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Another day, another round… He sighs, dragging his boots through the loading zone like it’s a daily commute. Wonder who the killer is this time. Could it be Jason? Please don’t be him. He really doesn’t like it when it’s him. . Two swords whistle past him, slicing through the space where his next steps would’ve landed. Razor-sharp. Unnervingly precise. A clean, silent threat. “Whoa!” stumbling back, he half-raised his hands. No mistaking it now, that certainly answers his question.
He doesn't even need to look to know who it is. Shedletsky grimaces, shoulders tightening as that familiar dread coils low in his gut. Great. Fantastic. A round of being the favorite target. He already knows how this’ll go—sprint, dodge, loop, hide long enough to eat a chicken. Maybe even get a few jabs in if possible.
Shedletsky knows exactly why he’s being targeted. Why it keeps coming back, angrier. He’s not just playing against another killer, he’s playing against himself in a way. 1x1x1x1 is everything he regrets— a form wrapped in his hatred. He waits 1x1x1x1 in a corner of a wall, thinking—how weird it is to be hunted by a piece of himself. A manifestation born out of his past mistakes. He gets it, though. He really does. Who’d smile at the thing that made them like that in the first place? He certainly wouldn’t and…doesn’t?
“Oo! Not so fast!!” he shouts, voice bouncing with that cocky rhythm he’s worn like an armour for years. Miraculously, he manages to stun it. Just for a moment, he sees its face twist—lips curled back, teeth bared like something feral. It grits its teeth in frustration, eyes so wide and glassy it looks like they might pop right out of its head. It is mad mad.
He almost laughs. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering—being the sole fixation of a creature like that. Always breathing down his neck, always showing up exactly where he is like it’s magnetically drawn to his presence. He’s used to it. Bored of it, even. If he dies, he’ll just respawn back at the cabin anyway—no big deal. Same cycle. Same chase. Wait, there’s something wrong now though. 1x1x1x1 isn’t coming for him, It runs past him. Straight for Taph. Wait—Taph?
Shedletsky blinks, stunned. That’s… new. Not just unexpected, but unthinkable. It’s always been him, he’s always been the one it zeroed in on. Has it evolved? Upgraded? Learned to prioritize? Is this finally the version of 1x1x1x1 that knows how to win? Wow. He didn’t think they were capable of that.
Well, okay then. Fine. It’s… kind of nice. A break— a rare, fleeting moment where he isn’t the center of the storm. No swords whizzing past his head. No breath on his neck. No uncanny footsteps echoing just behind his own like a shadow. Though, the longer he stands there— the longer he watches 1x1x1x1 glide after Taph with that same cold, unblinking gaze—the one that used to always be aimed at him—the less “nice” it feels. He’s not the target, not the obsession. Not anything, apparently and that smile he'd been wearing just a moment ago? Yeah. It slips, just slightly. Mm, slightly.
No hesitation, no second thoughts— it just make a relentless pursuit for Taph. What’s so special about Taph that 1x1x1x1 is ignoring him anyways?…this bitter taste in his mouth, it feels familiar. Then, it hits him. This… tight feeling in his chest. The way his brows knit together on their own. The dry catch in his throat. The twist in his stomach like something’s wrong. Is this… jealousy?
He actually reels at the thought. Jealousy. Really? Right now? It creeps up on him, unexpected and completely unwelcome. He blinks, trying to brush it off, but it lingers— undeniable. His thoughts start to spiral, fixating on things he doesn't want to admit matter to him. His jaw clenches before he even realizes it, and there's this strange heat crawling up the back of his neck.
No—no, that can’t be right. That’s ridiculous.
He should be grateful, he should be doing cartwheels on rainbows right now. Instead, he’s standing here with this dumb, gnawing ache in his chest because 1x1x1x1 is not targeting him this time. That makes absolutely zero sense though, because who in their right mind misses being hunted? Who feels… weirdly left out when the person that hate them move on?
He hides behind a wall and squints his eyes at the scene in front of him. If 1x1x1x1 won't target him, then he'll MAKE him—in a helpful for the team way of course! Shedletsky gets out of his not-so-great hiding spot and attempts to hit it; keyword, attempt. It fails miserably, not even CLOSE, but that’s not even the worse part because WHY is 1x1x1x1 just ignoring it? Usually— usually this is when 1x1x1x1 turns. When it tilts its head, lets out a laugh and says something sharp and mocking! This time...there’s nothing. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t flinch, it doesn’t turn, it doesn’t even fucking bats an eye at him.
It just keeps chasing Taph like Shedletsky doesn’t even exist. Like he’s not even worth mocking and that fucking stings worse than anything ever could. He lowers his arm slowly, the weight of it suddenly impossible to ignore, like it’s been filled with lead. He’d rather be taunted, obliterated—he’d rather be seen. He’d rather be mocked until his ears rang and his pride split down the middle because at least then he’d matter. At least then someone would look at him and feel something— anything. Rage, contempt, disgust. However, instead, he’s nothing— just some background noise. Unimportant, replaceable, insignificant.
For the first time in a long, long time...Shedletsky feels alone. The worst part is, there’s no one rushing to fix it. No hand on his shoulder, no sudden epiphany that he’s mistaken. It’s the loneliness that’s like the cold, empty moment that stretches and stretches until it feels like it might never end. The one where you start to wonder if you were ever really here at all. The kind of alone where it doesn’t matter if you scream because no one’s listening— no one’s looking.
1x1x1x1 huffs sharply, the distorted sound of irritation bleeding through its form as it watches the new survivor—someone it hasn’t encountered before—slip away from his grasp. This one was good, annoyingly so. His movements were wild, erratic, making it incredibly difficult to predict his path, let alone land an effective blow. Every time 1x1x1x1 thought it had him cornered, the survivor would dart away at an impossible angle, throwing off any strike.
Still, 1x1x1x1 wasn't worried. It would find a way, It always did. It just needed a window— one slip, one moment of hesitation and it would tear this them apart. The plan was simple: end him, gain the extra thirty seconds, then butcher Guest1337 before the timer dragged its victory away. It could already taste it—sweet, brutal triumph.
Focus narrowing, it prepared to lunge, recalibrating its approach to anticipate the survivor’s next move. Unfortunately, a disaster struck him. Guest1337, the ever-persistent thorn he is, barrelled into the scene out of nowhere and before 1x1x1x1 could react, he blocked the attack coming for Taph and PUNCHED them— normally, that won’t be much of a deterrent, but because of the cruel system the spectre set on him, he can’t move a single muscle.
FUCK!!!
The curse echoed loudly in its mind. It should have been more alert, more present. It should have anticipated interference instead of hyper-focusing his victory. Now it was frozen, paralyzed, the precious seconds ticking down in cruel mockery. So close— he was this close to winning the round. If he had just landed the kill, everything else would have fallen into place.
Out of the corner of its eye, it catches the faintest flicker of movement. There, half-concealed behind a wall— stands Shedletsky. He looks pathetic, like a mopping sad kitten. The sight stirs something deep in 1x1x1x1, who would have thought that simply withholding a gaze, a moment of acknowledgment, could crush him so completely? It had known, of course, on some level. People like Shedletsky strives for attention, any of it. From anyone the could, they will look for it.
It watches, unblinking. A slow, delicious satisfaction unfurls in its chest, spreading like heat through their frozen veins. Maybe it should do this more often — deny him, starve him, make him hungry until he rotted from the inside out. Leave him clawing at the edges of what little scraps of attention he used to take for granted. Let him burn in the silence, in the space where acknowledgment should be.
There’s a certain art to it. A precision. The withholding of something so small—so insignificant and watching it unravel him completely. Make him hungry, make him need. Let that need hollow him out from the inside until he’s all craving, until he’s forgotten what it felt like to be full. Until he’s gnawing on memory and hoping it tastes like mercy.
It can see it already—how easily he cracks. How quickly the mask slips when there’s nothing left to feed on. The way he looks for signs, for cues, for anything and finds nothing. Make him rot— slowly collapsing in on itself under the weight of time and want and failure. Let him fester in that hunger until he eats through his pride.
Yes. It should absolutely do this more often. Now he sees—now he understands what he is without that thread of attention to cling to. Nothing.
Just for a glance, for a word and he acts like that. Almost funny. The way he folds in on himself, the way his whole body leans in without realizing it, as if proximity might earn him favor. He’s collapsing in slow motion— stiff smiles, darting eyes. It's so obvious, so achingly transparent. He wants so badly to be seen—to be acknowledged, to matter. That need— that bottomless, gnawing ache in him is all they need to keep him on his knees.
Just let him starve a little longer. Just let him speak into silence. Let the echo be his only answer. He’ll do the rest himself. They could destroy him without even lifting a finger. No need for brute force, all it takes is silence. A second too long without acknowledgment, a breath withheld, and Shedletsky starts to fall apart on his own. A small twitch pulls at the corner of its mouth—the beginnings of a smile it almost suppresses. Almost, but what would be the point in hiding it? Why hide the pleasure curling up its spine? This isn’t just victory, this is art and no masterpiece deserves to be hidden.
It watches as Shedletsky stumbles beneath the weight of his own longing, not even aware of how loudly he's begging just by existing in the space between them. He’s so ripe with need. That tiny, flickering hope in his eyes. That maybe this time will be different. That there’s some meaning to the silence, but there isn’t. There never was and still, he waits. Still, he aches. Still, he hopes and 1x1x1x1 watches, unmoved.
No, not unmoved—thrilled because there is power in restraint. In patience. In letting others destroy themselves trying to reach you. It strokes its ego nicely—so subtly.. The absence of movement. The way it leaves Shedletsky grasping for something—anything—and gives him nothing. It feels that familiar pulse of satisfaction. The knowledge that it is in control. That it holds the strings, invisible but undeniable. And each twitch of Shedletsky’s response, each little desperate gesture, strokes 1x1x1x1's ego like nothing else could. It feels the smile pull at the edges of its lips, widening with quiet, triumphant satisfaction. He’ll keep reaching. He’ll keep wanting. And 1x1x1x1? It’ll just keep watching— enjoying. The knowledge of its control is enough satisfaction that could last him for days on end.
The time, however, comes to an end and he is yanked back into the gray, suffocating space that stretches between memory and oblivion, his own personal limbo. He blinks, disoriented, the aftermath clings stubbornly to the edges of his vision. A stillness follows— not peace, but a pause, sharp and breathless. Then it exhales — a single, clipped huff through the nose, amused and bitter. Another follows, harsher, deeper. The huffs grow faster, more erratic, chest shaking with the strain of holding back something. It starts to slip— the control, the mask and then it breaks.
The huffs twist upward, catch in the throat, and splinter into laughter— rising and wild. It laughs freely, unashamed, uncontained, unconcerned—as if the whole universe is a joke only it understands. The sound stretches on, echoing and building, until even the laughter itself seems exhausted by its own intensity. Until even it is tired of the sound of its own madness. Gradually, the hysteria dims. The laughter slows and cracks into silence. A hollow one, empty—waiting for something to fill in once again. Kind of like Shedletsky, honestly— aching to be fulfilled by anything he can get his hands on. Still, there is nothing— just the cold hum of stillness returning once again.