Seraphina Grace

Seraphina - The Lost Wings

Basic Information

Full Name: Seraphina “Evangel” Grace

Nicknames/Aliases: Lost Wings, Evangel, Porcelain, broken doll.

Age: Physically 21 (Immortal)

Actual Date Of Birth: September 2nd, 1692

Released from Slenders Realm: February 14th, 2004

Gender/Pronouns: Female (She/Her)

Species: Demon/Witch

Occupation: Proxy, Killer, Slendermans Daughter

Quotes:

• “Sleep is just another cage.”
• "I wasn’t born like this. I was made… and I remember every second of it.”

---

Appearance

Serephina stands at 5'3 with a haunting, fair complexion that verges on ghostly pale. Her most striking features are her deep midnight blue eyes—dark pools that often seem void of emotion, with deep eye bags revealing years of insomnia and unrest. Her hair is long, black, and wildly curly, complete with soft, dark bangs that frame her face like shadows. Seraphina has a striking hourglass figure—slim waist, curvy hips, and a full bust that gives her a really dramatic silhouette. Her arms were almost unsettlingly thin, fragile like porcelain branches that might snap with the slightest pressure. Every subtle shift revealed the faint outline of tendons and delicate bones beneath her pale skin, giving her an eerie, almost breakable grace. Her legs mirrored the same haunting slenderness — impossibly long and spindly, with knees that jutted out sharply and calves that barely curved. Each step she took looked feather-light, as though her body weighed almost nothing at all, leaving one to wonder how she managed to move without shattering.

Her nails are long and naturally tapered to sharp, elegant points, with a smooth, healthy sheen. The surface of each nail was a soft, natural pink that deepened ever so slightly toward the tips, almost like a delicate ombré. Fine black patterns traced across them — slender branches and tiny blossoms.

She wears an oversized black sweatshirt that drowns her frame, the hem falling past her hips and nearly brushing her thighs. The design on the front is intricate and haunting—a pair of stylized angel wings stretched open, with a faintly bleeding heart at the center, looking almost hand-drawn. Underneath is a cropped black spaghetti strap with white accents, with a dead rat on the front that she made to spite her adoptive mother.

Beneath the sweatshirt peeks out the edge of a black mini skirt, just short enough to contrast sharply with her long, slender legs encased in ripped, distressed tights. Jagged holes run across her thighs and knees, revealing pale skin beneath, and drawing even more attention to the large, blood-stained bandage that wraps tightly around her left leg, from mid-calf up to mid-thigh. The blood has dried to a deep brownish red in some spots.

Her shoes are chunky black platform boots, worn and scuffed like they’ve seen too many fights or midnight escapes—held together by thick laces and heavy metal eyelets.

Her hands are both wrapped in bandages—but they’re far from ordinary. Across her fingers and knuckles are faded pink wraps decorated with tiny skulls and Hello Kitty heads, some of the designs fraying at the edges from wear. Her right wrist, however, is wrapped in a clean, standard white bandage.

A silver hoop sits on her right nostril, delicate yet defiant. On the left, a tiny heart-shaped stud gleams. A septum ring completes the triad, simple but striking, balancing out her uneven snakebite piercings—one side a subtle ring, the other a barbell. She wears a dog tag necklace from hoodie that had found with "Lost wings" engraved in them, that's how she got her nickname and Alias.

Her ears are just as decorated: simple silver hoops run up her lobes and cartilage, An eyebrow piercing arches over one eye. Topping it all off, she wears a black beanie, slouched and pierced by a safety pin.

Her body has self-harm scars on her arms, persistent bruises on her legs and hands, She bites her lip constantly, making her lips cracked and bleeding most times.

For when she joins her father, she is given a mask that represents her and her story.

The mask itself has a smooth porcelain-white surface, almost like delicate ceramic, with faint, intricate paisley-like patterns swirling across it in slightly raised, pearlescent etchings. It has cracks along it and over the nose, and the left eye has a gold tear falling from it constantly. The lips a rich, soft red tint, like a dying rose.

Wrapping around the edges of the mask is an elaborate metallic crown-like frame, crafted from silver-toned metal. The metalwork is twisting and organic, like intertwining vines or tendrils, dotted with tiny floral and leaf motifs. Embedded within the metal are small, shimmering stones.

---

Personality

Seraphina has a timid and nervous demeanor, quiet around strangers and slow to trust. Despite this, there is a hidden thrill that lights her up during missions—she enjoys the chase and even the kill, though it emotionally tears her apart afterward.

She struggles heavily with duality: her demonic instincts and the cruelty inherited from her lineage versus her human-like desire for love, connection, and peace. She’s sweet and affectionate toward those she cares about, but if she doesn’t like someone, she simply ignores or dismisses them completely.

Her greatest fear is her father—Slenderman himself. Though she respects and loves him in a conflicted way, his power and unpredictability terrify her.  Serephina has a deep-seated hatred of sleep, though she still requires it to function despite her immortality. The need for rest doesn’t stem from any physical limitations, but more from her mental and emotional state—if she goes too long without sleep, it takes a toll on her. Immortal or not, lack of sleep causes extreme fatigue, anxiety, and disorientation. The source of her aversion to sleep lies in her past—specifically, the long period she spent trapped in the limbo-like state that her father, Slenderman, cast her into. In that endless void, sleep felt like a suffocating, inescapable prison, and the thought of returning to that realm still haunts her. For hundreds of years as an infant, she was trapped in a dark realm, not asleep, but not awake. She was there until she was a toddler, having to stay there in the dark scared her. She grew to fear the dark as a child, connecting dark and sleep with being trapped and alone. She didn’t like sleeping as a child, the orphanage she stayed in always struggled to find things to help her sleep, eventually having a sleep study done, which they just diagnosed her with chronic Insomnia.

The darkness of her past, coupled with her emotional scars, has left her with numerous mental health struggles. She suffers from PTSD, constantly haunted by the trauma of her existence, her relationship with her father, and the nightmare that is her immortal life. On top of that, Seraphina deals with ADD, chronic insomnia, and severe depressive episodes, often experiencing psychotic symptoms during her lows.

Her mental state has led to several diagnoses: Paranoid-Schizoid Personality Disorder, making her distrustful, distant, and emotionally detached from others, and Antisocial Personality Disorder (Sociopathy), making it difficult for her to form healthy connections and causing her to act impulsively, with little regard for the well-being of others. These conditions, combined with the constant battle between her demon nature and the remnants of her once-human self, create a complex, often volatile personality. She is constantly at war with her mind, and though she may seem cold or distant, it’s a defense mechanism against the turmoil inside.

Seraphina suffers from Complex PTSD (C-PTSD), developed after years of prolonged abuse — physical, emotional, and sexual — at the hands of her father and brother. This leaves her plagued by flashbacks, nightmares, hypervigilance, emotional numbness, and a deep-seated sense of worthlessness. She struggles to trust anyone, carrying a constant wariness, especially around men. Certain trauma triggers like yelling, displays of male anger, sudden touch, or any form of confinement can cause her to dissociate. When overwhelmed by stress or conflict, particularly during heated arguments, Seraphina experiences dissociative episodes where she emotionally shuts down, goes numb, “floats away” mentally, and may lose track of time — often after being yelled at or feeling threatened.

She displays borderline personality traits, including a profound fear of abandonment that leads her to cling to Toby, often testing his loyalty in volatile ways. Her thinking tends to swing in extremes, seeing people as either entirely good or entirely bad, which creates intense and stormy relationships. With Toby, this plays out as a push-pull dynamic, where she simultaneously craves and resists closeness. Underneath it all, Seraphina battles recurrent depression, weighed down by feelings of hopelessness, guilt, and a loss of interest in things she once loved. She has trouble sleeping, struggles with low appetite and low energy, and often feels trapped in cycles of self-loathing.

Complicating her emotional world is her sexual trauma response, which sometimes manifests as hypersexuality. She struggles to fully understand or hold her own boundaries, using sex as a way to grasp for control, affection, or validation. Yet even in moments of intimacy, she may feel emotionally detached, going through the motions but left hollow or confused afterward. On top of this, Seraphina carries mild social anxiety and paranoia, feeling uncomfortable in large groups, especially around unfamiliar men. She’s highly sensitive to potential threats, reading negative intent even into neutral interactions, and tends to be jumpy, avoiding eye contact and staying hyper-aware of her surroundings.

Her coping mechanisms are small but telling — she bites her nails and picks at her skin when anxious, and when overwhelmed, she wraps her arms around herself or curls into tight spaces to feel safer. In any room, she instinctively notes all the exits, a habit from years of needing to escape danger. She finds a rare kind of calm when someone she trusts, particularly Toby, grounds her with firm but gentle physical touch, like holding her hand or anchoring her with a steady arm. Her triggers are sharp: yelling or anger from men causes her to freeze or shut down, confined spaces can set off panic attacks, and being touched unexpectedly from behind makes her flinch or dissociate. Perhaps most devastating are the wounds tied to her self-image — being called weak, broken, or “used up” can send her spiraling into rage or total emotional collapse.

Seraphina also suffers from sleep trauma and severe disturbances. She deals with chronic insomnia, too afraid to fall asleep because of the nightmares and the vulnerability it brings. When she does sleep, she is often haunted by flashbacks or night terrors, waking up screaming, disoriented, and confused. Even in sleep, she’s hypervigilant, able to wake at the slightest sound, as if her body is always on alert, never fully able to rest.

Backstory

Seraphina's origins trace back to the era of the Salem Witch Trials. A real witch, hunted by puritans, fled into the dark forest and stumbled upon Slenderman. Desperate, she struck a deal with him—offering her loyalty in exchange for sanctuary. Over time, their bond deepened, and she managed to obtain a sample of Slenderman’s blood, claiming it was for a ritual.

That ritual created Seraphina.

Before the witch was ultimately captured and hung for her "Crimes". She completed the spell and gave Slenderman a parting gift: a child created from both her blood and his. Slenderman, cold and calculating, initially intended to destroy the child. But something in her—perhaps her quiet breath or innocent, faceless stare—made him hesitate.

Instead of death, he gave her isolation. For centuries, she was locked away in a dream-like dimension—trapped between sleep and consciousness, fully aware but unable to move. This torment shaped her core. She developed an intense hatred for sleep, equating it with being imprisoned once again. Her insomnia is relentless, not just psychological, but traumatic.

Eventually, Slenderman released her, perhaps out of guilt or a desire to use her abilities. Now, she walks the woods as one of his Proxies—a monster and a martyr.

Seraphina's life after being released from the limbo-like realm was no kinder than the one she had known before. Slenderman, unwilling or perhaps unable to care for her in her physical form, abandoned her at the doorstep of an orphanage. She was just a child—confused, disoriented, and terrified. The orphanage, meant to be a sanctuary, quickly became another prison. The staff was cruel, neglectful, and the children were no better. She was bullied relentlessly, shamed for being “weird,” and eventually grew fearful of everyone around her.

When she was adopted, it felt like a miracle. She finally had a family—a mom, a dad, a brother. There were laughs, warm meals, even birthday gifts. But it didn’t take long for that illusion to shatter. Her new home quickly transformed into her personal hell. She became their live-in slave, forced to cook, clean, and do every chore while enduring severe physical and mental abuse. Her adoptive mother and father would beat her if she made even the smallest mistake. They’d lock her outside in the freezing cold, deny her food for days, and break her down with words that cut deeper than any blade.

But the worst came from within the house—her father and brother. The sexual abuse she suffered at their hands twisted something inside her, leaving scars that would never fully heal. At school, she fared no better. Teachers overlooked her struggles, classmates bullied her for being different. She had trouble focusing in class due to her autism, ADD, and ADHD, and was labeled “lazy” or “stupid.” But it wasn’t that she couldn’t learn—she just didn’t care about what they taught. Instead, she developed a morbid curiosity for anatomy, fascinated by how the human body worked and how it could break. She couldn't do math to save her life, but she could tell you exactly where to stab someone to ensure they died slow.

By age 13, the line between reality and hallucination began to blur. She started hearing voices—some whispered softly, others screamed. Her "parents" deemed her broken and threw her into a mental hospital, where she was sedated, restrained, and dehumanized. It only made her worse. When she returned home, she wasn’t a child anymore. She was a ticking time bomb.

The hallucinations grew louder, and so did her hatred. Whenever the thought of killing her family crossed her mind, she’d hear a strange ringing in her ears—like a warning, or perhaps a calling. She began seeing him again. The tall man in the woods. Pale, faceless. Always watching. She thought she was hallucinating again… but she wasn’t. It was Slenderman. Her father. Watching. Waiting.

Then, one night, everything broke.

Her father came into her room with dark intent, but this time, she was prepared. She had a weapon—a shard of glass taped to the end of a broken ruler. And she didn’t hesitate. She stabbed him again and again, her arms drenched in blood, driven by years of agony and rage. She didn’t stop until the weapon shattered in her hand. The floor was soaked in red. Her mother’s screams followed, but they only sounded like background noise.

Her brother tackled her, holding her down while her mother dialed the police. But even then, she fought. She headbutted him, knocked him off with a desperation born of survival, and struck him over the head with a heavy stapler from her bag. Blood. Cracks. Silence. Then, she turned to her final tormentor—her mother. And she wasn’t finished. Her mother bolted down the stairs in a panic, screaming for help that would never come in time. But Seraphina was already chasing her, calm in her rage, eyes hollow but focused. She followed the sound of frantic footsteps into the kitchen, where her mother had trapped herself on one side of the island. The tension was thick, suffocating—like the air before a storm.

They stared each other down, predator and prey. Her mother’s eyes filled with terror, but Seraphina's were unreadable—blank, exhausted, and done with it all.

For all the wealth they had, all the status they flaunted, they couldn’t buy her silence, or her mercy. She stepped forward and grabbed a knife from the block, leveling it at the woman who had called herself “mom.”

“Your little angel is about to be red, mother.”

They circled the island like animals. Her mother pleaded, shaking, trying to reason with the girl she had helped destroy. But there was no reasoning left.

Seraphina threw the knife—straight, sharp, unshaking. It embedded into her mother’s upper abdomen with a dull thud and a choked scream. Without missing a beat, she grabbed another blade, vaulted onto the island, and launched herself at her mother, raising the knife high—

Then everything vanished.

She woke up. Cold sweat. Shaking. Gasping for breath. The dream always ended that way—just before the final blow.

That’s how her nights always went—either trapped in that endless, suffocating void from before, or reliving twisted, violent dreams soaked in fear and blood. Sleep became something she feared more than death. Her “brother” always took advantage of her when she was unconscious, so she started avoiding it altogether. Night after night, she’d sit up in silence, legs pulled to her chest, surrounded by shadows or reading under the dim light just to keep herself grounded.

School got harder. Her attention was shot, her focus almost non-existent. Her grades slipped lower and lower until she was barely passing. The principal started keeping her after school, pushing for tutoring. He tried to help, in a way, but when he mentioned calling CPS if she didn’t improve, her heart dropped. If anyone looked too closely, if anyone saw the bruises, the way she flinched from loud voices or eye contact—they’d figure something out. And that wouldn’t save her. That would only make things worse.

Her adoptive family had money—real money. But she never saw any of it. She had to beg for the bare minimum: a pair of shoes without holes, a decent sweater in the winter. The only reason she even got a phone was because the principal asked about it. Her parents couldn’t risk their image being tarnished, so they bought her the latest model to play the part of the perfect family. But she knew the truth, and so did they.

By the time Seraphina turned sixteen, she had developed a style that felt like hers—cheap, dark, and thrifted. It wasn’t much, but it was a form of rebellion, a way to reclaim even the smallest piece of control. Her family, always concerned with appearances, started giving her an allowance—but it came with strings. She was still the maid of the house, expected to keep everything spotless. The faster and better she did it, the more money she earned. It was transactional love, masked as generosity.

She was given about $200 a week, sometimes more—another hundred if she cleaned her brother’s room and laundry, a hundred more for polishing and organizing her father’s extensive shoe collection. She was pulling in roughly $400 weekly, but it never felt like a gift. It felt like payment for silence.

She saved most of it, afraid the "kindness" would dry up any second. What she did spend went to thrifted clothes—pleated black skirts, ripped tights, worn jackets, platform boots. Black became her armor. She'd sometimes add pink, a soft rebellion against the darkness. A shirt here, nails there, maybe a pink streak in her hair. Her family hated it, especially when she pierced herself—her nose, lip, eyebrow. Her “mother” was furious, said she looked like “trash.”

But to outsiders, they looked perfect: a successful, polished couple, a star-athlete son, and their goth daughter. Seraphina almost laughed at the image. If only people knew.

When Seraphina turned 17, everything started to shift. The dreams she had once brushed off began to intensify—vivid visions of a shadowy forest, a tall, faceless man reaching out to her, and a woman engulfed in flames, screaming her name in agony. Sleep, which was already a battle for her, became unbearable. Each night she closed her eyes, she was met with those haunting images and the crushing sensation of being trapped again. So she stopped trying altogether. She would rather feel exhaustion gnawing at her bones than face what waited in her dreams.

It was around this time she began to notice... strange things happening. Abilities no one else around her had. It started with rage. Her brother had destroyed a bone she’d found—one of her first, something special—and ratted her out, leading to another brutal punishment. She remembered the fury building in her chest, the wish that he’d lose something important, something that mattered to him. His game. His reputation. His leg. And then it happened—he fell down the stairs and broke it. Right before the big game.

She should’ve been shocked, but deep down... it felt right. Like something inside her had answered the call.

From there, it escalated. She experimented quietly, cautiously. When her mother slapped her during an argument, Seraphina focused, visualized, and the chair her mother went to sit in slid out from under her—without Seraphina laying a finger on it. Her mother hit the floor hard.

She started connecting the dots. The visions. The powers. The woman in flames. The man in the woods. Something was waking up inside her—something ancient, angry, and powerful.

Things only got worse when her family abruptly decided to move to New York in the middle of the school year. It was jarring—uprooting her from the only environment she’d ever known, the cold, quiet forests of Idaho, and shoving her into the chaos of a sprawling city filled with noise, crowds, and constant motion.

The adjustment was brutal. The city felt wrong. Loud, suffocating, overwhelming. She hated the way the tall buildings blocked out the sky, the way people bumped into her without apologizing, and the way the streets never seemed to sleep. Seraphina already struggled with overstimulation due to her autism, but New York made it feel ten times worse. The new school was massive, impersonal, and even less forgiving than the last. She was an outsider in every sense of the word—an Idaho goth in a sea of designer labels and city kids.

Her insomnia worsened. Her powers grew stronger but more unpredictable, sometimes surging when she lost control of her emotions. The voices she tried to ignore grew louder in the city, like something was calling to her from beneath the concrete and steel. The nightmares returned with a vengeance, as if the forest itself was trying to pull her back—even from hundreds of miles away.

Her new school was a pristine private academy—shiny floors, uniforms, polished reputations, and more money than empathy. From the moment she stepped through the gates, Seraphina knew she didn’t belong. She stuck out like a black smudge on a white canvas. Her outfit—black skirt, graphic tee with a dead rat, dark makeup, and blue-streaked curly hair tucked under a beanie—earned her nothing but scorn. Teachers sneered, students stared, and the first thing said to her in class was a public reprimand for not following the dress code.

The students were even worse than the staff. Rich, spoiled, and cruel, they mocked everything from her clothes to her voice, her stare, even how she held her books. They whispered when she walked by and laughed when she didn’t react. Her mental health plummeted—already battling PTSD, hallucinations, and the lingering trauma of abuse, this environment was a pressure cooker. The city buzz, the suffocating noise, the lack of nature—especially the absence of her forest—made everything ten times harder.

She didn’t speak unless she had to. She sat alone. She stared out the windows, wondering if the forest would ever call her back.

She got in major trouble one day; A girl decided to pour her whole water on her and her laptop ruining it. The day had already started rough.

Seraphina had barely slept, her eyes bloodshot and makeup smudged around the edges from crying the night before. Her head throbbed with the pounding rhythm of voices she couldn’t quite shut off—whispers, growls, some screaming her name, others just laughing. Mocking her.

She hadn’t eaten. Her stomach twisted from stress and hunger, but she didn’t complain. She never did.

Dressed in her usual black—skirt, tights, oversized graphic tee with a dead rat on it, and her favorite worn-out beanie covering her dark curls—Seraphina stood out like a sore thumb in the pristine halls of the private New York academy. The students here were preppy, polished, and painfully wealthy. Every hallway smelled like expensive cologne, and everyone walked like they owned the damn building.

She’d barely made it to her seat in the computer lab when the whispers started.

“She looks like she crawled out of a cemetery.”

“Is she even allowed to wear that?”

“What’s on her shirt? Is that a rat? Oh my god, ew.”

She ignored them. She always did. She pulled out her thrifted laptop, slightly scratched up but functional. She didn’t have money for a new one, and this one had all her stories, notes, and her playlist of haunting melodies that got her through the day.

She was just about to plug in her headphones when it happened.

A cold shock. Wet. Sudden.

She gasped, looking down as ice-cold water soaked through her shirt and down her skirt, puddling under her chair. A sickening spark hissed from her laptop as the screen fizzled and went black, smoke curling up from the vents.

The class went silent for half a second.

Then laughter.

A plastic water bottle clattered to the floor.

“Oh my god,” said a voice laced with venomous amusement. “I didn’t see you there, freak. My bad.”

Seraphina slowly turned her head.

It was Madison Langley. Of course it was. Perfect smile, perfect nails, perfect grades. And perfectly evil.

Seraphina rose from her chair slowly, her fists clenched at her sides. Her soaked clothes clung to her skin, her makeup was probably running. Her laptop—her lifeline—lay dead on the desk.

Her body trembled, but her voice was eerily calm.

“Say that again.”

Madison raised an eyebrow. “What? Freak?” She leaned in with a grin. “You heard me. Look at you. You belong in a gutter, not here. Maybe if you stopped dressing like a reject Hot Topic model, people wouldn't hate you so much.”

Laughter erupted again, but it sounded distant now. Muffled. Seraphina’s heart pounded. Her hands buzzed, not from adrenaline—but something else. Like static under her skin. Like something trying to crawl out.

“Apologize,” Seraphina whispered.

Madison sneered. “Or what? You gonna curse me with your emo voodoo?”

That’s when it happened.

Seraphina didn’t remember lunging. One second she was trembling, the next, she was on Madison, fists flying. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed around the room. Screams erupted. Desks scraped against the floor. Someone shouted her name, but she couldn’t hear it over the blood rushing in her ears.

Madison tried to scream, but Seraphina’s hand was tangled in her hair, slamming her head against the floor again and again.

“Stop it! GET HER OFF!”

“Call security!”

A boy ran toward her to pull her off—one of Madison’s rich boy friends—but Seraphina twisted, elbowing him square in the face. There was a crack. He fell to the floor, nose gushing blood, howling.

“Freak! She’s crazy!”

Hands finally grabbed her—strong, gloved hands—dragging her off Madison. Her nails left red trails down the girl’s arms as she was ripped away and slammed to the tile floor, her cheek scraping against it.

The world finally came back into focus.

Her breathing was ragged. Her fists were raw and bloodied. Blood—not hers—was splattered across her face, her arms, her soaked shirt. Madison was groaning, curled up, her once-perfect face swollen and dripping red.

“...What... happened?” Seraphina asked, her voice hollow, dazed.

One of the teachers towered above her, face red with rage. “You attacked two students! You could’ve killed them!”

She blinked. “I... I didn’t mean to. She—she poured water on me—she broke my laptop—”

“She broke your face, psycho!” someone shouted.

The boy was still curled up on the floor, hands over his nose.

Seraphina didn’t say another word. The security guards were already dragging her up, cuffing her hands behind her back like she was some dangerous criminal.

As they pulled her out of the classroom, past rows of stunned faces, she caught her reflection in the window.

Hair matted with sweat and blood. Eyes wide and empty. Face blank.

And yet… behind that silence… she was smiling.

Seraphina sat in the corner of the office, stiff in a cold, metal chair. Her legs were pulled up slightly, feet balancing on the balls of her boots. Her soaked skirt clung to her thighs, a chilling reminder of how the whole thing started. Blood had dried and cracked on her knuckles, her fingernails stained red—like she dipped her hands in paint.

Her black beanie was gone. Her hair hung in wet, tangled curls around her pale face, some strands clinging to the side of her cheek. She stared straight ahead, numb.

The air was thick with tension. Police officers stood around her, not cuffing her, but watching her very carefully. One had tried to ask her questions earlier—about what happened, why she did it, if she had a weapon—but she just stared at him until he backed off.

The principal stood across the room, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “She snapped. She attacked them, Officer. One student has a possible concussion and the other has a broken nose. This girl is a liability—”

The door burst open.

In came her mother first—heels clicking loudly against the tile floor, her designer handbag swinging at her side. Her makeup was perfect, not a hair out of place. And her eyes—those sharp, venomous eyes—immediately locked onto Seraphina like a sniper scope.

Her father followed, phone still in hand as he typed something, probably an email to one of his corporate buddies. His expression was blank—too blank. He looked like someone trying to calculate how much damage control would cost him.

“Oh my god,” her mother said sharply. “What the hell did she do?”

Seraphina didn’t speak.

“She assaulted two students,” the principal said. “In front of the entire class. And I’m going to be blunt with you, Mr. and Mrs. Langley—she’s suspended until further notice, possibly expelled. This isn’t just a school matter anymore. There are police involved.”

Her mother turned to the officers. “Can we have a moment? With our daughter? Alone.”

The police exchanged a look. One gave a slow nod. “Five minutes. She’s not under arrest—yet. But we’re not leaving the building.”

They left the room, door clicking shut behind them.

Then silence.

Her father finally looked up from his phone, eyes cold.

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Seraphina licked her lips, still tasting iron. Her voice came out rough. “She dumped water on me. Ruined my laptop.”

Her mother sneered. “So you turned her face into hamburger meat? In front of witnesses? Jesus, Seraphina.”

“She laughed at me,” she whispered, eyes still locked forward. “She called me a freak. Said I didn’t belong here.”

“You don’t,” her father snapped.

That stung more than she expected.

Her mother folded her arms. “We warned you not to draw attention to yourself. And now look what you’ve done. You’re a violent little problem just waiting to go off again. What do you think people are going to say about us?”

Seraphina’s head slowly turned toward them. Her voice dropped low. “You’re not worried about me. You’re worried about your image."

Her mother walked over and slapped her.

Not hard enough to bruise—but enough to make a point.

Seraphina didn’t flinch. She smiled.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” her father muttered. “You’re trying to destroy everything we’ve worked for.”

Her hands twitched in her lap. The lights above flickered once.

They didn’t notice.

Her mother leaned in close. “I knew taking you in was a mistake. But we pitied you. No parents. No future. We should’ve left you in that godforsaken town with the trees and dirt you came from.”

Another flicker. The temperature in the room dropped.

Seraphina’s eyes were empty now—completely vacant, like looking into a dead forest at night.

She whispered, “You should have.”

The lights went out completely.

Just for a second.

Then came back on.

The air was dead silent. Her parents looked around, unsettled. The principal poked his head in, frowning. “What happened to the lights?”

“Must be the storm,” one of the officers said from the hall. “It’s getting dark out.”

Seraphina stood slowly. Her chair creaked behind her.

“You’ll clean this up,” her mother hissed. “Like always. You’ll apologize. Smile for the cameras if needed. And you’ll never do anything like this again.”

Seraphina walked past her—her shoulders relaxed, hands still bloody. She didn’t say anything.

Just as she reached the door, she paused and turned slightly.

“I won’t be here much longer.”

Her parents looked confused.

Seraphina just smiled softly, eerily, like she knew something they didn’t.

“I think… something’s coming for me.”

And with that, she stepped out into the hallway—leaving silence and tension hanging behind her like a shadow.

Later that night, the house was quiet—too quiet.

Every sound felt amplified: the distant drip of a faucet, the occasional creak of the floorboards, the dull buzz of the city outside their penthouse windows. Seraphina lay curled on the floor of her bathroom, arms trembling as she clutched her ribs, her breath hitching every few seconds.

The pain was unreal. Her father's fists had left blooming bruises across her stomach, her back, her cheekbone. Her mother hadn’t stopped him. She never did.

She couldn’t cry anymore. Her tears had run dry hours ago.

But the voices?

They were getting louder.

“Do it… do it…”

“They deserve it.”

“You were never one of them.”

“You’re not theirs. You’re his.”

“Faceless one… he’s waiting.”

Her head throbbed. She gripped it, nails digging into her scalp, rocking back and forth on the cool tile floor. Her vision swam with static. Shadows in the corners stretched longer than they should have.

It was like the forest was trying to find her—even here.

Two days later.

Back at school.

Her entrance into the building was like a storm cloud rolling in. Everyone stopped and stared—some gasped, others whispered. The bandages around her forearms were stark white, but the dull crimson stains beneath were impossible to miss.

Seraphina didn’t hide them. She didn’t wear sleeves.

She wanted them to see. Let them stare.

Let them fear.

Her face was blank, but her eyes… they burned with something darker. Something broken.

She didn’t walk through the halls. She drifted. Like something haunted.

Locker doors slammed as she passed. Students whispered cruel things, but only when she was far enough away. A few shoved past her, laughing nervously, but none dared look her in the eyes.

Even the teachers didn’t approach her anymore. Not after the incident.

She had apologized, like they forced her to. She said the words. But they were hollow. The girl with the broken face hadn’t even shown up to school since then. The boy refused to be in the same room with her.

And yet—somehow—Seraphina had been allowed to return.

Rumors said her family paid the school off. Bribed someone. Swept it under the rug. Just like they always did.

In the back of her classroom, Seraphina sat slouched in her seat, drawing shapes in her notebook with a black pen. Not art—just circles. Over and over again. Circle after circle. A symbol was starting to form.

One with a cross through it.

She didn’t know why she was drawing it. It just… came to her.

“He sees you.”

“He’s coming.”

“You belong to the dark.”

Sometimes the words were whispers.

Sometimes they were screams.

But they were always there.

At lunch, she sat alone. Same table every day. She barely touched her food. Just stared out the window at the clouds moving slowly across the sky.

She was tired. Not physically—something deeper. Soul-tired.

There was a moment where a girl walked by, one of the many that used to giggle at her clothes and throw snide remarks. She dropped her water bottle “accidentally” near Seraphina’s tray.

Seraphina didn’t even flinch.

She just turned her head slightly. Looked the girl right in the eye.

“I hope you drown.”

It wasn’t loud. Just quiet enough to make the girl’s face freeze. Her smile died immediately. Her friends stared, unsure if they heard right.

But Seraphina didn’t blink. She didn’t even smirk.

She meant it.

Every word.

The girl grabbed her bottle and ran.

In the mirror that night, Seraphina didn’t recognize herself.

Her bandages were soaked again, and she didn’t bother changing them. Her lips were pale. Her once-curly hair hung limp, the blue faded and dull.

And her eyes…

They weren’t hers anymore.

“Who am I?” she whispered to the reflection.

Returning to Idaho was supposed to bring her peace.

That was the lie she told herself the entire ride home—head pressed to the window of the car, watching the towering trees creep closer and closer like sentinels of a forgotten kingdom. The forests of Salmon-Challis weren’t just familiar. They called to her.

Their jagged shadows blanketed the mountains.

Their whispering branches danced in the wind.

They had always made her feel… safe.

But not this time.

This time, the trees didn’t welcome her back.

They watched her.

Their silence was heavy. Like they knew something.

---

Their new house was even more isolated than before—deep enough in the hills that no neighbors could hear a scream. The air smelled like pine and moss and something else beneath it… like rotting wood and wet earth.

Even from her room, Seraphina could see the forest out her window. It stretched endlessly, creeping toward the mountains like a living thing. She used to imagine running into them, letting them swallow her whole. That idea still whispered to her now—but not in the comforting way it once had.

---

Her father made it clear the moment they arrived:

“You don’t leave this house unless it’s for school. You don’t go near the woods. You don’t even look at them.”

It was as if he was scared of them.

But the punishment for defiance was brutal.

The beatings became routine. She didn’t even cry anymore.

She flinched when he came near, sure—but never from fear. Only to brace for the next strike.

She stopped speaking entirely at home. She existed in silence. A ghost haunting her own bedroom.

---

The voices were louder now.

They didn’t wait for nighttime anymore. They were there in class, whispering beneath the sound of teachers talking. They echoed in the locker room, behind the slamming of metal doors.

“The woods miss you.”

“He waits.”

“They’ll never stop until you end it.”

“Let them bleed like you do.”

She was unraveling—slowly, painfully.

The cuts on her arms multiplied. Now they crept up her thighs too, small angry slashes that she traced with a shaky hand each night like tally marks.

She started bandaging her legs the way she did her arms. The gauze was white in the morning. Crimson by night.

---

At school, Seraphina didn’t bother blending in anymore.

She wore black like armor—ripped tights and oversized sweaters, black lipstick smeared across her mouth, bandages openly on display. Her presence alone silenced rooms.

Teachers had stopped calling on her. Students gave her a wide berth. Rumors about what happened in New York followed her.

“Psycho.”

“Witch.”

“I heard she beat a girl half to death.”

Good.

Let them think that.

She wanted to be feared now.

---

One night, it became too much.

Her father had kicked in her bedroom door, accusing her of stealing from his wallet. She hadn’t. But it didn’t matter.

His belt did the talking.

When he was done, she lay on the wooden floor, cheek pressed to the grain, her own blood seeping into the cracks between the boards. Her ears rang. Her body screamed.

And through the ringing, she heard it:

“Come to us.”

“We’ll never hurt you.”

“Come home.”

And this time, it wasn’t just voices.

It was a presence.

Watching from the woods.

She could feel it now—just beyond the windowpane.

She dragged herself to her knees, to the glass, fingers trembling as she pulled back the curtain.

The forest was still.

But her heart dropped into her stomach.

A figure stood among the trees.

Tall. Slender. Faceless.

Barely visible between the trunks.

But there. Undeniably there.

She didn’t scream. She couldn’t.

Her lips parted, and her breath fogged the glass.

And for the first time in a long time…

She felt calm.

Seraphina had hoped maybe things would change.

They didn’t.

They got worse.

Her birthday passed like it was nothing. No cake. No card. No "happy birthday."

Only her father bursting into her room with a garbage bag, shoving her things into it.

“You’re nineteen now. Time to grow the fuck up.”

“You want to live here? Then pay rent.”

“You think you’re special? You’re just a freak.”

Her mother didn't speak. She just stood behind him with her arms crossed, lip curled in disgust. When Seraphina reached for a photo of her as a kid—smiling, bright-eyed, before it all—her mother slapped it out of her hand and tossed it into the trash.

Her clothes were stolen.

Her sketchbooks, her journals—gone.

Her memories, her identity, ripped out from under her, bag by bag.

Every time she tried to stop them, her father hit her.

Every time she screamed, they screamed louder.

Her voice meant nothing here. It never had.

And her brother?

He took the leftover cash she had hidden in her closet, laughing the whole time.

“Guess being a little freak doesn’t pay, huh?”

He flipped her off with one hand and waved a crumpled twenty in the other.

She had nothing left to say.

What was the point?

---

That night, she lay curled in bed, arms clutched to her chest, bandages peeling, skin burning. Her heart felt like a bomb that never went off.

When her eyes closed—finally, after hours of trembling under the covers—the dreams returned.

But this time, they were different.

Clearer.

Sharper.

The forest wasn’t just a setting now—it was alive.

The trees twisted and breathed like lungs.

The shadows rippled, whispering her name.

And in the distance, always in the distance…

The Faceless Man waited.

No eyes. No mouth. But she felt his stare.

And in that stare, she found comfort. Power. Rage.

Everything she had to bury inside herself for years—he saw it.

And he welcomed it.

She reached for him in the dream, trembling fingers extended.

And when her fingers brushed his long, cold ones—

She woke up screaming.

---

The next morning, something was… different.

The world felt hollow. Like it was stretching thin around her. Her reflection in the mirror looked unfamiliar—her eyes darker, sunken, her mouth twitching in a smile that didn’t belong to her.

She laughed. Once. Quietly.

Then covered her mouth.

Because she swore—someone else had laughed with her.

She felt it building inside. Not fear—something else.

Resolve.

---

Enough was enough.

They want her gone? Fine.

Let them see what happens when she leaves.

That night, she waited until the house was still—until the floorboards didn’t groan, until the TV in the living room went quiet. She slid on her boots, her old coat with the stitched-up pocket, grabbed the jagged little knife she kept under her mattress…

…and she walked.

No flashlight. No phone. Just the moon and the scent of pine and decay. The forest welcomed her, fog curling around her ankles like claws.

And deep within the trees, she heard it again:

“Come home.”

“We've been waiting.”

“You are ours.”

And she followed.

No hesitation.

No fear.

Only certainty.

The scene was thick with chaos.

The family was downstairs in the dining room, unaware of what was unfolding upstairs in the cramped, dimly lit hallway of the house. The sound of voices, laughter, and clinking silverware echoed faintly, but for Seraphina, it felt like it was miles away. Her mind was elsewhere, caught in the static buzz of something sinister that had begun to take root in her soul.

She had been trying—so hard—to ignore it. The whispers. The shadows. The call of the woods. But it was impossible now. They were creeping into her thoughts, flooding her consciousness, filling her veins with heat that couldn’t be doused. The anger… the rage that she had kept buried for so long.

Her brother, always tormenting her, had pushed her too far this time.

She had been sitting on her bed, trying to focus, trying to breathe, when he barged in—again. This time, he had his cousin with him, and she could see their eyes darting to the things she held dear. His taunting words were never ending, his laughter like nails on a chalkboard.

“You think you’re better than me? That you’re something special?” he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

He shoved a pile of her books off her desk, and before she could even react, he knocked over her lamp, the glass shattering across the floor like a warning.

Her skin crawled, and she felt it.

The buzzing.

It started low, a hum beneath her thoughts, buzzing like a thousand tiny insects in her ears. It grew louder and louder, until it was deafening. Her heartbeat pulsed in her chest, matching the rhythm of the sound. Her vision blurred, her body shaking.

And then—him.

She saw him.

A tall figure standing in the doorway, watching her with the coldest eyes. No face. Just a featureless expanse of pale skin where a face should have been. His presence made the air freeze, like the room had suddenly turned to ice.

And with him—two men, or what seemed like men. One with a white mask, lips painted into a delicate, feminine line, a strange orange jacket hanging loosely from his frame. The other wore a yellow hoodie, his face covered with a skit mask, the red stitched frown pulled tight across it.

They stood like silent sentinels, watching her. She could feel their gaze, even though they had no eyes. She could feel them, their judgment, their understanding. The buzzing grew, but now, it was a call—a beckoning.

Come to us.

We know who you are.

And then, just as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. The room returned to normal. But not for Seraphina. No, the buzzing remained, rattling her bones, thrumming deep inside her chest.

“Seraphina,” her brother’s voice pierced through the fog in her mind. He was standing over her now, his hands gripping her shoulders, forcing her onto the ground. “What are you gonna do? Huh? Cry? Beg for mercy?”

He loomed over her, laughing, his cousin beside him, egging him on.

Her heart raced. Adrenaline flooded her body. She was suffocating under the weight of her brother’s hands, his foul breath on her face, his mocking smile.

And then—the glass.

She didn’t know how, but her hand found it. A sharp shard from the broken lamp, the edges jagged and glinting in the dim light of her room.

In one swift, desperate motion, she shoved it upward, her hand guided by something deep inside her—something that wanted this, that needed this.

Her brother's scream was the only thing she heard as the glass sank into his throat.

The room went still.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. A thick, oppressive silence that hung in the air like smoke. The buzzing in her head faded, replaced by the horrible, shrill sound of her brother’s screams, the blood pouring from his neck, staining the floor beneath them.

“W-What the hell…” Her brother’s cousin stammered, his face pale as he stumbled backward, his own eyes wide with terror.

Seraphina's breath was shallow, ragged. Her hands trembled, slick with blood, her vision swimming. She could still hear the screams. Feel them. His blood was everywhere—on her hands, on her clothes, dripping in a crimson trail from his gaping wound.

But all she felt was numb.

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The anger, the rage, the pain—it all swelled inside her. And when she looked at him, her brother, crumpled on the floor, his body shaking and gasping for breath, she felt... nothing. No remorse. No guilt.

Just the need to see it all end.

It wasn’t her fault, was it? He deserved it. He had deserved it for so long. For everything. For all the years of torment. The bullying. The hate.

She had snapped. Broken.

And now, there was no going back.

The room was thick with the heavy scent of blood, the air suffocating, thick with a palpable rage. Seraphina stood over her brother, her hand still trembling, the glass shard buried deep in his neck. The lifeblood pooled beneath him, staining the floor a sickening red, but she didn’t care. She didn’t feel a thing anymore, except the strange, detached calmness that had settled over her, a numbness that made her movements feel almost mechanical.

Her brother's body twitched once—his final, desperate attempt to gasp for air before everything went silent. His eyes were wide, unseeing, blood trickling down his lips.

She didn’t stop.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, but it felt like she was watching it all happen from somewhere far away. The buzzing was gone. In its place, there was only a cold satisfaction that twisted in her gut.

He deserved it.

The cousin. The one who had been with him, standing off to the side, eyes frozen in horror, didn’t know what to do. He was paralyzed, a deer caught in headlights, his eyes wide with terror. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and his mouth opened and closed in silent screams.

Her gaze turned to him.

For a moment, the world slowed. He made a move, maybe trying to get away, but it was futile. Her body acted without her control, propelled by something darker, something she didn’t understand. She was already there, on top of him, her hands grabbing his shirt, shoving him back against the wall.

His body hit the cold surface, his breath forced out in a sharp gasp as her hands moved with quick precision.

“Please... no!” he begged, his voice cracking in fear.

Seraphina didn’t hear him. Didn’t care.

She grabbed another shard of glass from the shattered lamp beside them, her hand shaking, but steady all at once. She could feel the weight of the object, feel the rage pulse through her veins. This wasn’t her. But at the same time, it was. She was trapped inside her own body, watching herself carry out this gruesome act, unable to stop it.

She slammed the shard into his chest with all the force she could muster.

Blood spilled, warm and thick, splattering across her hands, staining her clothes. His body shuddered in shock and agony, but Seraphina didn’t let up. She twisted the shard, and with a sickening wet crunch, the breath left his body. His mouth opened in one final, strangled cry, but she didn’t wait to watch him die completely. She pulled the shard free, and his body slumped lifeless in her grip.

He was dead.

She stood over him, blood dripping from her hands, chest heaving with the force of adrenaline and the sick, pulsing hunger that had been ignited in her.

She heard footsteps behind her.

The door creaked open slowly, the shadow of her aunt standing in the doorway. Her wide eyes scanned the room in a split second, from her dead brother to the blood-slicked floor, to Seraphina herself—covered in red, standing over her cousin’s lifeless body.

“No! No!” her aunt screamed, her voice high-pitched, full of terror and disbelief. “What have you—”

Her words died in her throat as her scream tore through the air, the loudest, most blood-curdling scream Seraphina had ever heard. It echoed down the halls, rattling the walls, and sent an icy chill up Seraphina’s spine. She felt a sharp, twisted satisfaction at the panic she’d caused, but something inside her recoiled at the sound. The buzzing returned, stronger than before.

The woman stumbled back, her face a mask of horror, her hand reaching out to grab the door frame.

“What did you—what did you do?!”

Seraphina didn’t respond. She couldn’t. The voices were too loud now, too commanding. She could hear them shouting at her, pulling her deeper into the abyss, demanding she finish it. Finish everything.

Her aunt’s frantic voice only made it louder.

“Get away from them!” the woman cried. “Someone—someone help! We need help!”

Seraphina didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink as her aunt backed away from her. Panic and confusion flooded her aunt’s face, and the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway only made the moment more surreal. She could hear the other family members approaching, shouting her name, demanding to know what had happened.

But Seraphina stood still, the blood pooling beneath her feet. Her mind was a whirlwind, but she couldn’t escape it now.

She was beyond saving.

Just before they reached her, she felt it—the pull. A familiar, suffocating presence wrapping around her, tugging her deeper into the abyss she was sinking into. The faceless one was there again, and she could hear his voice now, clearer than ever.

You did well.

And just like that, it was as though a switch had been flipped. Her body moved before she could stop it, her hands raised, ready to meet whatever came next. She had no idea what she had become, but she knew she couldn’t go back. Not now.

The world outside was chaos—her family screaming, running to her side, others too afraid to even approach. But none of it mattered. Not anymore.

She had crossed the line, and now there was no returning from it.

She felt hands on her shoulder, shoving her out of the room. She was shoved into the kitchen, her father staring at her in disgust and horror, her uncle was holding her aunt, as they looked at their dead sons body.

They all focused on calling the police and the dead bodies, they left her unsupervised for only a minute.

That's all she needed.

She grabbed the sharpest knife from the rack and hid it in her jacket pocket, sitting back down on the floor.

The way she had been before.

Her father came back with her uncle and they approached her, making her stand up.

Her uncle punched her, beat her....Until she had enough.

It was a soft sound.

Barely there.

So quiet and clean, you wouldn't have known he got stabbed in the ribs if it wasn't for the blood starting to soak his shirt.

She yanked the knife out and did the same to her father.

Her uncle stumbled back while she stabbed him again.

He was doubled over, so she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him closer, sending the knife into his temple.

He fell to the ground, Dead.

She turned towards her father and walked up to him calmly, she grabbed his collar and leaned onto him, knocking him onto his back.

He struggled for a second, trying to hold her off while she tried to stab him again, she managed to stab his shoulder, which made him falter.

She took that moment to stab his chest, over and over and over again,,,,

The blood was everywhere. It soaked into the floor beneath her feet, painting everything it touched with a sickening crimson hue. Seraphina barely noticed it. She felt distant from the scene, like she was watching herself from somewhere far away, as though her body was moving without her consent, driven by something far darker and more powerful than she could ever understand.

Her father’s grunts of pain broke through the fog of her thoughts. He was struggling beneath her, his hands pushing weakly against her as she loomed over him, the knife now slick with his blood. His face was contorted with fear, but it only fueled her.

The world around her blurred, a mess of motion and violence, and the only thing that mattered in that moment was the feeling of the blade in her hand, of the blood splattering against her clothes and skin. She felt the rhythm of it, the push and pull, the sickening sensation of the knife sinking into flesh. Again. Again. Again.

Each stab was slow, deliberate, like she was trying to savor every moment, every drop of blood that splashed across her body. She didn’t feel the exhaustion, the weight of what she was doing—just the absolute certainty that this was the only way. This was all she was now.

Her father’s once strong hands were now feeble as he tried in vain to defend himself, his body twitching with each strike. But she was too far gone. He was nothing to her now. A piece of her past, a broken memory she no longer needed to hold onto.

His grunts faded into gasps of pain, and his struggles weakened, until finally, his body grew limp beneath her. She didn’t stop until she was sure he wasn’t moving anymore, sure that there was no life left in him.

Her breathing was labored, her chest heaving with the force of her actions. She wiped her blood-slicked hands on her clothes, but it didn’t matter. She was drenched in it. She could still feel the weight of his body beneath her, still hear the gurgled gasps of air as his life slowly drained out of him.

It was quiet now. The only sound was her ragged breathing, and even that began to fade into the background as she became aware of the aftermath. The room was deathly still, save for the body of her father lying in a pool of blood, his chest unrecognizable from the repeated stabs.

Seraphina stood up slowly, the knife still gripped tightly in her hand. She wiped her face with the back of her arm, not even caring that she smeared more blood across her skin. She looked down at her father’s body, her chest tightening as a wave of realization began to crash over her. What had she done?

I had to.

Her hand trembled slightly, but she steadied herself. She looked around the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for something, anything to remind her of who she used to be, but everything felt so distant. It was as though she was looking at a different life, a life that no longer had any meaning.

Her vision blurred, her head spinning with the weight of her actions. She stumbled back against the counter, gripping the edge to steady herself.

The police would come soon. They would find the bodies. The neighbors would hear the screams. They would know what she had done.

But for now, there was only the silence. The silence of the dead, and the silence of her own soul as she realized that she was no longer the person she had once been. She was a killer now.

And she was alone.

Her mother’s scream pierced the silence like a jagged blade, echoing off the bloodstained walls of the kitchen.

“Oh my God—” she choked, stumbling back into her father—Seraphina’s grandfather—who caught her by the shoulders just as she was about to fall. Her eyes were wide with terror, filled with disbelief as they locked onto the scene before her.

There Seraphina stood, knees slightly bent, splattered from head to toe in gore. Her face was a mask of calm, yet her eyes held something much darker. Something broken. Something far gone.

Her mother clutched her chest like she couldn’t breathe. “What... what did you do?!”

Seraphina tilted her head slightly, eyes still fixed on her mother. Her voice was quiet, eerily calm. “He deserved it.”

“You—You killed him!” Her mother shrieked, backing against the wall, trembling. “You killed your father, your uncle—my God, you’re a monster!”

Her grandfather pushed past her mother, stepping in front of Seraphina slowly like approaching a wild animal. His face was pale, but stern. “Seraphina... put the knife down.”

She blinked slowly, as if just now realizing the blade was still in her hand. It was dripping onto the tile floor—drip... drip... drip... The sound was hypnotic.

“Put it down,” he repeated, firmer now.

“I should kill you too,” she said, her voice flat. “You let him do this to me. You watched.”

He faltered.

“You all did.” Her eyes flicked to her mother, who was now weeping into her hands. “Every single one of you saw what he did. What they did. And no one stopped it. No one cared.”

“We didn’t know!” her mother cried through sobs. “We didn’t—Seraphina, please, I didn’t know it was that bad—”

“You did know,” she snapped, louder now, rage bubbling beneath her cold exterior. “You knew. You just didn’t care enough to stop it. Not until I finally did.”

Her mother broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably as she collapsed to her knees.

Her grandfather inched closer, hand still extended. “Seraphina, you’re hurt. Let me help you, please... You don’t have to do anything else. Just give me the knife.”

Seraphina looked down at her hand, at the blood-drenched steel. Her fingers tightened on the handle.

“Do it...”

The whisper was there again. In her ear. In her mind.

“They all deserve it.”

She trembled, and for a moment, her face faltered—showing the young, shattered girl still buried beneath the monster they'd made.

“I didn’t want to be like this,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I didn’t want this.”

Her grandfather took another step. “Then let it go.”

She looked up at him, her expression hollow. And slowly—ever so slowly—she opened her hand and let the knife clatter to the floor, blood smearing across her fingers.

Her grandfather caught her just as her knees buckled, wrapping his arms around her. She didn’t fight. She just... sank into the emptiness.

Her mother was still sobbing, clutching the lifeless hand of her husband. Sirens were faint in the distance now—closer every second.

Seraphina didn’t even flinch.

She just closed her eyes. And listened to the whispers.

The sirens were close now, wailing through the dark, pine-heavy air outside the cabin. The kitchen reeked of blood—copper and iron thick in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of fear and sweat.

Her grandfather held her tightly, his old arms trembling, his breath shallow against her blood-soaked hair. His voice was quiet, almost relieved. “It’s okay now, Seraphina… It’s over. We’ll get you help. You’re not alone anymore.”

But she wasn’t listening.

The buzzing had returned—low and deep, like the static hum of a dying television. Her ears rang, sharp and sudden, like a migraine tearing through her skull. Her vision blurred at the edges, tunneling inward, as if reality itself were collapsing around her.

Then came the voice.

Distorted. Echoing. Inhuman.

“Do it... and come to me.”

Her chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths, each inhale steadier than the last. Her eyes drifted open—glassy and far away, like she wasn’t really there anymore. Her fingers, twitching softly, found the knife where it had clattered onto the floor. Still warm. Still wet.

She gripped it again.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… she felt calm.

No tears. No fear. Just silence inside, like still water after a storm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her grandfather didn’t even have time to react. The blade sank into his side with a sickening crunch. His eyes widened, lips parting in shock as the pain registered.

“Ser…Seraphina—!” he gasped.

But she didn’t stop. She drove the knife in deeper, twisting it slowly, her hands steady. He staggered back, his hand going limp as it slipped from her shoulder. Blood gushed between his fingers as he collapsed to the floor, groaning, choking.

Her mother’s scream came again—a broken, ragged cry of disbelief and terror.

Seraphina turned to face her.

The girl’s face was expressionless, blank save for a single tear tracing down one cheek. The blood on her face had dried into rust-red smears. Her hair clung to her forehead in damp strands.

Outside, red and blue lights flashed through the windows.

Her mother backed away, trembling, unable to form words. She looked at Seraphina like she didn’t recognize her anymore—like she was staring into the eyes of something other.

“Seraphina… baby…” she whispered, voice cracking. “What’s happening to you?”

Seraphina’s chest rose and fell with jagged breaths, her face wild with fury and grief. Her mother backed up slowly, eyes full of horror, shaking her head as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Seraphina,” she choked, voice barely above a whisper, “please… stop…”

Seraphina snarled, stepping over her grandfather’s twitching body, each footfall splashing softly in blood. The knife trembled in her grasp, her knuckles bone-white, the metal slick and dripping.

“What happened to me?”

Her voice was rising, cracking—unhinged.

“You! You and Dad, always treating me like some kind of doormat! Using me for your image—‘Family adopts broken girl’—bullshit!”

Each word was a punch of rage, raw and shaking. Her mother backed into the counter, hands held up uselessly, gasping for air as panic took over.

“I’m sick of being your punching bag,” Seraphina screamed. “Sick of being the disappointment of this damn family!”

She could feel herself unraveling—teetering on the edge of a complete break. But instead of fear, all she felt was power.

Release.

Relief.

She was trembling, her bloody hands hanging at her sides like dead weight, the knife catching the kitchen light in glints of red. Her eyes burned as she stepped forward again, now face to face with the woman who had ruined her.

“I’m done with you. With all of this.”

She raised the knife.

And then—

CRASH!

The front door burst open with a deafening bang.

Boots stormed across hardwood floors.

“DROP THE WEAPON!”

“ON THE GROUND, NOW!”

Flashlights cut through the blood-drenched room like searchlights, beams slicing across her pale face, her blood-soaked clothes, the carnage around her.

Seraphina froze.

Everything stopped.

She blinked, breath caught in her throat. Her muscles locked, still mid-motion, knife suspended in the air like a guillotine. She turned her head slowly, gaze falling on the officers as they rounded the corner—guns drawn, shouting commands, eyes widening at the sight before them.

A wall of police filled the entrance to the kitchen, weapons raised, their expressions shifting from focused to horrified as they registered the bodies, the blood, and the girl at the center of it all.

Seraphina’s eyes went wide.

Her pupils dilated.

Her grip on the knife faltered, but didn’t drop.

Time seemed to freeze—until she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Not from regret, not from fear, but from the sudden realization that it was over.

Her heart pounded as her fingers flexed on the handle, uncertain. The weight of everything hit her like a wave. Screams, pain, years of silence and bruises and hiding.

They all saw her now.

Not as a daughter. Not as a victim.

As something else entirely.

She didn’t move. Just stood there—blood on her face, her arms, dripping from the tip of the blade.

“Seraphina Grace,” one officer called firmly, “put the knife down. This doesn’t have to end worse than it already has.”

“Seraphina Grace, drop the knife!”

The command was louder this time—harsher. More urgent.

She flinched.

Dozens of eyes were on her. Flashlights in her face. Guns trained on her heart. Her mother was crumpled in the corner behind her, whispering rapid prayers through sobs, too terrified to move.

“I—I…” Seraphina’s voice cracked. It was small. Frightened. The knife trembled in her hand, slick with drying blood, her knuckles pale with how tightly she gripped it.

She didn’t know what to do.

What was left?

Her body screamed to drop it.

Her mind whispered no.

And then—

She saw him again.

Through the blood-speckled kitchen window…

He was closer now.

Slenderman. Towering. Still.

But the tentacles—those inky-black, sinewy things erupting from his back—were writhing.

They weren’t calm. They thrashed in every direction, violently lashing the air as if reacting to her panic. To her hesitation. To her fear.

Her breath caught in her throat. She felt his presence—inside her head—buzzing like static, ringing like a siren in her ears. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, like something was shifting, warping.

One of the officers took a cautious step forward.

“Seraphina,” he said, softer this time, almost pleading, “look at me. You’re scared—I get it. Just drop the knife. Let us help you. We can figure this out. Okay?”

Her wide eyes snapped to him.

Help?

Where was help when they beat her?

When they threw away her clothes?

When she screamed into her pillow so the family downstairs wouldn’t hear her cry?

“Help?” she echoed faintly, voice distant.

Her gaze flicked back to the window.

He was right there. Just beyond the glass. Looming. Waiting.

And suddenly, she wasn’t afraid.

She turned back to the officers.

Took a slow, deliberate breath.

Then—arms still raised—she stepped forward, the blade glinting under the overhead lights.

“I’m putting it down,” she said softly.

Several guns steadied, safeties clicked off.

Her hand twitched—lowering the knife slightly.

One step. Two.

She looked like she was about to cry, caught between terror and calm. Blood painted her hands, drying into her sleeves, the blade still trembling between her fingers.

The buzzing in her head pulsed louder—steadier—like a heartbeat that wasn’t her own.

Across from her, the officers tightened their stance. Guns raised. Breaths held.

But then…

They began to flinch.

One rubbed at his ear, wincing like he’d been struck by something only he could hear. Another blinked rapidly, shaking his head. A third officer cursed under his breath, fingers twitching on the trigger.

They heard it too.

The buzzing. The ringing.

But it wasn’t comfort for them.

It was pressure. Pain. A psychic scream muffled behind their skulls.

“Seraphina Grace,” the lead officer repeated, though his voice cracked this time. “Put the knife down. You’re not beyond saving.”

Her eyes met his—wide, shining, and tired.

Then her voice broke through the thick air.

“…What if I don’t drop the knife?”

It was quiet. Shaky. Like a child asking for permission.

The words made the entire room tense.

“Then we’ll have no choice,” another officer warned harshly, stepping forward. “You will be shot. Do not test us.”

She didn’t move. Not at first.

Then slowly—like her body moved on its own—her gaze drifted toward the kitchen window.

And there he was.

Closer now.

Slenderman.

Still faceless. Still unmoving.

But the black, twitching tendrils at his back lashed and curled against the wind like they were alive—agitated.

He was calling her.

She could feel it. Not with her skin, or her ears, but with something deeper.

And the buzzing… it wasn't just in her head anymore.

It was in the walls. The lights. The air itself.

The overhead bulb flickered violently. A picture frame dropped from the wall behind her with a crash. The entire house seemed to tremble with unseen energy.

One of the younger officers fell to his knees with a scream, grabbing his head. “MAKE IT STOP—!”

“Hold formation!” the lead barked, but even his voice was strained, his eyes glossed with panic.

Seraphina looked back at them.

She wasn’t afraid anymore.

She was calm. Peaceful. Like the eye of a storm.

Her voice came softer now—measured, quiet. “I’m not the monster you think I am…”

She slowly raised her hands…

But still held the knife. Not threateningly. Just—clinging to it. Like a lifeline.

“I didn’t want this,” she whispered. “But no one listened. Not until the screaming started…”

The tension shattered when the door behind her slammed open, causing half the room to spin with raised weapons.

But there was no one there. Only cold air. A shadow. A flicker of movement behind the window—gone just as quickly as it came.

The lead officer hesitated.

Sweat running down his face.

He looked at her, then past her—through her.

“Seraphina,” he said again, more gently this time. “Whatever you’re hearing—whatever you’re seeing—it’s not real. You can fight it. You can.”

She shook her head slowly, a tear finally falling.

“You’re wrong,” she said softly. “He’s more real than any of you ever were.”

And then—

She dropped the knife.

A metallic clang.

All guns twitched.

Her hands rose fully. But her gaze… never left that window.

Outside, the woods swayed violently.

And in the shadows, he waited.

The knife clattered on the floor. A tense breath swept through the room.

Then, her voice shattered the silence.

"Shoot me."

It was a command.

Not a plea. Not a threat.

Just words—calm, broken, and absolute.

The officers hesitated. Guns still drawn. Fingers twitching over triggers.

Seraphina stood there, arms out slightly, her head tilted just enough to make her eyes look hollow in the dim light. The crimson stains on her hands and sleeves gleamed wetly, catching the glow of the kitchen’s flickering bulb.

Behind her, her mother sobbed quietly in the corner, pressing herself into the cabinets as if trying to disappear.

“I said shoot me,” Seraphina repeated, louder this time. Her voice cracked in the middle but she didn't falter. “Do it. That’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s what they wanted. What he wants.”

The lead officer, the one with gray in his beard and sorrow in his eyes, took a slow step forward. “Seraphina… no one wants to hurt you. Put your hands behind your head. Let us help you.”

“You can’t help me,” she murmured.

The buzzing in her ears swelled—no, it roared now. The walls were vibrating. The shadows stretched longer than they should’ve. Something was wrong with the house. Wrong with the air.

The younger officer to the right staggered again, nearly dropping his weapon. “S-Sir, something’s… it’s not right. I—my head—!”

Seraphina barely blinked. Her eyes found the window again.

Slenderman was gone.

But his presence? Still thick. Still clinging to her skin like oil.

The voice returned—low, distorted, cold as death and warm as home.

“They cannot hurt you. But you must choose.”

Her jaw trembled. A tear rolled down her cheek. She looked at her hands, soaked in red. Still trembling. Still human… barely.

BANG

BANG

BANG

Muzzle flashes lit the kitchen like a strobe—white bursts of chaos, smoke curling into the air like ghostly fingers.

But when the smoke thinned…

Seraphina was still alive.

Crouched low, hands over her head, the knife just out of reach. Her ears rang—but not from the gunshots. The other ringing was still there. Louder now. Humming like a swarm of bees in her skull.

She blinked.

She felt no pain.

No blood—not hers, anyway.

She looked up slowly… and saw the fear.

The officers were backing away.

Not at her…

Behind her.

Before anyone could speak—

CRASH!!

The kitchen window exploded inward, glass flying like deadly snow.

Then the others came.

Black tendrils—long, snaking, writhing—pierced the room like spears of shadow. They whipped past her head and slammed into the floor, wrapping around one officer's leg. He screamed before being yanked off his feet, crashing into the fridge and disappearing in a blur.

Another officer opened fire—

BLAM BLAM—

The shadows devoured the bullets like water swallowing stones.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT—?!”

The youngest officer stumbled back, tripping over a chair as a long, slow shadow crept up the wall beside him.

A deep, heavy pressure filled the room, as if the air itself was collapsing. The lights flickered and buzzed violently before bursting one by one.

The air crackled like static, thick with fear and the copper stench of blood.

Seraphina’s eyes were wide, glowing almost, glinting with something not human anymore as she stepped forward—knife tight in her blood-soaked grip. The kitchen was bathed in chaos behind her: tendrils slamming walls, glass crunching under fallen bodies, gunfire drowned out by unholy screeches echoing from the void.

Her mother whimpered.

Cowered in the corner, arms wrapped around herself like she could somehow disappear if she curled up small enough. Her mascara ran down her cheeks. Her voice was broken, barely a whisper.

“Please… Seraphina, don’t—don’t do this—”

But Seraphina didn’t stop.

Her bare feet stepped over spilled glass and crimson puddles. Step. Step. Step.

She looked down at her mother like she was seeing her for the first time. Not as a mother.

Not as family.

Just another body. Another stain on the floor.

“You only noticed me when it was too late,” Seraphina said softly, her voice strange—calm, but echoing like two voices speaking at once. Hers… and something deeper.

“You let them treat me like I didn’t matter.”

Her mother choked on a sob. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—Seraphina please—”

“You’re only sorry because I survived.”

Her grip tightened on the knife.

Then—

A tendril shot out.

Fast. Like a whip.

It stopped inches from Seraphina’s chest—blocking her path. Holding her back.

Slenderman didn’t speak. But she could feel it.

Enough.

Seraphina blinked. Her body trembled again—but now with confusion. Her breath hitched, eyes darting up toward the towering figure in the shattered window. Another tendril slowly curled around her arm—not violently, but… guiding.

He wasn’t letting her finish it.

He was claiming her.

Her mother sobbed in relief, unaware how close death had truly been.

Seraphina looked at her one last time… eyes empty.

Then turned her back.

The tendrils wrapped around her like a protective cloak, lifting her gently off the floor.

She dropped the knife.

And then—without another word—

She vanished into the void.

The screaming stopped.

Only silence remained.

Powers & Abilities

Inherited from Slenderman:

• Manifestation of tendrils from her back Just liker her father, she can summon tendrils from her back, only for a short period of time though.
• Ability to go faceless at will, which she uses rarely In moments of extreme emotion, her face can disappear, making her faceless just like her dear old dad.
• Teleportation Self-explanatory tbh

Original Powers:

• Witch magic. Her power is chaotic, ritualistic, and emotionally driven. She hasn't been taught magic at all, so what she is able to do is just what comes natural to her. It's not much but it can be beneficial, like the hexes she can place.

Weapons:

• A bloodstained sledgehammer, her weapon of choice during missions—brutal, heavy, and personal.

• A pocket knife, gifted to her by Masky, after she broke her last sledgehammer during a mission.

Seraphina has inherited several abilities directly from her father, Slenderman. Most notably, she can manifest dark, shadowy tendrils from her back, often using them defensively or when she feels threatened. Like her father, she also has the rare ability to go faceless at will, erasing her human features into a blank, unsettling void — though she rarely uses this power, as it unsettles even herself.

In addition to her inherited abilities, Seraphina possesses her own original magic: raw, chaotic witchcraft. Her magic is deeply ritualistic and emotionally fueled, drawing power from her mental state, which means it can be unpredictable and dangerous. When she’s emotionally overwhelmed, her magic tends to lash out or spiral out of control, making her as much a threat to herself as to anyone else. Despite her formidable gifts, Seraphina carries key weaknesses.

Her greatest struggles lie in her emotional and magical instability. She battles to maintain control, both over her unpredictable powers and over the intense emotional swings that drive them. This lack of mastery leaves her vulnerable, especially during moments of high stress or conflict, where her abilities can backfire or push her past the point of exhaustion.

Relationships

Boys/Men:

Slenderman (Father): Their relationship is deeply complex. Out of 100, she gives it a 78. There is love, admiration, and also hatred and fear.

Ticci Toby: 100/100 – Her lover and the one who brings her a sense of comfort in a chaotic world.

Ben Drowned: 86/100 – One of her best friends, her "plug" for snacks and games.

Eyeless Jack: 90/100 – Trusted companion, Jokes if she wasn't with Toby, she would be with EJ.

Hoodie: 90/100 – Reliable and respected, the one who named her.

Masky: 85/100 – Close bond, a little complicated. She trust him, but also doesn't.

Jeff the Killer: 79/100 – Tolerated, sometimes even liked, depending on her mood, brother like relationship. (He gives her sleeping pills and other drugs to help her sleep....And Vodka)

Homicidal Liu: 50/100- Tolerated when Liu, not so much with sully.

Seedeater: 100/100- Best boy.

X-Virus: 95/100- One of closest allies and one of her first friends.

Mr. Widemouth: 79/100- Friends, and good allies.

Laughing Jack: 0/100- Terrified of him...

Jason the Toymaker: 34/100- He’s too unpredictable for her liking.

Hobo Heart: 37/100- Doesn’t trust him at all

The Puppeteer: 13/100- Doesn’t like how he makes people his “slaves” as she puts it.

Bloody Painter: 66/100- One of the only men she can see herself fully trusting in the future.

Nathan the Nobody: 56/100- not that intimidated by him after seeing him fall down stairs

Dr. Smiley: 0/100- he reminds her of her adoptive brother.

Sonic. EXE: 32/100- doesn’t trust him at all but has been forced to go on missions with him.

KAGEKAO: 57/100- Finds him loud, but can be funny sometimes.

Candy Pop: 23/100- Doesn't like manipulative men....

The Rake: -100/100- Do I have to explain..?

Smile Dog: 100/100- Best boy 2

Women:

Kate the Chaser: 67/100 – Decent relations, the type to have deep conversations late in the night with

Sally: 1000000/100 – The closest thing she has to a little sister/Daughter

Jane the Killer: 100/100 – Mutual respect and understanding. (Shared hatred of certain Men)

Judge Angels: 98/100- Very close friend.

Nina: 68/100- Only met her once, and thought she was too bubbly, but seems sweet.

Clockwork:  78/100- Only met a few times, but seems to be on good terms.

Lazari: 100/100- understands what it’s like having a demon father

Zero: 89/100- Close, as they’ve been on several missions together.

The Nurse: 72/100- they’ve gone on missions together and bonded.

Lulu: 100/100- loves her like a little sister as well.

Nurse Ann: 86/100- Someone who gives her sleeping pills other than jeff, so she likes her.

Pinkamena: 47/100- Similar to Nina, finds her too bubbly and loud.

She can be very close to people once she trusts them, but she is always weary and not fully trusting of men, hence all the men/boys aren't at 100 like the women/girls. The only one she fully trusts, is Toby.

Habits:

• Collects crow skulls and stores them in a locked box under her bed.
• She likes to take a piece of clothing from her victims and sews them into blankets, bloody and all.
• She also likes to take things from victims house or things related to the victim, hence the street sign she was gifted, as she killed someone by a street corner.
• She likes to collect teeth and glue them onto things, it could be animal or human, She doesn't discriminate.
• Not really a habit, but she likes to tie pink bows onto others weapons to piss them off or put sparkly stickers onto them. (Jeff still has a worn down princess crown on the handle of his knife that he's tried to pick off.)
  

Gifts from others:

• Teddy bear from sally
• Bones and teeth from EJ
• Necklaces, rings, clothing from Toby
• Mask from her father
• Pocket knife from masky
• Dog tags from Hoodie, as they say “Lost wings”, those dog tags are where she got her nickname from. So in a sense, hoodie gave her her nickname.
• Sleeping medications and drugs to help her sleep from Jeff (She doesn’t use them often and sometimes “sells” them to ben for snacks in return)
• Game system and phone from Ben
• Beanie and street sign from X-virus
• A doll that looks like her from The puppeteer, as his way of trying to make peace with her
• Drawing from Lazari