Please, Kill Me (Jeff the Killer x Reader)

Proluge✓

For a year now, you’ve felt a hollow ache deep inside. It was the people around you—the experiences that chipped away at your soul until you became this version of yourself: cold, distant, and destroyed. Sitting in your chair, staring blankly at a scrap of paper, the memories you fought to bury resurfaced unbidden.

Staring once more at the crumpled photo of a girl, you realized she used to be such a vibrant child—always smiling, overflowing with joy and kindness. But as the years bled into one another, she realized it was a lie. In the end, no one actually cares. People don’t see kindness; they see an opportunity. They take and take until there is nothing left. She tried to move forward, hands clamped over her ears to drown out the voices trying to pull her into the void.

“Make us proud.”

Those words were the only anchor she had left. She climbed the stairs toward an unknown future, hoping that at the top, people would finally see her as a worthy human being. But was the climb worth the cost?

No. Because even at the summit, no one believed she got there on her own. They only demanded she climb higher, pushing her until she wore out and tumbled back down, becoming a laughingstock for the crowd below. “She couldn't even do it; what a shame.” She just wanted to be enough, to be accepted. So why did it feel like she was destined to fail?

A vibration snapped her back to reality. Her phone lit up: Dr. Caitlyn.

She sighed, massaging her temples before tossing the phone aside. The photo of the girl is now forgotten on the floor. She turned toward the window of her third-floor apartment. A flock of birds drifted peacefully across the sky. She wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to fly.

The thought of jumping crossed her mind—it was a long way down to the asphalt. But something always held her back. Was it the burden she’d leave for her family? The guilt of their tears at her funeral? Or perhaps a quiet, subconscious voice reminding her that the "right time" hadn't come yet.

Y/N stood and walked to the window, sliding it open. The biting night wind caught her hair, sending it dancing across her face. Her reflection in the glass showed a woman exhausted by the sheer weight of existing. She stared down at the parking lot. If she jumped now, would she finally be free? Or would the burden just transform into something worse?

"I'm tired of trying," she whispered into the wind. "It isn't even worth it anymore."

The world called it "reality," but to her, it was a slow-motion brutality that no one dared to acknowledge. When she tried to speak her truth, they dismissed it as an act—a desperate plea for attention. She’d make a fine actress, they’d say.

She survived behind a mask of fake smiles, terrified of looking vulnerable in front of those judgmental eyes and mouth of swords, yet she still failed to meet their expectations. She still felt... worthless.

Her phone began to ring again. This time, it was her mother. Her parents loved her, she knew that, but they didn't understand her. It was impossible to explain the  pain to someone who wasn't willing to truly listen. She knew her parents will try to understand her, but as the year goes by, she ended up getting tired to explain. So, she faced it alone, building a tough exterior that was secretly brittle enough to shatter at a touch.

She reached for the phone, intending to silence it, when a loud thud echoed from the hallway. It sounded like a body collapsing against her door.

She froze. Probably just a drunk neighbor, she told herself. But a sudden urge pushed her toward the door. She peered through the peephole and saw a man slumped on the floor.

"Sir? Are you okay?" Y/N immediatly opened the door as soon as she saw a man helpless from the peephole and knelt beside him. Despite her own desire to disappear, her instinct to care for others was still intact.

Then she saw the blood. A jagged, deep laceration ran across his neck, staining his shirt a grisly crimson. She gasped, paralyzed, until a scream tore through the hallway. The dying man’s hand gripped her arm with surprising strength. He tried to speak, but only a wet wheeze escaped his throat. His lips moved, forming a single word:

Run.

He went limp. Another scream echoed, closer this time. "HELP ME!"

A young woman in her twenties came sprinting down the hall, clad only in a bath towel, blood splattered across her legs. She wasn't injured; the blood belonged to someone else or so I guess.

"PLEASE—!" The woman’s plea cut off into a sickening grunt. She stumbled, looking down at her own stomach as the tip of a serrated blade burst through her skin from behind like it was purposely thrown towards her in an accurate hit. She collapsed, revealing the figure standing over her.

He wore a white hoodie, stained with fresh gore. His face was a nightmare—a permanent, ghastly grin had been carved into his cheeks, stretching from ear to ear. His piercing eyes locked onto the woman as she begged for her life.

"Shh... go to sleep," he whispered. It sounded like a demonic lullaby. He plunged the knife into her again and again, laughing with a high, childish glee as blood painted the walls.

"AHAHAHAHA!"

How can someone laugh at other's pain? It was literal,  Y/N feel nausea just for witnessing it but keeping herself calm despite trembling so much. As he turned his head, revealing the full extent of that carved smile, Y/N felt a strange wave of calm. This was it. The moment she had been waiting for. Whether she jumped or stayed, the end was finally here. Surely it will be painful by how she witnessed the killer kills his victims..

"What a surprise," he said, his voice hoarse and raspy. "You didn't run."

Y/N didn't move. She just trembles quietly. The world went silent. She felt no guilt, no terror—only the familiar emptiness. She might even flinch when the knife pierced her waist, but she remained still. She watched the hot, thick blood soak into her clothes, looking up at the man in the hoodie. He looked happy. Or at least, the smile made it seem that way.

When he pulled the blade out, her life didn't flash before her eyes in a blur; it played out in snapshots. Her parents' faces when she was born. A few perfect, golden moments of childhood. And then, the slow rot of the years that followed.

"So... unfair," she managed to breathe.

"Shush. Go to sleep," the man whispered in her ear.

Y/N slumped to the floor, staring at the ceiling. Why did the world break me? What did I do to deserve this?

She saw him raise the knife one last time to finish what he started. She welcomed it. She had been dead inside for a long time; this was just the body catching up. As she closed her eyes, the distant, frantic wail of police sirens began to echo in her mind.

I hope I never wake up, she thought, as the darkness finally took her.