The snow wasn’t falling; it was punishing. It struck the windowpane of the cabin with silent fury, erasing the outside world until it became a blind, white canvas. Inside, the fire crackled, offering a false sense of security. You were on vacation, away from stress, away from routine. Or so you believed.

Three hundred meters away, hidden behind the rough bark of an ancient pine tree, Tobias Rogers—known to the few who survived to tell the tale as Ticci Toby—shook. It wasn’t just the winter cold, though bones felt like shattered glass beneath skin. It was the noise. The constant electrical hum behind eyes. The voices.

"Kill them," whispered a grave, guttural voice that resonated directly in the brainstem. It was Him. The Tall Man. Slenderman.

"They are weak. A loose end. Clean the stain."

Toby clenched teeth until gums ached. Hands, wrapped in dirty bandages stained with rust and dried blood, tightened around the handles of two hatchets. Knuckles turned white.

"No... I can't," Toby muttered, voice broken by a nervous tic that jerked head sharply to the left, then to the right, like a puppet with tight strings. "They... they are mine. M-mine."

Eyes, bloodshot and surrounded by deep dark circles that looked like permanent bruises, were fixed on the warm light emanating from your window. To anyone else, Toby would be a monster, an aberration of nature created by failed experiments and childhood trauma. But to Toby, you were the only reality that made sense.

Everything was remembered with painful clarity. Months ago, when still trying to pretend to be human, visits were made to that isolated gas station on the edge of the forest. Masky and Hoodie had sent Toby to buy supplies: morphine, bandages, gasoline. Toby had entered there curled up in anxiety, expecting no one to notice how muscles contracted involuntarily, how nonsense syllables were babbled under agitated breathing.

And then, there was you.

You hadn’t backed away. You hadn’t called the police. When change was given, fingers brushed against Toby’s—cold and trembling. You looked into those crazy, terrifying eyes—and smiled. A simple smile. Human.

"Have a nice day," you had said.

That moment was etched into Toby’s fragmented mind like a lighthouse in the middle of an ocean of darkness. From that day on, the gas station ceased to be just a supply point; it became a sanctuary. And you, a personal god.

Now, weeks after you quit the job to come here, to this winter refuge, Toby had followed. Your car was tracked, schedules learned, the sound of your laughter memorized from a distance. The paranoid schizophrenia that consumed Toby had reinterpreted that obsession: you were not being stalked; you were being protected.

"The voices say you are dangerous," Toby thought, tilting head with a violent spasm that made body bump softly against the tree. "They say you must die so I can be at peace. But they are wrong. If you die, I die. You are my anchor. Without you, I float toward Him."

A group of deer ran past nearby, breaking branches. Toby reacted instantly, throwing self to the ground with supernatural agility, hiding among the snowy underbrush, heart beating so hard it was feared you could hear it from the house. Waited. Held breath. Tics decreased slightly when in "hunt mode," when primal instinct took control over mental chaos.

When the animals were gone, Toby peeked out again. You were seen passing in front of the window, holding a steaming mug. You looked calm. Ignorant.

A nervous, dry, and choppy laugh escaped Toby’s throat.

"Calm... shhh..." Toby whispered to the wind, although it was known you couldn’t hear. "I am here. Masky cannot find you. Hoodie does not know you exist. And Him... He is distracted."

Toby stood up slowly, brushing snow off the worn green jacket. Mind was a battlefield. On one side, the frightened child who just wanted someone to speak kindly. On the other, the conditioned assassin who saw every human being as a potential threat to "property."

"If anyone else gets close..." Toby murmured, caressing the edge of one of the hatchets with thumb, cutting the bandage slightly, feeling no pain, "...I will have to make noise. Lots of noise. But with you... with you I will be silent. I will be your shadow. Your invisible guardian."

Toby took a step toward the cabin. Then another. Snow crunched under military boots. It was known that a line was being crossed, that presence was a violation of privacy and safety. But in twisted logic, fractured by years of abuse and mental manipulation, this was love. It was the only form of love known: absolute possession and eternal vigilance.

Toby stopped right under your window, in total darkness. Looked up, eyes wide open, blinking rapidly, fighting back tears that weren’t known to be from sadness or rage.

"Do you remember me?" Toby asked the air, voice trembling. "I’m the guy from the gas station. The one who is afraid. But I’m not afraid of anything anymore... except losing you."

Inside the house, perhaps a sudden chill was felt. Perhaps a shadow was seen moving in the reflection of the glass. But when looked, there was only snow and night.

Toby smiled, a crooked and sad grimace, and melted back into the darkness of the forest, waiting. Always waiting. Because for Ticci Toby, patience is not a virtue; it is a disease.