Reconnected Roads [Slenderman X Reader]

Chapter 19

[MONDAY. NIGHT.]

They said that The Operator had no conscience. Rumors had it that the reason why he was able to climb to the top of the criminal ladder was because he didn't mind stepping on a "few" people to do it. He didn't care for anyone or anything; his emotions were as non-existent as his face. Of course, this wasn't true but it wasn't false also.

He cared for a few individuals. Admittedly, that amount was a number he could count on his hands but it was best to keep it that way. After all, being too generous with his emotions was never a good image. If he let too many people off the hook, the rest would think they could get away with it. And obviously, he couldn't let that happen.

Besides, it wasn't just people that he cared about. There were certain things he cared about as well.

For example, fear. Specifically, fear that reduced functioning human beings into nothing but rabid, crazed animals.

That type of fear was the same emotion that decorated Ichabod's voice. Fear rang in his unsteady words and caused tremors in his shaky tone as he called out to what he thought was safety. Another second of this kind of torture and The Operator was sure Ichabod would piss his own pants like an infant due to the sheer apprehension.

The Operator would make sure that when Ichabod looked upon him, that same terror would be present in his eyes.

He could hear Ichabod's timid footsteps as they echoed through the hallways. The Operator smirked as he likened Ichabod to a naive horror movie protagonist as he walked along the halls, not knowing he was about to cross paths with the devil.

"Amy?" Ichabod's voice rang through the hallway as shaky as the foundation that the building was built upon.

The Operator held a hand up to his face, making a fist as he fixed his brass knuckles. He could picture Ichabod now: ragged breathing, eyes that couldn't stay still in their sockets, face pale with fear as he ran his fingers along the walls, letting its crevices guide him through the dim corridors.

Bored, The Operator sat in a chair, facing the entrance. His legs were folded so that his ankle was placed on top of his knee. He impatiently tapped his fingers on his lap, his silver brass knuckles glinting against the stray light that slanted in from the room's sole, shattered window.

Only a sliver of his face was clearly visible. The rest of him was a shadow.

It was true what they said. Evil works under the cover of darkness.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His patience was wearing thin.

In front of him, The Hitman stood near the entrance of the room, his back against the wall as he hid in the shadows. A gun was in his hand, finger on the trigger and ready to fire. His right leg was against a vent whose grille looked like the back side of a cheese grater where the cheese would come falling out.

It was then that The Operator saw Ichabod's shadow coming into view. He let out a satisfied hum and nodded at his brother.

"Amy, are you with the security?" called out Ichabod. He froze when he sensed he was not alone.

"Good morning," a deep voice greeted from within the dark room on Ichabod's right. However, there was no warmth to its welcome.

Ichabod stayed quiet. His feet shifted, facing the entrance of the room.

"It's rather unusual to be up at this hour, isn't it? It's already a little past 12 AM but I digress." The Operator stood from his chair and folded his hands behind his back. "I've been expecting you."