergies? Any food preferences? Do you like spicy food?”

Art watched her, bemused by her sudden enthusiasm, unable to do more than smile at her barrage of questions. There was a kind of innocence in the way she rambled on, and for a moment, he found himself unexpectedly charmed by it.

He wasn’t sure what to make of her—this strange woman who treated him with kindness, even curiosity. It was rare for anyone to look at him that way. Art considered, briefly, the thought that he’d been mulling over for a while now: perhaps he could postpone her death date. Maybe keeping her around a little longer wouldn’t hurt. She was amusing, after all, and she made him feel something other than the usual boredom and disdain he held for most people.

For now, he thought, he’d keep her alive.

Chapter Text

No one.

There was no one there.

Ashley’s heart pounded as she scanned the empty streets once more. She was alone. She tried to push the feeling of panic away, convincing herself it was just her imagination running wild, but the unease still clung to her, tight and suffocating. She couldn’t shake it, couldn’t ignore the chill crawling up her spine.

Was she going crazy?

It didn’t make sense. There was no reason to be afraid, not in the quiet of the night, not when she was just walking home with her bags of decorations. This was just a normal night—she had to be imagining things.

But then, as if the night itself had become something sinister, she felt it. The grip. A sweaty, clammy hand suddenly shot out from the darkness, grabbing her by the neck.

The air whooshed from her lungs, her vision blurred with panic. She gasped, struggling to breathe, but the hand held tight, pulling her backward toward the alleyway she had been walking by. Confusion flooded her mind—this wasn’t supposed to happen. This was supposed to be just another evening, quiet and unremarkable. She was supposed to be safe.

What’s happening?

Her head slammed against the cold brick wall, and everything went still for a moment, the world spinning. She tried to fight back, her heart thundering in her chest as the panic tightened its grip around her. She could barely think, barely breathe, as the stranger, a man who smelled of sweat and something foul shoved her further into the darkness.

Her body froze when she saw him more clearly—a man in his mid-forties, disheveled and twitchy, his bloodshot eyes darting around like he couldn’t quite focus. His skin looked sickly, pale with sweat dripping from his brow. She could see it now—the signs of something wrong. Drugs, she thought. This man was on something, and that terrified her more than anything.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot and rancid against her face.

"Hello, sweetie," he rasped.

Ashley recoiled, disgust crawling under her skin. The sound of his voice made her stomach turn. He wasn’t even a person to her; he was an animal, a thing that was so far removed from humanity.

"What a lucky night for me to find you all alone like this, huh?" His words were slurred, his fingers brushing lightly against her stomach, sending a wave of nausea through her.

No. No, she couldn’t let him do this. She wasn’t going to let him.

“Stop!” She managed to shout, but before the sound could even fully leave her mouth, his hand shot up, slapping her hard across the face. The pain was sharp, like fire burning across her skin.

"Shut the fuck up, or someone will hear you, bitch," he spat, his grip tightening on her mouth. She could taste the bitterness of his sweat, the salty tang of fear in her own mouth.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She couldn’t show him that weakness. She couldn’t give in to the terror eating at her insides.

Fight. Fight back.

Run away.

But she was frozen. Helpless. Struggling to breathe. She wanted to run, to scream, to get away from him, but his hand was clamped around her, keeping her in place. She had no strength, no plan.

How had she gotten here? This wasn’t supposed to be her life. She had always been protected, hidden behind the walls of her city, of her comfort. But now, standing in this alleyway, her world felt too real, too cold, too terrifying.

Her chest heaved with panic, and she felt the reality of what was happening crashing in on her. She was not safe anymore.

She wasn’t safe.

Not safe.

Not safe.

Not safe.

The words thrashed through her mind like a violent tide, pulling her under, suffocating her. Fear wrapped around her chest like a vice, making it hard to breathe, to think. Every second stretched into an eternity as the stranger's grip on her neck tightened, his fingers digging into her skin, cutting off her air. She could feel her heart pounding in her throat, each beat a desperate reminder of her fragility. She was so close to the edge. She could feel it—one more push, and she’d fall.

She had to do something.

She had to protect herself somehow.

The world around her was spinning. She could see his disgusting, sweat-drenched face inches from hers, his eyes glassy with hunger, his breath hot and foul. His hands, filthy and twitching, moved over her body like they had a right to be there. She wanted to scream, but his hand was over her mouth, suffocating her words before they could escape.

No. No. No. This isn’t happening.

But it was.

Her mind, once a place of refuge, was now a battlefield, chaos flooding her every thought. She was trapped. Helpless.

No. She couldn’t be.

She couldn’t just let him take her like this. She wasn’t a victim. Not anymore.

Her eyes frantically scanned the alley, looking for anything, anything that might save her. The world around her felt foreign, and dark, like it was closing in. And then, there it was—an old bottle, half-buried in garbage by a dumpster. Dirty. Cheap. Broken.

It didn’t matter.

It was a lifeline.

She grabbed it. The cold glass felt like fire in her hands. She couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but a surge of primal, desperate energy flooding her veins. She didn’t know where it came from, but in that moment, she didn’t care. She had to survive.

Her heart was thudding so loud in her ears, that she couldn’t hear the man’s mocking laughter. Couldn’t hear him whispering something vile into her ear. She didn’t care.

Smash it. Break it. Destroy him.

Don't, it will hurt him, he will bleed.

Her hands trembled as she raised the bottle. It felt too light. Too fragile for what she needed it to do. The man had his back to her now, lowering his head to whisper more twisted words into her skin.

She didn’t hesitate.

With everything she had left, she swung the bottle down onto his hand, shattering the glass into a million jagged pieces. The pain on his face was immediate. The scream that followed was raw, filled with shock, filled with rage.

But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She wasn’t just defending herself anymore. She was destroying him.

The bottle cracked against his hand, and his blood mixed with the broken glass, splattering onto the dirty ground. But Ashley couldn’t hear the thud of his fall. She couldn’t see the blood pooling around him. All she saw, all she felt, was the hollow darkness that had overtaken her.

The moment stretched too long. The weight of it crushed her chest. She had done it. She had struck him and defended herself. But in doing so, she had taken something from herself too. She had become something else. Something she could not put into words.

Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, desperate to get away from the monster she had become. But her body betrayed her. Her legs wouldn't obey, wouldn’t take her far enough, couldn’t pull her away from the nightmare she had just unleashed.

Frozen in place, she stared down at the man, at the pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him. She had done this. She had hurt him.

The damage she had caused was... sloppy. Inefficient. The bottle had shattered across his hand, but it hadn’t been enough to end him. He wasn’t dead. He was still breathing, still twitching, still looking at her like he wanted something—no like he needed something from her.

She could see it in his eyes: the fear, the confusion, the pain. The pleading.

It should have been easier. The strike should have been cleaner. The blood should have been enough to put him down for good. But no, it wasn’t. It had been messy. And in that mess, in that failure to act with any precision, Ashley felt something else rise up inside her—a twisted, ugly part of herself that she hadn’t known was there. She could have done better. She should have done better. She could have made him suffer more.

But then—no.

No. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want this.

Her thoughts collided with each other, sharp and jagged. They tumbled over one another like shattered glass, cutting into her mind as she fought to make sense of it all. The pounding in her head grew louder. Her hands trembled, shaking at her sides. She didn’t want to think like this. She didn’t want to feel like this.

The man in front of her—his blood was everywhere. Was he dying? He should be. He should be begging for mercy, but instead, he was still there. And in the chaos of it all, in the swirl of blood and broken glass, Ashley could only watch him. She could only look at him.

His eyes never left hers, and for a moment, it felt like she could hear his thoughts. They screamed for help—no, not for his life, not for forgiveness—but for something she couldn’t give him. Something she couldn’t understand.

And that’s when it hit her. She wasn’t just frozen because of shock. She wasn’t just immobilized by the weight of what she had done.

She was stuck because she didn’t know who she was anymore. She didn’t know what she had just become. She had never been this person before, and now... now she had no idea how to get back.

Her mind was split, torn in two: one side terrified of what she’d done, the other... reveling in it.

She had always been the victim. She had always been the one who needed saving. But now?

Now, she had done this. She had hurt him. And part of her felt relief. A twisted, sick satisfaction.

Was it her fault? Was it his? Was it the world that made her this way?

But then again. Was she ever really normal? She was always different, with thoughts that never seemed to leave her, and now? She was living in those thoughts. 

Her chest tightened. The man was still there, still alive, his body twitching, his face a mask of confusion and pain. But for Ashley, everything had blurred. The line between right and wrong, between victim and perpetrator, between sanity and madness—it had all been erased.

And she didn’t know who she was anymore.

What was she supposed to do now?

This was wrong.

So, so wrong.

She had hurt another person.

She smashed a bottle into his head.

Oh god.

She wanted to puke. 

This wasn't her.

This wasn't who she was.

Would he die here, or would she be left to live with the memory of this moment, of him, forever?

Her body still refused to move. Her thoughts still twisted like a broken record, replaying the violence over and over, faster, more brutally, until the only thing she could hear was the ringing in her ears.

Was it shock? Was it guilt? Or was it something darker?

Ashley couldn’t tell anymore.

Ashley didn’t know it, but she had been followed earlier in the night. Her instincts had been right, but it wasn't the stranger who assaulted her, he wasn’t the only set of eyes watching her. And that set of eyes just became rapidly more interested in her.

Chapter Text

"Ashley Hart, you are free to go," the officer said again, but the words barely registered in her mind. She heard them, yet they felt distant, like a voice calling to her from the other side of a fog.

Her hands trembled at her sides, slick with cold sweat, as she stared blankly ahead. She had attacked someone—a person, a human being. The thought churned in her stomach like bile.

Was he dead?

If he was, why was she being let go?

And if he wasn’t, why wasn’t he?

Her mind recoiled at the thought of him alive, walking around, breathing the same air she did after what he’d tried to do. He deserved what happened to him. Hell, maybe he deserved worse.

But... did he?

Ashley wanted to move, to get up and walk out of the sterile, suffocating station, but her body refused to cooperate. Her legs felt like they weren’t hers. She remained frozen in place, her breath shallow, as though the weight of moving forward would crush her.

Because if she moved—if she even shifted an inch—she feared reality would come crashing down around her. The gravity of what she'd done would hit her all at once, suffocating her under the realization of what kind of person she had become.

A bad one.

A terrible one.

No. She refused to believe that. She couldn’t be that, could she?

Ashley stared at the scuffed linoleum floor, its dull, stained surface almost mesmerizing in its imperfection. She clung to the moment, praying—begging—that this was all a mistake. That she’d wake up in her bed to find this day, this entire year, was just a horrific nightmare.

Her chest rose and fell in deep, uneven breaths as she struggled to steady herself. Everyone kept telling her she did the right thing. She had acted in self-defense and saved herself. She should feel proud—or, at the very least, relieved.

But instead, she felt filthy.

Disgusting.

Disgusting because somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d thought he deserved it. That twisted part of her had wanted to see him broken, bleeding. She’d wanted to make him pay for every disgusting word, every touch, every second of terror he’d inflicted on her.

And now, that same part of her was whispering again. It would be best if you had done worse. It would be best if you had made sure he’d never hurt anyone again.

She bit her lip until she tasted copper, forcing the thought away.

Her feet moved without thinking, carrying her numbly toward the door, where the cold night air greeted her like a slap. She shivered, clutching her jacket closer to her body, but it didn’t help. The chill wasn’t just outside—it was inside her too, crawling through her veins like ice.

Fuck.

She needed a drink. A stiff, hard drink to drown out the crawling, whispering thoughts that wouldn’t let her go.

And maybe, if she drank enough, she’d stop feeling like a monster.

Ashley dragged herself to the nearest liquor store, barely paying attention to what she grabbed. Her only thought was to find something strong, something that would dull the edges of her thoughts and quiet the storm in her mind. The bottle in her hand promised to do just that.

She made her way home quickly, her heartbeat thundering with every step. Every shadow in the corner of her vision felt like it might leap out at her. Every sound—the hum of a streetlamp, the distant bark of a dog—made her flinch. She gripped the neck of the bottle tighter, her fingers trembling as if holding it would somehow keep her safe.

Once inside, she shut the door and locked it, then double-checked the lock. Her hands moved to the windows, securing each one with obsessive precision. She knew she was being paranoid—he wasn’t going to come back for her.

Right?

Ashley leaned against the door, her breathing shallow.

He could come back.

She bit her lip, the thought spiraling in her mind. He’d attacked her without hesitation, without care. What if he wanted revenge? What if, somehow, he escaped the hospital?

He was alive.

She didn’t remember cutting any arteries or hitting him hard enough to cause lasting damage. He was probably lying in a hospital bed, being treated, alive after what he did to her after he had violated her sense of safety, her life.

He’s alive.

The thought made her stomach churn, a nauseating mix of disgust and fear swirling inside her.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered under her breath, her voice shaking as she pushed off the door and headed to the kitchen.

She didn’t want to think about it anymore. She didn’t want to feel it—the anger, the fear, the shame.

Ashley tore the seal off the bottle with trembling hands, the metal cap clinking onto the counter. She didn’t bother with a glass, bringing the bottle straight to her lips. The first burn of alcohol made her throat tighten, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t care about the harsh taste; she cared about the numbness it promised.

She slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall as the alcohol slowly worked its way into her system. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and the empty ache in her stomach made the buzz hit harder, faster.

It wasn’t enough.

She took another long sip, the warmth spreading through her limbs like a heavy blanket. Her thoughts dulled slightly, the edges blurring, but it didn’t stop the images flashing behind her eyes. His face, his hands, the glass bottle smashing against his head.

Her fingers tightened around the bottle. She wanted to forget, to drown it all out until the memories and the feelings were nothing but a hazy blur.

And yet, no matter how much she drank, she couldn’t shake the chill in her veins. The fear that he might still be out there.

The house was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed against the skin and filled the lungs like smoke. The weak light from the kitchen stretched long, jagged shadows across the walls, and the room smelled faintly of spilled liquor and despair.

Art slipped in through the window, his movements fluid and unnatural, like a marionette with strings, no one could see. The lock had been easy, too easy, and that had set something off in him—she always left it open before.

He stepped inside, his sharp smile stretching wider as his eyes scanned the room. Tonight was it. He’d had enough of her. Her usefulness had run its course. She’d been amusing, yes, with her nervous energy and stuttering trust, but now? Now, she bored him. They had not met for quite a while and he did not like that.

And Art hated being bored.

But then, he saw her.

Ashley sat slouched at the kitchen table, surrounded by empty bottles. Her hair was tangled, her eyes half-lidded, unfocused. She swayed slightly, her fingers loose around the neck of yet another bottle. There was no fear in her face, no tension in her body—just an emptiness that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Art froze, his head tilting sharply to the side as he watched her. Something about her felt wrong. Not in the way he liked, not the delicious terror or the fight-or-flight desperation he loved to draw out of his playthings.

This was different.

He stepped closer, his shoes making deliberate, slow scuffs against the floor. Still, she didn’t react.

Her hand lifted shakily, bringing the bottle to her lips for another long, sloppy drink. She muttered something under her breath—a laugh, maybe, low and bitter—and Art’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second.

This wasn’t fun.

With a sharp, deliberate motion, he tapped his knife against the edge of the table. Tink. Tink. Tink.

The sound echoed in the quiet, sharp and metallic.

Ashley’s head turned toward him lazily, as if she hadn’t fully registered his presence. When her eyes landed on him, something flickered there—not fear, not shock, just... recognition.

And then, she laughed.

It was sudden, raw, and too loud for the small space. A harsh, bitter sound erupted from her chest like it had been locked inside her for too long. She laughed until her breath hitched and her body trembled.

Art’s grin faltered again.

She wasn’t supposed to do that.

He was supposed to be the one laughing.

Her laughter turned into gasps, tears streaming down her cheeks as she slumped forward, the bottle slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor.

And then, silence.

She was still like a puppet that had its strings cut.

Art stepped closer, crouching beside her, tilting his head sharply as he stared at her unconscious form. His knife dangled loosely in his hand, forgotten for the moment.

Something about this wasn’t right.

Why was she like that?

Did he miss something?

Art’s grin wavered as he stood, the blade in his hand reflecting the weak kitchen light. He tilted his head to the side, his hollow, lifeless eyes narrowing on Ashley’s still form. Something had changed, something he hadn’t seen, and the thought clawed at him.

He hated missing things.

His fingers twitched, frustration bubbling beneath his painted facade. If he’d missed something, how could he know the full picture? How could he savor every detail, every ounce of fear, every tear? He thrived on the chaos, the unraveling, but this—this felt wrong.

Art leaned closer, his face inches from hers as he examined her. She looked so… broken. Not in the way he loved, not in the delicious, frantic terror that painted his victims in vibrant colors. This was dull, muted, like a canvas smeared with ash.

What had happened?

He straightened abruptly, pacing the room in jerky movements, his hands twitching at his sides. Did someone else get to her first? Did some other force break her down before he could? The thought sent a sharp jolt of irritation through him.

He hated sharing his toys.

His gaze snapped back to her, and he let out a silent huff, shaking his head in disappointment. How was he supposed to kill her now? Not when she sat there, slumped and defeated, a story etched into her skin that she wasn’t telling him.

No fun, he thought bitterly, his shoulders sagging in exaggerated exasperation.

But still… she was interesting. Even in her ruin, there was something about her that made him hesitate.

The knife twirled in his hand as he approached her again, crouching low until he was face-to-face with her unconscious form. His grin stretched impossibly wide as he tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he was determined to solve.

What had happened to her?

Her grip on the bat loosened, confusion clouding her thoughts. What the hell was he doing here? She stared at him, unsure whether she should be angry or just plain confused. He was in her kitchen, picking up the empty bottles from last night like it was just another Tuesday for him.

“Art?” she croaked, her voice thick with sleep and the remnants of alcohol.

Art turned around with a childlike grin on his painted face as if she hadn’t just caught him breaking into her house. He waved at her like he had every right to be there.

“What the fuck?” she muttered under her breath.

Art gave a quick, exaggerated shrug as if to say, What’s the problem?

Ashley blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. She liked him, she did, but this was... strange. She’d never invited him over. Not like this. Not in the middle of a hangover when she could barely think straight.

Ashley’s headache pounded as she gripped the bat tighter, her knuckles whitening against the wood. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t decide if she was angrier at herself for letting this happen or at him—for being here at all.

“Art,” she said again, slower this time, her voice low and cautious.

The clown, ever the picture of mock innocence, pointed to himself again, his wide, exaggerated smile unwavering.

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the room. The window over the sink was locked, and the back door bolted shut. The only entrance was the front door, and she knew she hadn’t let him in. There were only the living room windows that she had not checked out yet.

“How did you get in?”

Her voice was calm, too calm, like a wire pulled tight, ready to snap.

Art’s head tilted, his black-rimmed eyes glinting with mischief. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, his painted face unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands, miming the act of unlocking a window with tools.

Ashley’s stomach twisted.

“You broke in?” she asked, incredulous, her hangover quickly losing its grip on her as adrenaline surged.

Art nodded enthusiastically, clapping his hands together as if to applaud himself.

She groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ, Art. You can’t just—break into someone’s house! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The clown shrugged as if to say, What’s the big deal?

Ashley didn’t lower the bat, not yet. Something was unsettling about the way he stood there, so casual, so at ease, like he belonged here. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of last night. She remembered drinking—too much—and then… nothing. A blank space where her memory should be.

“Did you—” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “Did you carry me to bed?”

Art’s smile widened, and he placed a hand over his chest, bowing deeply, as if to say, Who else would take care of you?

Her grip on the bat loosened again, just slightly. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious. This clown—this person—he wasn’t normal, maybe wasn’t safe. But he hadn’t hurt her. Ashely didn't know if he could hurt her. It was obvious he was not... Normal. He just broke into her house dammit, but still, she hoped he was not thinking of it, she would hate getting backstabbed like that. 

Maybe he was just a big guy with a mental illness? Yeah, that seemed right. Maybe she was just exaggerating things, he wouldn't hurt her, right?

“Look,” she began, her voice strained, “I appreciate you… whatever this is, you can’t just show up here uninvited. You scared the shit out of me.”

Art mimed zipping his lips shut, locking them, and throwing away the key.

Ashley sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need coffee.”

She walked past him, still clutching the bat as a precaution. Art trailed behind her silently, watching her every move with unnerving intensity.

As she started the coffee machine, a nagging sense of unease clung to her. Art's gaze never left the bat in her hand, his eyes fixed on it with an unsettling intensity. Beneath that painted grin, something dark lingered, something she couldn't quite place. It was as if he expected her to keep holding the bat like this was some twisted game to him. And she hated losing games.

Ashley took a slow breath, releasing her grip on the bat, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

Game on.

She wondered what the stakes were.

Chapter Text

Art's eyes never left the bat as it hit the ground with a dull thud. He seemed to find it amusing, that little thing she had clutched so desperately in her hands moments ago. His painted smile grew wider, stretching unnaturally across his face like it was permanently stitched there. Ashley could feel his gaze on her, not just watching her, but studying her, like she was some kind of puzzle he was still trying to solve. The way his eyes danced, full of amusement and something darker, made her feel exposed.

He tilted his head slightly, the movement slow like a predator toying with its prey. Something was chilling about the way he studied her, something that made her skin crawl and her heart skip a beat. He wasn't just amused; he was enjoying this. Enjoying the confusion, the uncertainty that was leaking off her like sweat. Ashley could feel it—he could see right through her.

Her mind screamed at her to move, to do something. Anything. But her legs were frozen in place.

She watched as Art took a step closer, slow and deliberate, and she instinctively took a step back. Her pulse was thudding in her ears, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. It was like some magnetic pull between them, something dark and dangerous that she couldn’t fight. The air between them thickened, filled with an electric tension that she couldn't escape.

Fuck.

She cursed herself, knowing that this wasn’t the time to be backing away. She didn't think he would hurt her, not really, but at the same time, she didn’t want to push him. Didn’t want to find out just how far he’d go. Art was unpredictable. And in her experience, unpredictable people were the most dangerous.

Was she scared? A little. But that wasn’t it. It was the uncertainty that gnawed at her insides. The fact that she had no idea what Art would do next, no idea what game he was playing. And that scared her more than anything.

Her grip on the bat had been her only sense of control. Now it was gone, discarded on the floor, useless. She looked at the space where it had been, and for a brief moment, felt the weight of her decision. She had given up her only defense. What the hell was she thinking? She was standing here, in her home, alone with a fucking clown, and she had just let go of the one thing that could’ve kept her safe.

You’re an idiot, Ashley.

But the worst part was, she knew that she probably looked just as unpredictable now. The tension in her body was palpable. Her muscles were tight, her eyes darting between Art and the ground. She was ready to bolt, but her legs wouldn’t move. She was frozen in place, caught in his gaze, unsure of what he would do next. She wondered if he could sense her fear. He could probably taste it in the air like a thick, suffocating fog.

Art stopped moving when they were just a few feet apart, the distance between them shrinking with every breath she took. He smiled again, that wide, toothy grin that sent a shiver down her spine.

She hated this feeling, hated the power he had over her in this moment. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, the adrenaline pushing her body into fight-or-flight mode, but she couldn’t move.

Was this how she would end? Murdered by a clown she had trusted? She was so used to being the one in control, the one calling the shots, but now, standing here in front of Art, she felt like nothing. Like she was just another thing he could break and discard.

Her mind raced. She needed a way out. She needed to find her footing again.

But with Art standing in front of her, smiling like he had all the time in the world, she didn’t know if she’d ever find that balance again.

Ashley let out a shaky breath and turned her attention to the coffee machine, the hum of it grounding her. She needed something normal to focus on, something that didn’t involve the clown now making himself at home in her kitchen. Her fingers fumbled with the coffee beans, the sound of them rattling into the grinder oddly soothing. "Do you… want coffee?" she asked, her voice strained but steady enough. She wasn’t sure what answer she wanted from him—silence or acknowledgment—but she had to say something. The quiet was suffocating.

She hesitated before glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting him to still be standing there, looming like a shadow. To her surprise, Art had made himself comfortable in a chair by the table, his posture relaxed, as if he belonged there. That damn smile was plastered across his painted face, unchanging and unreadable.

He shook his head.

"Not much of a coffee drinker? Tea then?" Ashley offered, her voice more nervous this time. She wasn’t really expecting an answer, not a verbal one anyway. Art didn’t seem the type for small talk, but her mouth was running on autopilot. She needed to fill the silence before it swallowed her whole.

Her mind raced, trying to rationalize the absurdity of the situation. Maybe he’s having an episode, she thought, her internal voice grasping for logic. That made sense, didn’t it? People had episodes all the time—moments where their minds betrayed them, pushing them to do things they normally wouldn’t. Maybe Art was having one of those.

Yes, that’s it, she decided. He wasn’t some monster or killer; he was just... confused. A troubled soul who didn’t know where else to go. It was a comforting thought, one that steadied her enough to keep her voice calm.

“Poor guy,” she muttered under her breath, casting another glance at him. He didn’t seem violent—not at the moment, anyway. His movements were oddly slow and deliberate, his hands resting on the table as if he were waiting for something. For her? The thought sent a chill down her spine, but she pushed it aside.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, and she caught his eyes watching her, sharp and focused. The sympathy she had just begun to feel wavered, replaced by a flicker of unease. There was something in his gaze that didn’t match her narrative. He didn’t look lost or confused; he looked… aware. Calculating. Like he was waiting to see what she’d do next.

Her hands clenched the edge of the counter, her knuckles whitening. Don’t let him see you’re scared. That would make her more vulnerable than she already was. She forced herself to look away, returning to the mundane task of brewing coffee as if it were the most important thing in the world.

The smell of coffee filled the air, masking the tension that thickened the room like smoke. She tried to focus on that instead, to pretend everything was fine. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t. Nothing about this was fine.

Ashley took a sip of her coffee, savoring the bitter warmth as it slid down her throat. It was just the way she liked it—hot, strong, and slightly burning, masking the dull ache of her hangover. For a fleeting moment, the simple comfort of the drink made her forget the strange and silent clown sitting across from her.

Art watched her with an intensity that made her skin prickle, but she refused to look away this time. She forced herself to meet his gaze, determined to show she wasn’t scared. She wasn’t. Not really. It was more like... unease. The kind that crawled up her spine and made her fingers fidget against the mug.

He smiled, that eerie, painted grin plastered on his face. She couldn't tell if it was genuine or just another layer of his unnerving façade. Either way, it was enough to make her shift in her seat, though she kept her expression neutral. The last thing she wanted was to show weakness, not now, not to him.

The silence stretched between them like a taut rope, each second tightening the knot in her stomach. She cleared her throat, hoping to break the tension. "So... what brings you here so early in the morning, big guy?" she asked, her tone light, almost teasing. She hoped it didn’t betray the nervousness bubbling beneath her surface.

Art tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking around the room before landing back on her. His body language was maddeningly casual like he had all the time in the world to answer her question—or not. Ashley frowned. "Sorry, I’m not really... getting it," she admitted, her voice quieter now. She was genuinely perplexed. What reason could he possibly have for showing up unannounced like this?

He let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes dramatically before reaching for something on the table. Her messy pile of books, notebooks, and flashcards caught her attention, and embarrassment flushed her cheeks. She’d forgotten to clean up after her last study session. Of course, he’d notice the clutter.

Art picked up a notebook and a colored pencil, his movements deliberate as he scribbled something down. When he slid the notebook across the table toward her, she hesitated before picking it up.

The words on the page made her blink in surprise: "Why did you drink so much?"

For a moment, she just stared at the message. Huh. She hadn’t expected that. Of all the things he could have asked, he chose that? She let out a small, breathy laugh, her lips quirking into a faint smile despite herself.

He was... worried? About her? The thought was strange, almost laughable. But looking at the note again, she couldn’t deny the possibility. Maybe she’d read him wrong. Maybe this was his way of checking in, of showing some kind of concern. It was bizarre and twisted, but then again, nothing about Art was conventional.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” she murmured, setting the notebook back on the table. No one had ever checked up on her before. Not like this. Not in a way that felt so... real.

"I'm... Well." Ashley started, but the words felt heavy on her tongue, refusing to form the way she wanted them to. Her thoughts swirled, chaotic and messy, just like her life. "Something happened... yesterday," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Art tilted his head, his ever-present grin slipping for a moment, replaced by something Ashley couldn’t quite place. Interest? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it unnerved her. He waved his hands in an exaggerated motion, urging her to continue.

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the now lukewarm mug of coffee. "It's—well, I was just coming back from the mall nearby, and, uh..." Her words trailed off as she glanced away, unable to meet the weight of his gaze. His eyes burned into her, expectant, unrelenting.

How could she explain it without revealing too much? Without painting herself as something worse than she already felt? She took a deep breath, her chest tightening with the memory. The events of yesterday loomed large, casting shadows over her mind.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

She hadn’t meant to hurt him. That man—he had attacked her first. He had made her defend herself. But the memory of the way his body crumpled, the way the blood had pooled beneath him, gnawed at her like a hungry beast. For all she knew, he could be dead. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

No. She couldn’t let Art know that. She didn’t want him to think she was... cruel. Someone capable of that. Someone worse than him.

"And a little accident happened, is all," she finally said, forcing a smile that felt as brittle as glass. She dared a glance at Art, hoping the explanation would suffice.

It didn’t.

He tilted his head again, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. His expression made it clear he wasn’t satisfied with her answer. His fingers drummed against the table impatiently, the silence between them growing thick and suffocating.

"Art, it’s nothing... really." Her voice wavered, betraying the lie. She quickly averted her gaze, staring down at the chipped edge of her mug as if it held all the answers.

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was everything.

The “accident” wasn’t something she could just brush aside, no matter how hard she tried. The look in that man’s eyes before she struck him, the crack of bone, the metallic tang of blood—those details were etched into her mind, replaying like a broken record.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. Art leaned forward slightly, his grin returning, wider this time as if he could see right through her. As if he knew she was holding back.

She hated how small she felt under his gaze. How exposed. "I handled it," she added, her voice firmer, more defensive. "That's all you need to know."

But even as the words left her lips, Ashley knew she wasn’t convincing anyone—not Art, and definitely not herself.

With a sudden fury lighting up his face, Art stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. Ashley's heart lurched at the sharp noise. His wild eyes darted between the kitchen and the entrance door, his movements stiff and deliberate. She watched him like prey, frozen in place, her grip tightening on the coffee mug as if it could shield her from whatever he was planning.

Her stomach twisted as her gaze followed his. There, on the counter, gleaming under the dim kitchen light, was a knife.

Why the fuck was he looking at the knife?

Ashley’s breath hitched. Her mind screamed at her to do something, anything. Run. Grab something. Yell. But her body betrayed her. She sat there, paralyzed, caught in his line of sight.

Art’s head tilted slowly, unnervingly, his black-painted eyes meeting hers. It was as though something within him shifted. The anger in his expression, the tension in his shoulders—it all seemed to dissolve in an instant. His lips pulled back into a broad, unsettling grin. Amusement flickered in his eyes, and Ashley felt a new kind of dread creeping up her spine.

He let out a soundless breath, his shoulders rising and falling as though the air had been knocked out of him. Then, as if dismissing the thought entirely, he turned his gaze to the entrance door. His hand lifted, a casual wave, so nonchalant it bordered on absurd.

Before she could even process it, he was leaving. Just like that.

Ashley blinked, trying to catch up. "Wait—what?" she murmured under her breath.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her sitting in the silence of her tiny kitchen. The tension that had been smothering the air only moments ago evaporated, but it left behind an emptiness that felt even heavier.

Her eyes drifted back to the knife. The realization of what could have happened hit her like a punch to the gut. She set her coffee mug down shakily, her hand trembling more than she wanted to admit.

What the fuck was that?

Ashley let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound cracking in the stillness. She clutched her head, her fingers tangling in her hair as if trying to wring sense out of the chaos that had just unfolded.

“This is so fucking stupid,” she muttered to herself, the words spilling out like a reflex.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze flicking to the door as if expecting him to burst back through it at any second. But the door remained shut, the house unnervingly quiet.

Who in their right mind offers coffee to a clown who breaks into their house? Who sits there, drinking coffee with him as though it’s the most normal thing in the world?

Her laughter bubbled up again, uncontrollable, sharp. It felt more like hysteria than amusement. Jesus, maybe she did need professional help.

Ashley sighed, rubbing her temples. “What a day,” she muttered, shaking her head. But even as she tried to brush it off, she knew deep down that something had shifted.

And she wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel normal again.

Chapter Text

No.

She wanted to stop thinking like that, but the thoughts continued.

She was drowning, and the way up was getting deeper and deeper.

Chapter Text

Finally, the screams stopped.

The air was heavy, thick with a silence that suffocated more than any noise ever could. Ashley stood frozen, her hands clammy and trembling at her sides. She felt hollow as if the cries had ripped something out of her. The girl was dead. There was no question about it. Dead, and Ashley had done nothing.

She hadn’t called for help. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t even whispered a plea for it all to stop.

Why?

The question throbbed in her mind, louder than any of the girl's desperate wails.

Why? Why?

Her breathing was shallow and erratic. She pressed her nails into her palms, the sharp pain grounding her for a fleeting second before the weight of her inaction crushed her again.

Why hadn’t she run? Why hadn’t she screamed?

Why was she still standing there in the same dark alleyway?

The same place where a girl had died in agony, and she had just… watched.

The image of it all was burned into her mind, the sound of the screams still echoing like a ghost refusing to leave. Her chest ached as though the weight of the girl's pain had settled inside her ribs, dragging her down.

Her knees wobbled, threatening to buckle. Ashley’s head pounded a relentless drumbeat of guilt and confusion.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She gritted her teeth, the metallic taste of fear and bile thick on her tongue. She wanted to scream now, not for the girl, not for help, but for herself. To drown out the crushing noise in her head.

The stars above seemed to mock her, scattered against the pitch-black sky like tiny fragments of hope she didn’t deserve to hold. She couldn’t look at them. Not after this.

Her breath hitched, and she forced herself to exhale slowly, shakily. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in, the pressure in her lungs threatening to suffocate her.

“I just need a moment,” she whispered to no one, her voice trembling. It cracked, barely audible over the oppressive quiet that hung in the air.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if shutting out the world could make her forget the horror she had just let happen. But even behind her closed eyelids, there was no solace. Only darkness and the phantom of those screams.

“Breathe,” she muttered. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the erratic beat of her heart beneath her palm. “Just… breathe.”

The words felt empty, like a lie she didn’t believe.

Her legs moved on their own, carrying her a few steps forward before she stopped again, unsure where to go. The world felt smaller, heavier. Her breath came out in shallow gasps as the questions circled back to her, relentless and cruel.

Why didn’t I do anything?

She wanted to justify it, to tell herself it was fear or shock or something out of her control. But deep down, she wasn’t sure.

What kind of person just stands there?

Ashley leaned against the cold brick wall behind her, the rough surface biting into her skin through her thin jacket. The pain was sharp, and grounding.

She needed to think this through. She needed to do something, anything, to shake off the suffocating weight of her inaction. But the more she tried to move forward, the heavier it became, dragging her back into the crushing stillness of the alley.

Ashley didn’t know how much time had passed since she stepped into the darkness. Time felt irrelevant here, swallowed whole by the stillness. The shadows wrapped around her like a cocoon, grounding her in ways the chaotic world outside never could. In the dark, no one could see her. No one could judge her. It was comforting and safe.

She leaned against the rough brick wall behind her, letting it support her trembling body. But the chill of the surface was starting to seep through her jacket, urging her to move. With a shaky breath, she pushed off the wall and walked in the direction she thought was the exit.

But she was wrong.

She froze, her blood turning to ice as her eyes landed on a body.

The girl’s body.

The screams that had once pierced the night were now a haunting memory, but the sight before her was something she could never unsee.

Ashley slapped a hand over her mouth, her stomach twisting violently. She couldn’t look away, no matter how much she wanted to.

The girl was unrecognizable. Blood was everywhere, staining her clothes, her skin, and the ground beneath her. Her face was mangled, barely retaining any human features. The chest was ripped open, organs glistening under the faint light like grotesque treasures on display.

Ashley’s knees buckled slightly, but she caught herself, her back pressing against the wall again for support.

A bear. That’s what it looked like—a bear had mauled her in some horrific, primal act of violence. But Ashley knew better.

She knew who did this.

She refused to even think his name, as though the mere act of acknowledging him might summon him back. Her hands trembled at her sides, her breath shallow and uneven.

She was scared.

No, terrified.

Her logical mind screamed at her to turn around, to run as fast as her legs could carry her. But her body betrayed her. Step by step, she moved closer.

And closer.

And closer still.

Until she was only inches away from the lifeless girl.

Ashley’s breath hitched as she crouched down, her eyes locking onto the chest cavity. There it was.

The heart.

It lay nestled among the gore, coated in blood yet strangely captivating. Its presence pulled her in, a macabre kind of beauty that sent shivers down her spine.

Her thoughts became a whirlwind, chaotic and intrusive. She could almost see him, the way he must have worked to end this girl’s life. His hands—strong, deliberate—had done this. He hadn’t used a clean weapon; no, this was something blunt, brutal. He hadn’t granted her a swift death. He made her suffer.

Her lips parted as her breathing quickened, not out of fear, but... curiosity.

It was horrifying, all of it. And yet...

Was it wrong?

Ashley reached out, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the girl’s lifeless chest. She didn’t touch her, not quite. But she was close enough to feel the warmth lingering in the blood, proof of how recent this was.

Her mind churned with questions. What was it like to do something like this? What had been going through his head as he tore her apart? Did he feel exhilaration? Power? Satisfaction?

The thoughts made her stomach churn, yet she couldn’t stop them.

Why is this wrong?

The question echoed in her mind. Humans are animals, she reasoned. And animals kill each other. It’s part of survival, of existence itself. Wolves kill for food. Lions kill to protect their pride. Humans kill for a thousand reasons, most of which make far less sense.

So why was this so taboo?

It was nature, wasn’t it?

Wasn't it?

Her hand lowered slightly, the tip of her finger brushing against the slick blood on the girl’s torso. It was warm, almost comforting in its twisted way.

She jerked her hand back, her breath catching in her throat. What was she doing?

She stumbled to her feet, her head spinning as she tried to reconcile her thoughts. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

But she couldn’t leave.

The body held her gaze, tethering her to the spot as though it were a magnet and she a piece of iron. Her heart pounded in her chest, a relentless drumbeat that echoed the silence around her.

Ashley’s lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong with me?”

She backed away slowly, her shoes crunching against the gravel beneath her. The darkness no longer felt comforting. It felt suffocating, and oppressive, as though it were judging her for the thoughts swirling in her head.

But why was it judging her?

Ashley wasn’t the one who did this.

She was innocent.

She had every right to be here, didn’t she? She had done nothing wrong.

Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Her jaw set as a wave of defiance coursed through her. The fear that had kept her paralyzed moments ago was now a challenge. She wasn’t going to let blood scare her anymore. No, she refused to let something so fundamental, something she’d have to face daily as a future medical professional, have power over her.

With that determination, she stepped closer to the mangled body.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, Ashley couldn’t resist.

The moonlight barely seeped into the darkened alley, but it was enough for her eyes to catch the vivid, gruesome details. The glint of blood reflected faintly, slick and shining in the dim light. She crouched down again, her gaze sharp and analytical now, the fear replaced with an intense curiosity.

Her eyes scanned the body, searching for answers, trying to piece together the horrifying puzzle.

The wounds were brutal, yet they spoke volumes to her. The marks weren’t random, not entirely. Whoever had done this—he—had been methodical, cruelly calculated.

Ashley leaned in, careful not to touch the body this time, and examined the wounds on the girl’s side. Deep, jagged indentations marred her torso as if some heavy object had been swung with incredible force. The edges of the injuries weren’t clean; they were bruised, and torn in irregular patterns. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she traced the scene in her mind.

A hammer? No, the shape didn’t match. It was something longer, less blunt. Her eyes flicked to the pattern of the damage, the faint indent of ridges in the flesh. A pipe.

Yes, that was it. A metal pipe.

Her lips twitched into a small, fleeting smile. She was getting better at this—at analyzing injuries, at deciphering the violent stories they told.

But the pipe hadn’t been the only weapon used.

Her gaze shifted to the girl’s arms, where smaller, shallower cuts peppered her skin. These wounds weren’t as obvious amidst the carnage, but they stood out to Ashley like a code waiting to be cracked. The edges of the cuts were uneven, the skin pulled and frayed where it had been torn.

Something sharp.

But not too sharp. The blade had been dull enough to tug at the flesh, to drag against it rather than slicing cleanly. A dagger, maybe.

No, a dull dagger.

The realization struck her, and her chest tightened, though not from fear. It was intrigue now, morbid and insistent. Whoever had wielded the blade hadn’t wanted to make quick, efficient cuts. They’d wanted to prolong the pain, to force the victim to feel every agonizing second.

Her stomach churned, yet she didn’t look away.

This was wrong, wasn’t it? Analyzing this, thinking this way. But she couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t just staring at a crime scene. She was studying it, absorbing every detail, every nuance.

Ashley inhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. Perhaps she wasn’t scared anymore. Not of the blood, not of the gore. No, what frightened her now was how fascinated she was becoming.

With each try to get to the surface, she only fell deeper into the dark.