Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chucky's face was plastered with blood and dirt, grinning through cracked plastic. One eye flickered with that familiar spark of sadistic glee, even now. Even at the end. His torn stitches stretched tight across his face, split open in places where the fight had hit hardest. Snow clung to his tangled red hair, melting against the warmth of blood.

The cold made the plastic crackle when he moved, but still, that grin stayed. Unkillable. Unapologetic. The shotgun trembled in Andy's hands, barrel locked dead center on that damned stitched-up face. His fingers tightened on the trigger, white-knuckled, but they wouldn't pull. They just shook. His breath came out in sharp clouds in the freezing air, ragged and shallow.

"Do it already, Andy," Chucky growled, spitting blood between cracked teeth. His voice was low and rough, grating against the silence like a rusty blade. "Blow my freakin' head off. You know I'll just come back. I always come back." He tilted his head, grinning wider. Daring him. Mocking him.

But Andy didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on Chucky's. Not blinking. Not flinching. But his hands started to tremble harder, the tremor crawling up his arms until his whole body was shivering—not from cold, but from the weight of everything behind this moment. His jaw clenched tight. His chest heaved. For a heartbeat, it looked like he was about to squeeze the trigger.

Then—his arms dropped. The shotgun slipped from his fingers and clattered against the frozen ground, the sound echoing too loud in the dead air. Andy dropped to his knees like a puppet whose strings had snapped, his whole frame sagging forward as if trying to fold in on itself. And then—his face crumpled. Not with rage. Not with triumph. But with exhaustion. Real, raw, soul-deep exhaustion. The years—all the blood, the paranoia, the nightmares—came pouring out of him in ragged, helpless sobs. His fists curled tight at his sides, digging into the snow, trying to hold himself together. Trying to bite it back. But it was too late. His body shook with every breath, each one broken and uneven, like even breathing was too heavy now. He didn't wipe his face. The tears blurred his vision, hot against the ice-cold wind.

Chucky watched. Frozen. For once, no smartass comment came out of his mouth. No maniacal cackle. No smug grin. Just stillness. Silence. He blinked. "What the hell are you doing?" he muttered. But the words came out wrong. Quiet. Uneven. Almost... uncertain. Andy didn't answer. He couldn't. He just kept crying. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just real. Raw. Shattered. The sound scraped through the air like broken glass. Chucky shifted his weight, his cracked joints creaking faintly. He glanced down at the shotgun lying in the snow, then back at the man in front of him. His mouth opened, ready to snap something cruel—Crybaby. Loser. Soft as ever, Andy boy. But the words got stuck. They just... hung there. Half-formed. Useless.

Because Andy looked up. And in those eyes—those hollow, wrecked, beaten-down eyes—Chucky saw something that landed like a punch straight to the chest. Not fear. Not anger. Just... pain. Deep, soul-draining pain. The kind you carry for so long it rots you from the inside. The kind that doesn't scream—it lingers. It festers. It becomes a part of your blood and bone until you don't remember who you were without it. And for some reason, Chucky couldn't look away. Couldn't blink. His grin faltered. Just a flicker. But enough. It was stupid. It was human. It was pathetic. But something inside him... moved. Just a little. Like a splinter of glass shifting under skin. He frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. A twitch of confusion flared in his chest. Annoyance. Disgust. Then—something else. Something worse. Something heavier.

That thing—that ancient, long-forgotten thing—twisted sharp and cold behind his ribs. It shouldn't be there. Not in him. Not after everything. He had killed it years ago. Buried it deep. But it was there. Alive. Breathing. Guilt. The word made his lip curl. He wanted to spit it out like poison. Wanted to laugh and crush it under his boot, like everything else. But it stayed. Thick and bitter, stuck in his throat. His fingers twitched at his sides. His pulse thumped louder in his ears. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this... Whatever this was. Andy was still sobbing, broken and small in the snow. And Chucky—the killer, the monster, the doll with the stitched-up face—couldn't bring himself to move.

The shotgun lay between them, cold and loaded. But neither of them reached for it. Neither of them finished it. The storm around them howled through the trees, cold and sharp, but for the first time in their nightmare of a history—neither one of them made the next move. Not yet.

"...Shit," he whispered, barely audible. He looked at Andy again—the man who'd chased him for years, hunted him, hated him—who now sat on the floor broken, holding nothing but silence and sorrow. And for the first time in his godforsaken existence, Chucky didn't know what to do. He didn't laugh. He didn't kill. He didn't run. He just stood there, feeling that awful, sickening weight grow heavier in his chest. And for the first time in a long, long time, he wished he hadn't come back.

He stepped toward Andy, who was slumped against the wall, hiding his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "Andy?" Chucky rasped. The word felt wrong in his mouth. Too soft. Too human. He moved closer. But then—footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Familiar. His plastic heart skipped a beat. Shit. He spun toward the doorway just as two shadows appeared—his other selves. The split versions. One with a wild green mohawk, eyes gleaming like a feral dog. The other with slicked-back hair, spinning a knife with a smirk. They stopped in the doorway, eyeing the scene like hyenas smelling weakness. Slicked-Back chuckled. "What are you doing, original me?" Mohawk pointed at Andy. "Why isn't he dead yet? C'mon, man, he's RIGHT THERE."

Chucky's mind raced. He could kill Andy right now. Grab the shotgun, end it, and move on like he always did. Easy. Clean. But he just... couldn't. Something inside him was twisted up, tight and ugly. His hands twitched—not for the gun—but for Andy. He turned back and dropped to his knees beside him, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him hard.

"Andy! Snap out of it! You need to get the hell outta here—now!" But Andy didn't respond. His lips moved, but no words came. Just a whisper of breath. His mind was shattered glass. Chucky glanced over his shoulder. The other two were watching now—confused. Suspicious. Slick sneered.

"Seriously, what is this? You get defective or something?" Mohawk grinned. "Don't tell me you're going soft." Chucky's jaw clenched. He could feel his old self clawing up inside, screaming to grab the gun, prove he's still the real Chucky. But he looked at Andy. And he didn't feel powerful. He didn't feel wicked. He felt responsible. Like this—this wreck—was his fault. Because it was.

He rose slowly, stepping in front of Andy like a shield. He didn't even realize he was doing it until Mohawk raised a brow. "Aw, look at this. He's playing bodyguard now." Slicked-Back tilted his head. "You're not really gonna get sentimental on us, are you?" Chucky glared at them. And for the first time in a long time, there was no grin. No thrill. Just a decision.

"You want him? You'll have to go through me." Mohawk grinned. "Fine by me." He lunged first—blade slashing for Chucky's throat. Chucky ducked, grabbed a broken chair leg, and cracked it into Mohawk's ribs with a sickening thud. Mohawk laughed through the pain. Slick moved in smooth, precise—like a killer with something to prove. He jabbed low. Chucky sidestepped, but not fast enough—the knife ripped through his shirt, slicing deep. Chucky roared and slammed his shoulder into Slick, sending him crashing into the wall. He grabbed the knife from his gut and hurled it—it stuck quivering in the doorframe.

"You think you know me?" he snarled, fist smashing into Slick's jaw. "You're just the pieces I left behind." Mohawk leapt onto him from behind, jabbing downward. "Get off me, you bootleg freak!" Chucky yelled, slamming himself into the wall. Mohawk hit the floor, dazed. Chucky stomped his face, cracking one of his glassy eyes. "Yeah, not so fun, huh?! Try being the original next time!"

Slick grabbed him from behind, wrapping a lamp cord around his throat. Chucky's eyes bulged. He thrashed, crashing them into a shelf—splinters flew. He rammed his head back—crack!—Slick's nose flattened. They both went down, panting hard. All three Chuckys bled and grinned and grimaced. But only one fought for someone else. Chucky got up, staggering, one leg barely working. He turned toward Andy, still collapsed.

"Andy... come on," he muttered. "Get outta here, you stubborn son of a bitch..." A boot slammed into his side—Mohawk was back. "Guess what," he sneered, "you ain't the hero in this movie." Chucky coughed blood and smiled. "Nah. But I sure as hell ain't the villain anymore." He grabbed a table leg and swung—crack! Mohawk flew into a cabinet. Then Chucky charged Slick full force. They slammed together, fists flying, knives flashing—ugly, savage. Slick stabbed him deep—but Chucky headbutted him down. Crawling now, every move agony, he grabbed the shotgun. Pulled it toward Andy. Placed it beside him. "Come on," he whispered, voice breaking. "Wake up, goddammit..."

But then—Wham. Mohawk tackled him from behind. They wrestled, screaming. Slick joined. Two against one. Outmatched. Overwhelmed. A punch to the jaw. A blade to the back. A kick to the ribs. Still—Chucky fought. Because Andy was still breathing.

________________________________________

Andy stared at the chaos unfolding around him, breath coming in short, terrified gasps. He could barely comprehend it—the same monster who had haunted his entire life now bleeding, fighting, shielding him. His brain screamed at him to grab the gun, to run, to do something, but his body refused. Frozen by confusion, by terror, by too many broken memories colliding all at once. His ears rang with the storm outside and the sound of fists and blades inside.

His body shakes with it, like he's held in years of grief and rage and loss and now it's all pouring out. Right here. Right now. In front of him. Chucky stares, confused. That sharp mouth twitching.

And then, somewhere distant but real, a voice:

"ANDY, YOU NEED TO RUN!!"

Andy blinks. Looks up. Chucky. Still there. Still alive. Still... shouting for him to run? Andy shakes his head, disoriented. "From who?" he whispers, voice barely audible over the wind tearing at the cabin walls. "You always come back... even when I run."

"You idiot," Chucky growls, dragging himself up onto one elbow. "Not from me." A crash behind them—wood splinters. Something just broke through the boarded window. Then—laughter. High-pitched. Cruel. Familiar.

Mohawk Chucky.
Slick-Back Chucky.

They're not dead. They're not done.

Andy doesn't understand. Not yet. But he sees something in Chucky's eyes. Something that doesn't belong in a killer's face.

Guilt.
Fear.
Maybe even...
Protectiveness?

But then—Chucky's voice again, sharp and desperate, cutting through the noise like a lifeline.

"ANDY, GO!" He didn't think. He couldn't. His body moved on pure instinct. He stumbled to his feet, grabbed the shotgun with trembling fingers, and bolted for the back door. The cold hit him like a punch in the face. Snow whipped into his eyes, blinding him, stealing his breath. The wind howled like the dead. Behind him, he heard the fighting continue—the grunts, the curses, the sound of wood breaking. But he didn't look back. He ran. Into the white. Into the trees. Into the unknown.

Inside, Chucky barely noticed Andy's escape. He was too busy trying to survive. Mohawk and Slicked-Back were relentless. They weren't just trying to kill him—they were trying to erase him. To destroy the part of themselves that still remembered guilt. Love. Pain. Humanity. Chucky fought like a cornered animal, vicious and desperate, but it wasn't enough. He was slower now. Weaker.

Every stab, every punch drove him closer to collapse. A blade sank deep into his side. A boot crushed his ribs. His body—a patchwork of plastic and blood—couldn't hold anymore. They overpowered him, pinning him to the floor. Mohawk grabbed a coil of wire from the wreckage. Slicked-Back twisted his arms behind his back, grinning with cruel satisfaction. Together, they dragged him through the broken door and out into the snow.

The cold bit deep into his wounds, making every nerve scream. He kicked, thrashed, cursed—but they were stronger. They laughed as they hauled him to a thick tree just beyond the cabin. With brutal efficiency, they tied him up—arms spread wide, legs dangling. A grotesque mockery of a crucifixion. Wire bit into his wrists, rope slashed his ankles raw. Blood, real and fake, dripped down into the snow below him, staining it pink. Mohawk wiped his knife on Chucky's torn overalls, smirking. "You should've stayed dead, old man." Slicked-Back adjusted the knots with a satisfied nod. "Now you get to rot like the rest of them." They left him there, strung up like a broken toy. They didn't even look back.

________________________________________

The storm raged around him. Snow piled on his limp body. The tree groaned under the weight. Chucky's head slumped forward. His one remaining eye fluttered weakly. Every breath was a battle. Every heartbeat felt stolen. He didn't know how long he hung there. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time dissolved into cold and pain and silence.

At some point—he didn't know when—he heard it. A thud. Heavy. Close. He forced his swollen eye open. Through the blur of snow and blood, he saw it. A body. Face-down in the snow. Orange hair matted with ice and blood. Clothes torn and ragged. Barely breathing. Another soul abandoned by the storm.

He knew what it meant. A vessel. Fresh enough to slip into. To survive. To live again. He could do it. He should do it. That's what he always did. Always survive. Always come back. But... he didn't move. He just stared. Breathing shallow. Something twisted inside him, deeper than pain. A sickness of the soul. He didn't want it. Not this time. Not like this. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was penance. Maybe it was just finally being tired. Either way... he closed his eye. Let the snow bury him.

Until—

"Seriously?" The voice slithered through the storm like smoke. Cold. Amused. Ancient. "I give you a nearly fresh body and you think you can just die?" Chucky's eye snapped open. His neck ached as he craned his head downward. And there—beside the dying man—was a snake. Massive. Black scales gleaming like oil. Eyes glowing gold. It flicked its tongue, tasting the death in the air.

"Damballa...?" Chucky croaked, disbelief making his voice raw. The serpent didn't answer right away. It coiled lazily around the body in the snow, watching Chucky with ancient patience. Then it spoke—its voice older than graves. "You called me. Over and over. You swore your soul. You spilled blood in my name." It hissed, eyes narrowing.

"And now... you choose to die like a coward?" Chucky coughed weakly, spitting blood onto his chest. "Didn't ask for this..." he rasped. "You asked for life." The serpent's voice was a sermon and a threat all at once. The snow trembled. The sky itself seemed to lean closer." I gave you power. You took it freely. You burned and bled and broke the world with it. And now you cry about consequences?"

Chucky bared his teeth in a weak snarl. "I didn't sign up to feel!" The snake only watched him. Silent. Immovable. "It was always part of the deal." Damballa slithered up the tree, coils tightening, wrapping around the wire. With a violent jerk, it snapped the bindings. Chucky fell, crashing into the snow, too weak to even scream. He lay there, gasping, blood staining the white beneath him. The snake uncoiled, sliding beside the dying man in the snow.

"I can help you," Damballa whispered. "You crave redemption. I can offer a path. Painful. Endless. But real." Chucky groaned, barely lifting his head. "...What's the catch?" he muttered. A low chuckle. "You carry the boy's burdens... along with your own."

Chucky's blurred vision focused on the dying man. A boy, really. Barely twenty. Orange hair like fire, face peaceful even in death's shadow. Before he could decide, the boy's lips parted.

"Before you take my body..." the boy whispered. "Promise me something." Chucky, stunned, limped closer. The boy's eyes—glassy but clear—looked straight into his. "Promise me... the world will know our name." A ragged breath.

"Promise me... Charles." Then—stillness. Final.

Chucky stared, throat tight, breath catching. Snow began to cover the boy's face, soft and slow, like the world itself trying to hide this tragedy. Chucky knelt in the snow, plastic fingers trembling. He touched the boy's frozen cheek, brushed away the snow.

And he whispered, voice breaking:

"Yeah... I promise."

________________________________________

The snow glows faint pink under the first light of morning. Chucky—in a new, human body—stumbles out of the treeline. He breathes in deep, shaky. For the first time in years… it’s not plastic lungs drawing air. It’s warm. Alive. Real. He pauses at the edge of the woods, looking down at himself—this new body. Torn jacket. Scars. Dirt under the nails. He pats down the pockets, finds something—
A small, half-destroyed journal.

The cover’s worn leather. The pages are stained with snow and ink. He flips through. Drawings. Notes. Names crossed out. A single word appears over and over; "REMEMBER." Chucky frowns, then mutters under his breath. "I don’t think it was a coincidence that this kid’s name was Charles…”

He looks around, voice raised slightly, directed to the air. “Are you involved in this?” Damballa’s voice slithers back from the shadows of the trees, ever-present, calm. “This boy was special.” “His family died when he was young. And every morning he woke, he forgot pieces of himself. Pieces of his past.” Chucky freezes. "Like he was… meant to be empty?”

“Like he was made to hold something.” Damballa’s chuckle echoes low. “And now, he holds you.” Chucky looks down at the journal again. The last page has smeared words written in uneven ink:
“Don’t let me disappear.”

A long silence. Chucky closes the book slowly, his jaw tightening. “Guess I won’t.

Chapter Text

The wheels of Jake Wheeler's bike skidded against the loose gravel as he came to a stop, the sharp crunch breaking the stillness of the sleepy Hackensack street. In front of him, just another yard sale—tables cluttered with junk, old clothes swaying gently in the breeze. Nothing special. Nothing unusual.

Until he saw it.

Sitting there between a cracked lamp and a box of faded VHS tapes was a Good Guy doll. Dusty, worn at the edges, the smile faded but still intact. Freckles dotting its cheeks, its little plastic hand raised in that forever-friendly wave.

Jake didn't hesitate. He fished a crumpled bill from his pocket, shoved it into the seller's palm without a word, and slung the doll under one arm as he turned back to his bike. It wasn't about nostalgia. Jake didn't give a damn about the old "Good Guy" commercials, the cheesy jingle that some kids still joked about. No, this was about art. He had plans.

The doll's limbs, its painted plastic face—if deconstructed just right, it could add that twisted contrast he was looking for in his next sculpture. His masterpiece. Something raw and real and just disturbing enough to make people pay attention.

But then—something shifted.

As he pedaled past the town's small square, his eyes caught on a boutique he'd never noticed before. Tucked between an old bookstore and a bakery, the storefront almost seemed to flicker at the edge of his vision. A tug hit him low in his chest. Subtle but insistent, like invisible strings pulling tight. He slowed. Then stopped.

The boutique wasn't flashy. Brick walls dulled by age, a faded wooden sign creaking softly in the wind. The windows were fogged from the inside, clothes and fabrics barely visible behind the glass like ghosts of a forgotten era.

Jake hesitated, something in his gut twisting, but curiosity won. He parked his bike against the curb and pushed the door open.

A soft bell jingled overhead.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fabric and old perfume. Rows of dress racks stood like sentries, heavy with velvet, lace, and leather. It felt less like a store and more like stepping into someone else's memory—faded but still alive.

Behind the counter, a tall man with striking orange-red hair sat hunched over a sewing machine, fingers moving with practiced ease. He didn't look up. "I'll be with you when I'm done," the man said, voice calm but clipped, edged with something Jake couldn't place. "In the meantime, look around. See if anything catches your eye."

Jake blinked. The man's voice... there was something about it. Not familiar exactly, but close enough to set the hairs on his neck rising.

Still, he shrugged it off and turned away, wandering between the racks. The fabrics whispered against his sleeves as he moved. His artist's eye scanned for anything that could be ripped apart and rebuilt—maybe some velvet for texture, maybe an old coat he could shred into something grotesque and beautiful.

He didn't notice the doll in his arms twitch, ever so slightly.

"Hey, kid." Jake jolted so hard he nearly dropped the doll. A firm hand landed on his shoulder, steadying him. "Whoa there, easy." Jake turned, heart hammering against his ribs, and found the man standing much closer now—close enough to catch the sharp glint in his blue eyes. There was an amused tilt to his smile, but something about it sent a chill down Jake's spine.

"I'm sorry, kid," the man said, his chuckle low and almost... fond? "Force of habit. I tend to walk around unnoticed." Jake let out an awkward laugh, trying to push down the nervous energy crawling through his chest. "Yeah... no kidding." The man's gaze dropped, zeroing in on the doll cradled in Jake's arms.

"What do you have there?" Jake glanced down at the Good Guy doll, suddenly hyperaware of its plastic grin and bright overalls. The man pointed, arching a brow. "That's a Good Guy doll, isn't it? Haven't seen one of those in years." Jake shifted his grip, the doll suddenly feeling heavier. "Yeah. Picked it up at a yard sale earlier. Was gonna use the head or the arms for an art piece."

The man's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in a way that felt almost... curious. "Is it really that antique of a doll?" Jake asked, trying to fill the growing silence. "Think I could flip it for some serious cash?" The man shrugged, turning back toward the counter with slow, deliberate steps. There was a stiffness in his shoulders, like someone holding back a laugh—or a secret. Jake followed, still clutching the doll tighter than before.

"Well," the man drawled as he sat back at his sewing machine, "who wouldn't want a doll with a reputation? Especially one that's been seen at the scene of more than a few crimes..." His voice trailed off, leaving just enough space for Jake's stomach to twist uncomfortably. The man glanced up then, smile faint but sharp. "Some say it was even involved in a few of them."

Jake's mouth went dry. He shifted on his feet, uneasy. "Wait... are you serious?" The man's grin widened just a fraction. "Urban legends, mostly. But legends... they have a way of coming back around, don't they?" His fingers resumed stitching, the soft hum of the machine filling the space between them.

Jake stood there, pulse loud in his ears, the doll in his arms suddenly feeling like a weight. Heavy. Wrong. He swallowed hard and looked down at its face again. And for a second—just a second—he could've sworn that painted smile got a little wider.

________________________________________

The boutique door jingled softly as Jake left, pedaling away with the Good Guy doll tucked tight under his arm. The kid didn't look back once. Inside, behind the display window, Charles watched him go—arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowed, a faint smile tugging at his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. He waited until Jake disappeared around the corner, swallowed up by Hackensack's streets, before murmuring to no one in particular, voice low and dry as dust.

"I'm impressed with how you always sniff these things out, Tiffany."

With a quiet exhale through his nose, Charles turned away from the window. The bell above the door gave a soft click as it swung back into place, shutting out the morning light and the cold bite of late autumn air. Inside, the boutique settled into stillness again—the kind that clung to old wood and heavier memories.

The scent of fabric bolts, faint lavender sachets, and warm dust wrapped around the room like a cocoon. This place—his place—was built on patience and silence, humming faintly with the tired energy of a man who had spent years trying to stitch himself back together. A space that had seen too much once upon a time and now longed for nothing but quiet.

Charles crossed the shop with slow, steady steps and eased back into the worn chair behind his counter. The dress he'd been working on lay in neat pieces across the table—pastel blue fabric pinned carefully into soft, frilled shapes that caught the light. Bright, playful, delicate. He ran a calloused finger along the hem, thoughtful, jaw tight.

"Tiffany really needs to give me more time..." he muttered, but there was no real bite in it. His voice was soft, resigned. He shook his head and let out a breath. A week ago, she'd called him—out of nowhere, like always. "Can you make something for Glen?"

Of course, he'd said yes. Even when he was buried under two commissions, behind schedule on half a dozen fittings, and barely keeping up with rent—he always made time for his kids. That was non-negotiable now.

Sliding the fabric beneath the sewing machine's foot, he pressed the pedal. The machine hummed and clattered softly, the needle dipping in and out like a heartbeat. His hands moved automatically—years of muscle memory guiding each stitch—but his mind was elsewhere, drifting.

To Jake.
To the doll now cradled in that kid's arms.
To himself.

The version of him trapped in that doll—violent, impulsive, unchanged. The old Chucky. The part of himself he'd split off and left behind like a snake shedding dead skin. And now here it was again. Crawling back into someone else's hands.

Now, it was Jake's problem. But if Charles had learned anything after clawing his way into this new life, it was that nothing ever stayed buried. Not dolls. Not legends. Not sins. His foot lifted from the pedal as the machine clicked to a stop, the sudden silence wrapping around him again like a weighted blanket.

"I'm going on my date now, Charles!"nThe voice pierced the quiet like a pin through silk. He looked up to see Miss Flora breezing in from the back room, a swirl of black and white fabric as she twirled once for show. The dress she wore—the one he'd altered for her just last week—hugged her in all the right places, and she practically sparkled with excitement.

"Make sure to lock up when you're done!" she called, still digging through her purse for her keys or lipstick or something else she'd inevitably forget. Charles lifted a lazy hand in a half-wave. "Have a great time, Miss Flora. And make sure this one's really the guy. Or gal. Or whoever fits the bill." His smile was crooked, dry.

She laughed as she swept out the door. "I'll be fine!" The door clicked shut behind her, the lock sliding home. Silence flooded back in. Charles leaned back in his chair and let out a slow, heavy exhale. His eyes drifted sideways, landing on the folded note Tiffany had left him—crumpled on the side table next to Glen's measurements and scattered fabric swatches.

In Glen's careful, looping handwriting were simple instructions:
"Make it twirl. And can you put in a pocket? I want to carry things."

Charles' lips twitched. Barely a smile, but it was there. Faint. Real.

That version of him—the monster in plastic and stitches—would never understand this. Would never care about frills and pockets and soft fabrics. Would never stop long enough to watch a boy like Jake, lost and fragile in ways no one else seemed to notice. That old Chucky would've burned this place to the ground without blinking.

But this Charles?

He was watching. From a distance. Quietly. Carefully. Because deep down, he knew. He needed to know. What was the doll planning? What did that lingering piece of himself want now? And if it went after the kid...

His hands flexed over the fabric again, knuckles pale. "You better behave, Chucky," he muttered under his breath, voice low and edged with something darker. "Or I'll finish what I started."

The sewing machine hummed again.

And the boutique returned to silence.

________________________________________

It was supposed to be a good day.

For once, Jake Wheeler had felt like things were finally tipping in his favor. The crushing weight of being invisible—the weird kid, the outcast, the one everyone whispered about and laughed at behind his back—had lifted, even if only for a few shining minutes. Today, they weren't laughing at him. They were laughing at someone else.

Lexy Cross had screamed.

Loud. Public. Humiliating. Tears welled in her mascara-streaked eyes as the prank—his prank—played out perfectly on the stage during the school talent show. The crowd erupted. Laughter echoed through the auditorium. She shrieked in fury, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Jake had stood in the eye of the storm not as their target, but as the one holding the lightning.

And Chucky had helped him do it.

For a fleeting, dangerous second, Jake had laughed. Smiled. Felt powerful. Felt seen. Like maybe—just maybe—he wasn't powerless after all. But that fragile victory had crumbled fast. Now, the echo of that moment was drowned out by his father's voice, roaring through the house like a chainsaw tearing through his chest.

"You're disgusting, Jake! You're a freak! A disappointment!" Each word landed like a slap, sharper than the last. "You never should've been born!" That one hit harder than any punch.

Jake stood frozen in the living room doorway, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms, his breathing jagged and uneven. His vision blurred, the edges of the room going soft—whether from tears or the surge of rage boiling in his gut, he couldn't even tell anymore.

And still, his father didn't stop. "You're the reason your mother's dead! You hear me?! Her dying? That was on you!" Jake's chest caved in on itself. The breath he tried to take caught halfway, jagged and wrong. His hands shook. His whole body shook. Something deep inside snapped, brittle as glass.

And then—he pushed. Not hard. Just enough. Enough to send his father stumbling backward, crashing into the wall with a dull thud that seemed to rattle through Jake's bones. For a heartbeat, the whole world went still. The silence was deafening.

Then Jake turned. And he ran. The front door slammed behind him with the force of a gunshot, a sharp crack that split the night. Cold October air knifed into his lungs as he bolted down the porch steps, but he didn't slow down. He couldn't.

Across the yard. Into the street. Feet pounding against the pavement like thunder. Jake ran like the world was on fire behind him. Ran like if he stopped for even a second, everything inside him would shatter beyond repair.

His heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else—his father's voice, the sting in his lungs, the weight pressing on his ribs until it hurt to breathe. He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care.

Streetlights flickered overhead as he tore down one sidewalk after another, his shoes slapping hard against the concrete, his breath ragged, coming out in short bursts that turned to vapor in the freezing night air.

He couldn't go back. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. The thought of seeing his father's face again—of hearing those words, of feeling that hate—made him run harder. Faster. Like he could outrun the pieces of himself breaking apart inside.

He flew past houses with glowing jack-o'-lanterns on their porches, past windows where warm yellow light spilled out like little pockets of a world he didn't belong to. People inside those homes were watching TV, laughing, eating dinner—living normal lives.

Jake wasn't part of that world. He never had been. His legs burned. His chest screamed. But he couldn't stop. Because if he stopped, those words would catch up to him. They'd crawl back into his ears, settle into his chest, and finish what they started.

"You're a mistake."
"You're the reason she's dead."

His foot caught the edge of the curb, and before he could catch himself, he stumbled and went sprawling into the grass beside the sidewalk. His palms scraped raw against the rough ground. He didn't move. He stayed there, on his knees, hands trembling, tears hot and fast against his frozen cheeks. His whole body felt heavy—like gravity had doubled its grip on him, dragging him down until even breathing felt impossible.

The world blurred at the edges. And in the stillness, something moved behind him. Jake didn't turn. He didn't need to. His mind was too far gone now—too deep in the storm tearing through him to care about anything else. His knees throbbed, his breath burned in his chest, and somewhere beneath the physical pain, there was a darker ache: hollow, gnawing, endless.

The kind of sorrow that felt like it would never leave. The kind that made the world feel cold, even when it wasn't. The kind that made him wonder—if he just stayed right here, stayed small and still in the dark—maybe everything would just... stop. Maybe the world could end right here. And Jake wouldn't even flinch.

It was a voice that cut through the storm in Jake's chest—gentle, calm, and caring in a way that felt completely wrong, like it didn't belong in a world that was tearing him apart.

"Hey, kid... you alright there?"

Jake blinked, breath stuttering in his throat. The tears had blurred everything, but the shape in front of him slowly came into focus. A man. Orange-red hair, pulled back loosely. A soft, weathered face with lines carved deep by time and regret. His brow was creased, mouth set firm, but his voice stayed gentle—steady in a way that Jake hadn't heard in what felt like years. Familiar somehow. But not threatening.

Jake's heart jumped, just a little flicker. The man looked like... Chucky. That hair, those sharp blue eyes. But it couldn't be. It was just the boutique man—the one who made dresses, who'd barely looked at him before today.

The man stepped forward carefully, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. "Mind if I sit with you?" Jake didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was tight, like it was wrapped in barbed wire. He just gave the smallest, numb nod.

Charles eased down beside him on the cold, cracked sidewalk without a sound. He didn't hover. Didn't press. Just sat there with his hands shoved in his coat pockets, gazing up at the flickering streetlamp like he'd known it for years.

For a while, neither of them said a word. The wind whispered through the empty street, and that was the only sound between them. Then, after what felt like forever, Charles tilted his head, voice low but firm. "Want to tell me why you're out here like this?"

Jake's breath hitched so hard it almost knocked the air out of him. He didn't answer right away. His hands were shaking as he dragged them up to his face, hiding the tears that were already starting to fall again.

"You'll be disgusted..." he mumbled, voice raw and broken around the edges. "If I told you, you'd look at me like everyone else does." Charles didn't move. Didn't flinch. His silence wasn't dismissive—it was patient, like he was giving Jake space to shatter properly. Jake's voice cracked lower, barely above a whisper. "I'm disgusting." His fingers dug into his scalp like he was trying to claw the words out. "I'm a freak. A failure. I ruin everything I touch."

The pain wasn't loud. It was worse. It was quiet. Raw. Shattered in a way that only kids who've been broken too young can sound. "My dad said I'm the reason my mom is dead." Jake's whole body shook as the poison words slipped out, his throat locking up like it was trying to choke on them.

"He said I should've never been born." That was it. That was the final break. He couldn't hold it in anymore. And then he cried. Hard. Fully. Not in silence, not in shame. He broke open right there on the sidewalk—ugly, violent sobs that made his whole chest seize up, like every inch of pain and hate and guilt was pouring out of him at once.

Charles didn't hesitate for even a second. He opened his coat and leaned over, pulling the boy against him without asking—wrapping him up tight, shielding him from the wind, the night, and the world that had beaten him raw. Jake didn't fight it. He collapsed against him like a dam bursting, like every bone in his body had given up trying to stay strong.

"Hey, hey... shh... it's okay..." Charles whispered, voice rough but steady as one hand rubbed slow circles on Jake's back and the other clutched his shoulder firm. "You're not disgusting. You're hurting. That's not the same thing. Not even close."

Jake buried his face against the man's coat, sobbing so hard his ribs hurt. "I didn't ask to be this way. I didn't ask to be broken." Charles swallowed hard, his own throat tightening. "No one ever does."

His grip stayed steady. Warm. Solid. The boutique man held the crying boy like it mattered—like he meant it—and maybe, deep down, he really did. They stayed like that for a long time. No words. Just the wind rattling the empty streetlights and the sound of a kid trying to breathe through pain so big it could crush him.

Eventually, Charles spoke again, voice softer but edged with steel. "If you're okay with it... I'll listen. I've got time." He gave a sad little smile. "But I think you've got something else you should do first." Jake sniffed, face blotchy and wet as he blinked up at him in confusion. "What do you mean?" Charles's smile faded. His eyes were serious now. "Your father's still at home, right?" Jake flinched hard. "Yeah... why?" Charles looked out at the road, jaw tight. "Because Chucky's with him."

Silence.

Jake's heart stuttered like it forgot how to beat. "...What?" Charles's voice stayed calm, but there was a weight behind it now. Something darker. Heavy with knowing. "If Chucky thinks your dad hurt you... he'll use it. He'll say he's protecting you. He'll say it's what you need." Jake stared, throat closing up again. His mind spiraled, the storm raging hotter. "How do you know that?" he whispered, voice cracked and fragile.

Charles stood then, slow and deliberate, brushing the dirt from his coat like it was routine. He turned and held out a hand. Steady. Solid. Jake hesitated—his whole body screaming not to trust anyone—but in the end, he took it. Charles pulled him to his feet with a strength that felt too real to question. "Because I know how he thinks," Charles said, voice low. "I know what he's capable of. I know what I'm capable of."

He dusted off Jake's shoulders, then rested a hand lightly between his shoulder blades. Warm. Grounding. "Don't live with regrets, kid. Not ones like this."

Jake sniffed, wiping at his raw face with his sleeve like a little kid, voice muffled. "...My name's Jake," he mumbled, cheeks red and pouty. Charles smiled—this time real, soft at the edges, genuinely human. "My name's Charles," he said simply. "Nice to meet you, Jake." And for the first time that night, the storm inside Jake quieted.

Chapter Text

Did Charles have a good childhood? He wasn’t sure. The memories were too faded, too blurred by time and pain to say for certain. There were moments—dark, cold ones. Yelling in the background, doors slamming, the sting of a slap, the silence that followed. Maybe he was loved once. Maybe not. He didn’t remember feeling safe, or wanted. But when he met Andy… something changed. A kid like that, so innocent, so trusting—it made him wonder. What would it be like to have that? A good mother. A warm home. A future. Something worth holding onto. And he was selfish enough to take it away. He didn’t just try to kill Andy—he stole his peace, his childhood, his stability. He destroyed something beautiful. And now, all these years later, the guilt lived in him like a second heartbeat.

Charles stood in front of the mirror, fixing his reflection like a mannequin on display. He adjusted his hair, combing it back into that familiar Good Guy curl, the red strands falling just right. His eyes, once dull and muddy, were now glassy blue—like the doll. Like the monster. And even though his skin was smooth, untouched, he still felt the stitches. In his mind, his face was scarred, sewn together like a patchwork of regret. He stared at himself, at this body that wasn’t meant to exist. Did he deserve to be alive? To keep going while so many others lay broken in his wake? Probably not. But he was. And if there was even a sliver of purpose left in him, it was this—he had to fix what he broke. He had to protect the one person he’d hurt the most.

He sighed, resting a hand on the edge of the sink. Maybe it was too late. Maybe Andy didn’t need saving. But he couldn’t take that chance. If stopping Chucky—his old self—meant becoming something twisted, something hated, something damned… then so be it. He’d rather carry that burden than let Andy suffer one more time. If saving him was a sin, then he would gladly wear it. Not because he was forgiven. But because someone had to do it—and this time, it would be him.

________________________________________

“Glen loved what you made him!” Tiffany’s voice rang out from Charles’s phone, cheerful and proud. She’d called through video, insisting he pick up so she could show him something important. On-screen, the camera tilted and turned until it revealed Glen, spinning around in the middle of a backyard, his dress flowing as he laughed and played with a few other kids. It was the blue one—soft, simple, handmade. Charles’s fingers had spent nights guiding that fabric through the machine, carefully shaping every line, every fold. Now it danced around his child like a breeze, alive with joy.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at the screen, quiet. Because the truth was, the man he used to be—the real Charles Lee Ray—would’ve hated this. Not out of any real reason, but because he’d been raised to hate anything soft, anything different, anything that didn’t fit into some broken, warped idea of strength. The kind of man who saw dresses as weakness. Who saw Glen’s kindness as vulnerability. The kind of man who killed to feel in control.

But now? Charles just smiled. Not the smirk of the old days, not the grin of a killer. A real smile—proud, full, content in a way he didn’t think he was allowed to feel. He’d made that dress. He’d made something that made his kid feel beautiful. That alone was worth more than any of the chaos he’d sewn in his past. On the screen, Tiffany turned the camera back to her, grinning ear to ear. “I think your Bachelor of Fashion isn’t so useless after all,” she teased, laughing like they were still young, like none of the blood between them ever happened. Charles chuckled under his breath, walking across his boutique to a mannequin he’d been adjusting. “I haven’t even finished yet,” he said, smoothing the lapel of the suit he was tailoring. “Three more months of internship… then hopefully, if I survive the final, I graduate next year.”

He stepped back, tilting his head at the mannequin, carefully checking the shoulders and drape. The boutique was quiet, peaceful, the hum of the sewing machine in the background, the light of the early evening pouring through the front window. “Well, Glen thinks you’re already a star,” Tiffany replied, her voice softer now. “He wouldn’t stop smiling when he tried it on. Said it was the first time he felt like himself, you know?” That made Charles pause. His throat tightened. He looked back down at his phone, where Tiffany’s smile held steady, and behind her, Glen was still twirling, still laughing. “That’s enough for me,” Charles said finally, almost a whisper.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he meant it.

The door of the boutique creaked open with a soft chime, its familiar ring breaking the quiet hum of the sewing machine and the fading echoes of Glen’s laughter still coming from Charles’s phone. He glanced up, half expecting a customer, but instead saw Jake Wheeler walking in, flushed and a little breathless, hoodie damp from the fall chill. “Charles!” Jake called out, heading straight toward him.

Charles lifted a hand to pause him, still holding the phone to his ear. “Ahh, Jake, wait just a moment,” he said with a calm smile, turning back to his screen where Tiffany was trying to wrangle both Glen and Glenda into view. Glen, shy as ever, gave a soft wave and whispered a polite thank you for the dress. Charles smiled warmly, that rare feeling of pride still sitting quietly in his chest. “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he said gently. Then came Glenda’s voice in the background, loud and theatrical as always. “I want something red! And leather! And it better sparkle!” Charles laughed softly, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. You’ll get your outfit. I’ll make it ASAP. Promise.” Tiffany chuckled as she rolled her eyes, and Charles gave her one final wave before ending the call and slipping his phone into his pocket.

He turned his full attention to Jake now, brushing off his sleeves and straightening his posture. “So,” he said, voice easy but curious, “I guess you saved your father from disaster? It's been a week since I saw you,” Jake nodded, still catching his breath, and Charles could tell from the look in his eyes that the night had been more than eventful. “Yeah,” Jake said, voice low and still a little shaken. “Chucky tried to fry him. The basement was flooded with water and wires. Electricity everywhere.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Said he was protecting me. Like he was doing it for me, because my dad hurt me.” Jake frowned. “But it wasn’t about me. It was just another excuse.” Charles blinked slowly, not surprised. “Flooded basement, huh,” he muttered. “Bit theatrical. I’d have used a knife. Quicker. No mess.” Jake gave him a look, equal parts disturbed and exhausted. “You’re not helping.” Charles shrugged, unapologetic. “Just being honest.”

Charles moved across the boutique with quiet focus, adjusting the neckline of one mannequin and tightening the sleeve of another. He was setting up the newest display Flora had asked him to update—supposedly “this season’s latest fashion,” though her idea of that was mostly whatever had glitter and a cinched waist. Still, Charles took his time. His hands worked with care, precision, like the fabric deserved more dignity than he ever gave to his past victims. “So,” he said casually, not looking up, “he already ran away, right?” Jake stood a few steps behind, arms crossed. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. After he nearly electrocuted me, I grabbed a baseball bat and smashed him through the basement window. When I ran out to follow him, he was already gone.”

Charles gave a quiet nod, tightening a belt on the second mannequin. “Well… at least that’ll make my job a little easier.” His tone was calm, like he was talking about fixing a leaky pipe, not tracking down a killer doll with half of his own soul. Jake hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The words sat in his mouth, heavy and unsure. He wanted to ask—needed to—but the thought of the answer made his chest tighten. Charles finished the third mannequin, stepping back to observe the display. He adjusted the light above it, then slowly turned toward Jake, catching the unease in his face right away.

“You’ve got a question,” Charles said gently. “Go ahead. I promised I’d answer you truthfully.” Jake blinked, then exhaled shakily. “W-what did you mean… back then? When you said you ‘know what you’re capable of,’ when you were talking about Chucky?” Charles looked at him quietly for a moment, like deciding how direct to be, then let out a breath. “I thought you figured it out already, kid,” he said, not unkindly. “I am Chucky. The original soul of Charles Lee Ray—the killer, the strangler, the boogeyman in a plastic body. Yada yada.” Jake’s breath caught in his throat. Charles tilted his head slightly, his voice still calm.

Jake stared at Charles, eyes narrowing with quiet disbelief. He was trying to wrap his head around what he’d just heard, but the more he thought about it, the less it made sense. How could this calm, soft-spoken man—the tailor who made dresses and adjusted mannequins with the precision of a sculptor—be the same person as the monster who had terrorized him in doll form? “Wait,” Jake said, struggling with the words, “you’re saying… you and Chucky are the same person?”

Charles looked over his shoulder as he adjusted the lapel of the final mannequin, voice light and casual. “Yeah. I split my soul into two back in some cabin. One half’s in the one with the ragged slick-back hair. The other’s in the one with the mohawk.” He paused, brushing invisible lint from the suit. “I think… they figured out how to split again. Which means it’s not just two of them anymore. It could be three. Four. More.” He shrugged as if discussing bad fabric dye. “I need to be sure.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, trying to process it. It all sounded like something out of a horror movie. Souls being split, bodies being multiplied—it was too much. He wasn’t sure if he believed in any of it, even after everything he'd seen. “That’s insane,” he muttered. “How is that even possible?”

Charles just gave a small, tired smile. “It’s voodoo. It doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to work.”

Jake hesitated, then looked at him, more serious now. “Do you think… your other self will come back?”

Charles’s smile faded into something more grim, more knowing. “My old self?” he said. “The one in the doll?” He nodded. “Oh, he’ll come back. He holds grudges. Always did. Especially when someone gets in his way.” He looked directly at Jake, his blue eyes clear and still. “So yeah. Be prepared.” Jake frowned, frustration building under his skin. “Then why can’t you just help me now?” he asked, more forcefully than he meant to.

Charles didn’t flinch. He stepped away from the mannequins and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Because I don’t know where they’ve been for the last three years,” he said simply. “They disappeared after nearly killing me. No bodies. No dolls. Nothing. I need more evidence. Something to tell me where they’ve been hiding. Where they got more Good Guy dolls to put those split souls into.”
He looked at Jake again, more serious now. “Once I know that… then I’ll stop them.”

Jake didn’t know whether to feel comforted or terrified.

Because the man standing in front of him wasn’t just someone with knowledge of Chucky.
He was Chucky.

And even if he’d changed… that monster still lived inside him.

________________________________________

“It’s been three years already, Andy! He’s never coming back!” Kyle’s voice rang out through the small bedroom like a slap. Her boots thudded against the wooden floor as she stepped closer to the bed, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her words were sharp, laced with frustration, but they cracked at the edges with worry—the kind she’d been carrying for far too long. Andy didn’t respond. He lay sideways on the bed, half-curled into himself, face turned to the wall, one hand covering his eyes like it might hide the truth. He hadn’t moved much since she walked in.

Kyle sighed and sat down at the edge of the bed, letting the silence settle before she spoke again. “He lied to you, Andy. You know that. You know what that doll is. You’ve always known.” Still no answer. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the old clock on the nightstand and the wind brushing against the windows outside.

After the cabin—after everything—Andy hadn’t gone to the police. He hadn’t gone to Kyle. He hadn’t even told anyone what really happened. He just went home. Alone. Broken. Hurt. His body had been a mess—bruised ribs, cuts along his arms, a limp in his leg that took weeks to fade. But the physical pain didn’t matter. Not really. Not compared to the questions burning a hole in his brain. Why? Why did one of them protect him?

He replayed it constantly. The chaos. The snow. The blood. And Chucky—the original—standing between him and the others. Taking hits. Fighting. Buying him time. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t just a delay tactic. It wasn’t some setup for another kill. It was… real. Andy saw it. In his face. In his eyes. A hesitation. A crack. A moment that shouldn’t have existed. Guilt. Pain. Like a man haunted by himself.
So Andy waited.

He waited at the front door every single day, hoping it would swing open, and that familiar voice—sarcastic, twisted. To say it was all for show. That he meant to come back to kill him. But maybe, when he open the door, he meant to help. That he was sorry. Maybe even cry. Maybe just say something real for once. But the door never opened. Not once.

On day one, he waited until midnight.
On day three, he stopped turning on the lights.
On day seven, he collapsed in front of the door and didn’t move for hours.

No one came. No one explained anything. The silence became unbearable.

When Kyle finally found him, it was like he was carved from stone. Barely ate. Barely spoke. Sat in the same spot every day. Not angry. Not even sad. Just… waiting. As if the moment was frozen in time.
She brought him home with her. Took care of him. Tried to help. But Andy didn’t want to be helped. Not really. He didn’t want therapy. He didn’t want answers. What he wanted was something that couldn’t be given. Closure.

Now, three years later, the confusion was still there. The fear. The doubt. The echo of that moment in the snow where the monster he’d spent his life running from had chosen—just once—not to be a monster. It haunted him. Not because it scared him. But because it made him hope.

He didn’t know what was worse—being hunted by Chucky for years, or being saved by him just once.

Because if that moment was real… then what did it mean?

Kyle reached out, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “You have to stop waiting for him,” she said softly. “You’ve been waiting three years, Andy. Three years of your life frozen in place. He’s not coming back.”

Andy still didn’t speak. His lips were pressed together tightly, eyes burning behind his hand.

He wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

He just knew that no matter how many days passed… some part of him still watched that door.
Still waited.

Still hoped for the one thing Chucky had never given him.

An answer.

Chapter Text

Charles stood still, his breathing shallow, surrounded by nothing but endless darkness. It stretched infinitely in every direction, swallowing him whole, making it impossible to tell which way was up or down. No wind, no ground, no stars, only the thick oppressive weight of nothing pressing against his skin. His throat tightened as he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. It was like even his voice didn’t exist here. Then, out of nowhere, a searing bright light flashed in front of him, blinding him and forcing him to shield his eyes with his forearm. When the light dimmed, Charles lowered his hand and saw it—standing alone in the middle of the darkness—a mirror.

It didn’t belong. It shimmered faintly, almost humming against the black. Cautiously, Charles moved toward it, boots silent on the invisible ground. As he approached, his chest tightened. The reflection in the mirror wasn’t his own. It wasn’t the man he had become, the tailor, the former killer wearing regret like a second skin. No—staring back at him was a boy. Small. Frail. Pale skin, messy black hair falling over wide blue eyes filled with something raw and ugly—fear. Pain. Loneliness. Charles’s heart pounded harder. He reached out, hand trembling, and pressed his palm against the mirror's surface.

The moment his skin touched the glass, the child on the other side lunged forward, grabbing his wrist with an unnatural strength and yanking him through.

________________________________________

When Charles opened his eyes, he stumbled backward, disoriented, landing hard against the splintered floor of a cramped, dingy room. His heart raced in panic. The air was thick, heavy with the smell of mildew, rot, and something sourer beneath it. He pushed himself upright, confused, his movements clumsy and wrong. He looked down at his hands—small, delicate, unfamiliar—and dread filled his stomach. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the nearest mirror nailed crookedly on the wall, heart slamming against his ribs.

The boy from the void stared back at him. His own reflection—but not. Black hair messy and tangled, face smeared with dirt, the faint shadow of a bruise yellowing along his jawline. Charles reached up and touched his cheek, panic rising higher with every passing second. “How am I in this body?!” His voice cracked, small and terrified. He didn’t understand. He didn’t know where he was. The walls were peeling, the single lightbulb hanging overhead buzzed weakly, and the room felt suffocatingly small.

Then, a loud bang rattled the thin wooden door, making him jump back, heart in his throat. He turned to the mirror again, desperate, and saw the boy’s reflection raise a single finger to his lips, signaling him to be silent.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The door shook under the force of each hit.

"Charles! Open this damn door immediately!" a woman’s voice screeched from the other side, rough and angry, spitting venom with every syllable. Charles froze, breath caught painfully in his chest. He didn’t know why, but terror gripped him, rooting him to the floor. That voice—it wrapped around his throat like a noose. It made his knees weak. It made the child inside him remember things he thought he had forgotten.

Hands trembling, he stepped forward. Slowly. He grasped the doorknob, skin clammy against the cold metal, and barely managed to twist it when suddenly the door slammed inward violently, the edge crashing against his face. Pain exploded behind his eyes, sharp and blinding, and he dropped to the floor with a helpless whimper. He felt the warm trickle of blood sliding down his forehead, dripping onto the dusty boards beneath him.

Through blurred vision, he looked up—and saw her.
A woman. Stringy hair falling around a gaunt face. Wild, angry eyes. Skin that looked tired, worn, stretched too thin by a life filled with too much bitterness. His mother. Maybe. At least, that's what some part of him insisted. But there was no kindness in her face. No comfort. Just frustration and disgust.

She stared down at him like he was something she had scraped off her shoe.

"Oh, Charles, you brat of a kid!" she snapped, voice shrill and biting. "Now I gotta waste my damn time takin' you to the hospital! You’re just useless—always makin’ everything harder!” She grabbed him roughly by the arm, hauling his small body upright like he weighed nothing. Charles whimpered again, his head pounding, blood running into his eye. His legs barely worked, but she didn’t care. She pulled him along, yanking him through the narrow hallway that smelled of smoke and bleach.

Somewhere inside, the older Charles—the man—screamed.

________________________________________

Charles woke up screaming. His body jolted upright so violently that he nearly fell out of bed. His breathing came in quick, shallow bursts, too fast, too sharp, like the air itself was cutting him from the inside. He pressed a trembling hand against his chest, trying to steady himself, but nothing helped. His head throbbed painfully, a splitting ache right behind his eyes. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His entire body trembled, muscles locked in fear he couldn’t reason away. His eyes darted around the room, wide and frantic, unable to focus on anything real.

What was that? he thought, clutching the bed sheets in both fists. A dream? A memory? Why was it coming back now, after all this time? Why now, after years of silence? He didn’t remember that part of his life. He didn’t want to remember it. He had been fine without it—better even. It was easier not knowing, easier burying it so deep that it stopped feeling real. He built a new life without those memories. A quieter life. A better life.

Is this my punishment too? he wondered bitterly, hugging his arms tightly around his torso as if he could hold himself together. His heart slammed against his ribs violently, a caged animal refusing to calm. He rocked slightly, breath hitching in his throat, trying to steady it, trying to stop the tears burning hot behind his eyes. He hated this feeling. He hated the weakness, the fear, the way it stole his strength like he was still that helpless little boy standing in the broken hallway.

But he forced himself to stay in it. To feel it. He had been trying for three years now to understand these feelings. To not run. To not drown them under violence and rage. He wanted to be better—he needed to be better—for his family, for Andy. For himself.

So Charles squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep, rattling breath, and pushed the air slowly out between his lips, forcing the panic back down even as it clawed at his insides. He hugged himself tighter, the only comfort he could find, shivering in the dark of his small room.

There was nothing he could do but accept it.

Accept the punishment.
Accept the memories.

Accept that no matter how far he ran from who he was, there would always be pieces of the boy he used to be buried inside him, waiting in the dark.

Waiting to remind him he could never fully escape.

________________________________________

It had been two weeks since Jake's father’s near-death experience in the basement, and things hadn't gone back to normal. His father was bedridden now, trapped in his room, weak and recovering. The anger that had once filled the house like smoke had been replaced with something else—sorrow. Guilt. A silent, fragile attempt at healing. Their relationship was still strained, too many scars sitting between them, but Jake could see it—the way his father tried now, clumsy and awkward, but real. He was trying to be better, and for the first time in years, Jake allowed himself to feel something close to hope. He was happy about it, even if part of him stayed curled tight inside, waiting for everything to fall apart again.

To help keep the house afloat, Jake started picking up freelance jobs around the neighborhood—mowing lawns, cleaning garages, painting fences. Anything that would bring in a little cash, because with his father unable to work, someone had to step up. Jake never complained. He just kept moving. Kept working. Kept surviving. It was exhausting. But it felt good, too—doing something, anything, to keep the world from slipping away again.

Still, the fear never left.

Especially after he heard the news about Mr. Kim, one of the neighbors two blocks over. Dead. Stabbed eighteen times. Jake heard the whispers at the grocery store. He saw the police tape stretched around Mr. Kim’s small house. That gnawing, cold anxiety returned like a sickness in his stomach. It wasn’t random. He knew it wasn’t. Chucky was out there. Somewhere close. Watching. Waiting.

Jake told himself he needed to find where Chucky was hiding. Needed to stop him before someone else ended up in a body bag.

That’s what he was thinking about that morning as he raked up the last of Mrs. Harold’s leaves, sweat soaking through the collar of his cheap T-shirt, dirt smudging his jeans. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, already late for school, when something caught his eye across the street.

A flash of familiar plastic.
A flash of blue overalls and red hair.

Jake’s heart stopped cold.

There, standing in front of one of the houses, was Lexy Cross and her little sister, Caroline. And cradled in Caroline’s arms—hugged tight against her chest—was a Good Guy doll.

Jake dropped the rake without thinking. His boots slammed against the sidewalk as he ran across the street, panic gripping his lungs. “Lexy!” he shouted, voice cracking.

Lexy turned at the sound of his voice, sneering when she saw him sprinting toward her. She looked him up and down with disgust, her perfectly manicured fingers tapping against her hip. "Ugh. Did your dad get too poor to buy you real clothes now?" she said, voice dripping venom. "Oh, wait, that's right—he’s sick in bed! Guess dirtbag runs in the family!" She laughed, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder like she just told the best joke in the world.

Jake glared at her, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. He wanted to snap back. Wanted to tear her down word by word. But he didn’t. He didn’t have time for her cruelty. He shook his head sharply, forcing himself to focus. His eyes locked on the doll in Caroline’s arms—the familiar blue overalls, the striped shirt, the stupid too-wide smile stitched onto its face.

Chucky.
Or maybe... another Chucky.

Jake pointed straight at the doll, his voice firm. "If you’re done insulting me," he said through gritted teeth, "I need to take my doll back."

Lexy blinked, then rolled her eyes like he was the dumbest person on earth. "Your doll?" she scoffed. "Seriously, Jake? Finders keepers. Besides, it’s not even yours—Caroline found it at the school yard last week." Caroline hugged the doll tighter, her small hands gripping it protectively.

Jake’s gut twisted. His mind raced. If Chucky was already that close to Caroline… if he was already inside the school…

This wasn’t just about him anymore.

________________________________________

Jake didn’t think. He just ran. His feet pounded against the sidewalk, arms pumping, backpack bouncing painfully against his shoulders as he sprinted through the streets. He needed Charles. He needed help. Now. Every nerve in his body screamed that something bad was coming, and he couldn’t do this alone.

He threw the boutique door open so hard the bell above it let out a terrified jingle. Inside, Miss Flora, sitting calmly with a cup of tea near the counter, yelped in surprise. Her cup slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor in a spray of glass and dark tea. “Ahh, young boy!” she cried, clutching her chest. “Please do not play with the door! It's expensive!” She shook her head in frustration and muttered to herself as she disappeared into the back room, presumably to grab a broom and a mop.

Jake winced, guilt flashing across his face. “S-sorry, Miss Flora!” he called after her, but she was already gone. He didn’t have time to dwell on it. He rushed through the boutique, weaving between racks of fabric and half-dressed mannequins, searching frantically for any sign of Charles. The warm, familiar smell of fabric softener and lavender filled the air, but something about the place felt emptier. Like it was missing something vital.

“Miss!” Jake shouted toward the back. “Can I ask where Charles is?!”

Miss Flora’s voice floated back lazily, like she didn’t realize the weight of what she was saying. “Oh? Charles? He finished his internship already. He’s gone back to Washington yesterday. Needed to check on his university scores or something.”

Jake froze. His heart dropped to his stomach. “W-What?!” he stammered.

Gone? He left? Without saying goodbye?

This was bad. This was really bad. Jake squeezed his hands into fists, feeling the panic rise back up his throat like bile. Chucky was on the move, and now the only person who actually understood the situation had just disappeared overnight.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself not to freak out. Not here. Not yet.

“Oh!” Miss Flora’s voice called again, a little more chipper. “He actually left a message for you, young man!”

Jake stumbled back toward the counter as she shuffled forward, holding out an envelope with his name scribbled messily on the front. He grabbed it with both hands, muttering a quick “Thank you!” before bolting out the boutique door without another word, the bell jingling wildly behind him.

Outside, he tore the envelope open with shaking fingers and pulled out the letter.

To Jake Wheeler.
If you’re opening this, I am officially dead. Inside. Jk lol.

Jake blinked, stunned for a second. He frowned, rereading it, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “How… Gen Z he is...” he muttered under his breath.

He kept reading, heart still pounding.

Well, I actually needed to go back to university after finishing my internship. Gotta review my score. Wish me luck.
Anyway, if you’re reading this, you’re probably panicking about Chucky doing something, right?
Don’t worry. Just hold on for... a week or so. I promise I'll come back as fast as I can.
If you need anything, just call me.

(Charles’s phone number was scribbled underneath, followed by a little hand-drawn smiley face.)

Jake exhaled shakily. Relief and disappointment tangled together in his chest. Charles wasn’t abandoning him forever. He would come back. He said he would. Jake pressed the letter against his chest for a moment, eyes fluttering shut. Then he shoved it into his pocket and pulled out his phone, already typing Charles’s number in—because if things kept getting worse, he wasn’t waiting a week to call for help.

Not with Chucky somewhere out there.

Not with innocent people already dying.

________________________________________

Chucky—or rather, Charles—leaned back comfortably in the driver’s seat of his 2014 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray Convertible, sunglasses perched low on his nose, the wind tugging at the edges of his jacket as he sped down the open highway. The hum of the engine was smooth, powerful, filling the silence between bursts of conversation. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Aaron was practically vibrating with anxiety, clutching his backpack like it might fly out of the car at any second.

“I swear to God, Charles,” Aaron whined, voice pitched higher with every word, “the minute you and Maya left for your internships, everything went to hell! Mr. Harold told me I have to work at a fast food joint for a week! And not even flipping burgers! I have to do the accounting!” Aaron's face scrunched up miserably, like the very idea was physically painful. “I’m not ready for this, man! I’m not ready!”
Charles glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, expression hidden behind his shades, and let out a low scoff. “Grow a pair, Aaron. It’s just a week,” he said dryly, flicking the blinker as he pulled onto the highway ramp.

Aaron threw his hands up in the air dramatically, nearly knocking his water bottle onto the floor. “A week in hell!” he cried. “Do you know how many receipts I’m gonna have to organize? Have you ever seen fast food accounting?! It’s like... math exploded!”

Charles shook his head, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The kid was hopeless. “How do you plan on getting a real job if you freak out over this?” he asked, voice calm and almost amused. “What, you think companies are just gonna pay you to sit around and cry into a calculator?”

Aaron slumped in his seat, pouting at the dashboard like a kicked puppy. “Maybe…” he mumbled. Then his face lit up like he had a brilliant idea. “Oh! I could work for you! Be your personal accountant when you’re rich and famous! I’ll manage your money, help you through your messy divorce, set up your secret retirement in the Bahamas—"

Charles cut him off immediately without even looking. “No.”

Aaron deflated like a balloon, dramatically sighing into the wind. Charles shook his head again, shifting gears as the road opened up ahead of them. The Corvette roared in approval.

It wasn’t a bad feeling, honestly—this small slice of normal life. Joking about stupid things, speeding toward Marymount University, a future still technically open in front of him. For a moment, Charles allowed himself to relax, to pretend he wasn’t half a cursed soul stitched together by regret and old sins. For a moment, he was just a guy on a road trip, laughing at his idiot roommate.

And he planned to hold onto that feeling for as long as he could.

Because deep down, he knew the peace wasn’t going to last forever.

Chapter Text

Devon sat hunched over his desk, eyes glued to his laptop screen, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his glasses. He was deep into his latest research—exactly where he loved to be. Mysteries had always fascinated him, especially the dark ones. Hauntings. Unsolved murders. Vanishing people and strange coincidences. There was something about digging into the truth, sifting through the layers of lies and fear, that made him feel alive.

And now, he had a new case for his podcast. A big one.

Today, he decided, he was going to crack into the mysterious death of Charles Lee Ray, the infamous serial killer from Chicago whose crimes had haunted headlines decades ago. What caught Devon’s attention wasn’t just the blood and horror—it was the strange pattern that kept surfacing. A boy named Andrew Barclay. A man whose name appeared over and over again, lurking quietly behind every suspicious death, every destroyed Good Guy doll, every freak accident tied to Charles Lee Ray's name. Devon’s gut told him there was a story here that no one had ever told properly. A link between the killer and the survivor.

He clicked through another article, taking notes, his mind racing with ideas. Tell the story. Debunk the theories. Find new evidence. Maybe even make a theory of his own. His listeners would love this one.

“Devon! It’s time to go to school!” his mum yelled from the kitchen, snapping him out of his trance.

“Okay, Mum!” he shouted back, hurriedly saving his work. He slammed his laptop shut, grabbed his bag, and bolted for the front door, his mind still racing with the possibilities of what he might uncover.

If only he knew… the story he was chasing was still very much alive.

________________________________________

Jake sat near the back of the classroom, barely hearing the droning voice of the teacher as he stared out the window. His eyes scanned the school grounds, searching every shadow, every cluster of students, every passing blur of color for a flash of bright red hair. He couldn’t help it. That’s what Charles warned him about—that Chucky held grudges when things didn’t go according to plan. Jake believed him. He believed every word. It was just a matter of time before that grudge came knocking.

Jake sighed and forced himself to look back at the whiteboard, where the teacher was explaining something about historical events he wasn’t even close to following. His mind kept wandering.

He remembered when he had called Charles just a few nights ago, his hands shaking slightly as he dialed the number on the letter. Charles had picked up almost immediately, sounding more cheerful than Jake expected. He talked about how he got high grades for his internship review, how he didn’t even need a perfect score on his finals anymore to graduate. The pride in his voice was unmistakable. Listening to him, Jake struggled to connect that calm, laughing voice with the stories he knew—the stories of a sadistic, merciless killer that once wore a Good Guy smile like a mask.

He really is changing, Jake thought. He’s not the same anymore.

When the bell rang, Jake packed his things slowly, still half lost in thought. He made his way to his locker, spinning the dial out of habit. Around him, the halls buzzed with excitement. Lexy Cross was standing on top of a bench, practically shouting over the noise. She was announcing that she was hosting a secret rave party at her house, flashing her phone screen around to show off fancy animated invitations. Of course, Jake knew without even thinking—he wasn’t getting one. Lexy hated him. Always had. Maybe because he was different. Maybe because he didn’t hide who he was. Maybe because he didn’t have money dripping from his pockets like she did.

Jake shoved his books into his bag, ready to leave, when he noticed something strange. Lexy was walking toward him. Not just passing by—walking right to him. She stopped just a few feet in front of his locker, arms crossed, her face pale under her usual smirk. Her voice dropped lower so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Can I... talk to you after school?” she asked.

Jake blinked, confused. He looked over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t talking to someone else. “Me?” he asked, pointing to himself, voice flat with disbelief.

Lexy sighed, clearly frustrated, but nodded. “Yeah. Meet me out back. After school. Please.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.

Jake stood there, frozen. She sounded scared. Her eyes—the way they darted around, the way her voice trembled slightly—this wasn’t just Lexy being dramatic. This was different.

Did something happen? Jake wondered. His stomach twisted with dread.

Did Chucky already make his move?

________________________________________

Charles leaned against the doorframe of his dorm room, lazily tossing his car keys in one hand while watching Aaron run around like a headless chicken. Papers flew everywhere, his backpack was half-zipped, and he was muttering to himself about taxes and spreadsheets like he was about to be sent to war. Charles shook his head slowly, amused but not surprised.
“Need me to drive you to your new job?” Charles offered casually, jingling the keys for emphasis. His tone was so relaxed it almost sounded mocking.

“NO!” Aaron shouted, nearly tripping over his own feet as he flailed dramatically. “I want you and Maya to help me escape before it’s too late! I'm not built for this, man!” he cried out, practically dropping to his knees like a man about to be executed.

Maya walked into the room right then, catching the tail end of Aaron’s pathetic performance. She looked down at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. With a long, suffering sigh, she grabbed him by the hoodie and hauled him upright with one hand. “At least pretend to have dignity before you start working minimum wage,” she said, shoving him toward the small bathroom across the hall. “Go wash your face. You look like you're about to cry blood.”

Charles leaned his head around the corner, watching Aaron disappear, then smirked to himself. “This is hilarious,” he said out loud, shaking his head. “You haven’t even clocked in yet and you’re already falling apart.”

From the bathroom came Aaron’s muffled, miserable voice. “You don’t get it, Charles! You’ve already lived like three lifetimes! You’ve survived... all kinds of shit! You’re used to hard times!”

Charles laughed under his breath, dropping into the desk chair and spinning it slowly. “Yeah, sure,” he said dryly. “Surviving police chases, voodoo curses, and multiple attempted murders really prepares a guy for retail.”

Maya leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking slightly. “Honestly, Aaron, you're the only person I know who could freak out more about burgers than about living with a literal serial killer.”

Aaron stuck his head out from the bathroom, toothbrush still hanging from his mouth. “Hey, hey—Charles is reformed now! Like, mostly! Ninety percent!”

Charles snorted. “Seventy-five at best,” he corrected without missing a beat.

Maya chuckled and shrugged. “Either way, you’re more likely to get killed by bad paychecks and angry customers than Charles.”

Aaron groaned and ducked back into the bathroom.

Charles just spun lazily in his chair, staring up at the ceiling fan with a lazy, almost amused expression. Living a normal life, dealing with normal problems... it was still funny to him, deep down. After everything he'd done. After everything he'd been.

It almost felt like a joke he wasn’t sure he deserved to laugh at.

________________________________________

Charles slipped his keys into his pocket as he stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the sun just starting to climb above the rooftops of the campus. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few scattered cars. He had just reached his sleek black Corvette when his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, vibrating insistently.

He pulled it out, frowning slightly when he saw Jake’s name flashing on the screen. Without hesitating, he answered. “Hello, Jake? Did something happen?” he asked, unlocking the car with a soft beep.

On the other end, Jake’s voice came through, tense and worried. “Charles... can you come to Hackensack today? I think Chucky is planning something.”

Charles paused, slipping into the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel loosely with one hand. “And what exactly is it this time?” he asked, already feeling the old instincts kicking in—the ones that told him when real danger was brewing.

There was some muffled shuffling on the other end of the line, like Jake was handing the phone to someone else. A second later, a new voice spoke, a girl’s voice—nervous but determined. “Hello? This is Lexy... Jake said you might know about this... Chucky?”

Charles tilted his head, surprised but curious. “Yes, you can call me Charles. What seems to be the problem?”

Lexy took a shaky breath, and then the words tumbled out quickly, like she was afraid if she stopped, she wouldn’t be able to keep talking. She explained how her little sister, Caroline, had picked up a Good Guy doll recently—one they found abandoned at school. At first, it seemed harmless. Just a creepy coincidence. But soon after, strange things started happening at her house. Maids, workers—people hired to take care of the estate—began dying under bizarre and brutal circumstances.

One night, Lexy confessed, she had woken up to see the doll standing in her hallway, a kitchen knife clutched tightly in its tiny hands, just outside her bedroom door. She had barely dared to breathe, forcing herself to fake sleep as fear coiled tight in her chest. She didn’t know how long she lay there, heart pounding in her ears, but eventually the doll wandered away—not to spare her, but to burn her nanny alive downstairs instead.

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the old cold rage settle into his bones. Of course Chucky would escalate. He wasn’t just playing games anymore. He was sending a message.

“Stay calm,” Charles said into the phone, his voice low and steady. “Listen to me carefully. Make sure your sister doesn’t sleep alone. And do not, under any circumstances, try to confront him yourselves.”

Lexy’s voice shook slightly as she answered, “What are you going to do?”

Charles looked out across the parking lot, past the edge of the sleepy campus, toward the far-off highway that would lead him back to Hackensack. He drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel, then started the engine with a low, hungry growl.

“After I send someone, I will go straight back. Be safe, Jake, Lexy.”

________________________________________

Night had fallen, but the light from the flames raging inside Lexy's mansion lit up the dark sky like a second sun. Smoke curled out of the shattered windows, glowing orange and black. Screams tore through the night as party guests scrambled over each other to get out, pushing, shoving, anything to escape. The heavy, acrid smell of burning wood and melted plastic filled the air, making it almost impossible to breathe.

In the chaos, Oliver's body lay crumpled on the marble floor near the staircase, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath him from the brutal stab wounds in his chest. His eyes were glassy, staring at nothing. Lexy stumbled back, covering her mouth, feeling bile rise in her throat. Tears blurred her vision but when she blinked them away, her worst nightmare was still standing there.

Chucky.

The doll grinned at her, his stitched mouth twisted wide in sadistic glee. His plastic body was scorched from the flames, blackened patches melting into his overalls, but he clutched a gleaming knife tight in one small hand. Behind him, the fire roared higher, painting his burned face even more monstrous.

“Where do you think you’re going, Lexy?” Chucky cackled, stepping forward slowly, savoring the terror etched across her face.

Lexy turned and hurled herself at the massive double doors, yanking the handles, but they didn’t budge. They were jammed, swollen shut from the heat. She slammed her fists against the wood, her screams ripping out of her throat raw. "Help! Someone help me!!" she cried, pounding with everything she had. The door didn’t move.

Behind her, Chucky’s heavy boots thudded against the scorched floor, closing the distance. He laughed again, high and gleeful. "Don’t worry, Lexy," he said in a sing-song voice. "You’ll get to see Oliver again real soon!"

He leapt at her, knife raised—
—and the door suddenly exploded inward with a deafening crash, slamming into Chucky mid-air and knocking him violently to the ground.

Lexy stumbled backward, stunned, as a figure stepped through the smoke and fire.
A man.

Tall, red-haired, with sharp blue eyes that glinted like a blade under the firelight. His features were eerily familiar—the same as the doll, but human. The same face, but real. Charles.

He looked down at the doll, now scrambling to get up, and let out a tired sigh. "Sorry I’m late," Charles said casually, cracking his knuckles. "There were a bunch of fucking accidents on the highway. Slowed me down."

Lexy stared at him, too stunned to speak. He looked like something out of a fever dream—a human version of Chucky, stepping right out of her worst fears and somehow standing between her and death.

Chucky glared up at him from the ground, his singed face twisted in rage. "What the hell are you?!" the doll screamed, scrambling backward.

Without waiting, Charles lunged forward, grabbing Chucky by the neck with one hand. He lifted the doll effortlessly and slammed him down hard onto the burning floor, pinning him with brutal force.

Charles’s voice rose over the roar of the fire, chanting words that made Lexy's skin crawl:
"Nan non Dambala, ban mwen pouvwa nanm! Mwen sipliye ou! Make my souls comeback to me!"

Chucky shrieked, the sound so high-pitched it cut through the air like a knife. His tiny body writhed, spasming against the floor as if something invisible was being ripped out of him. Lexy watched in horror as Chucky thrashed, screaming at Charles, "WHO ARE YOU!? WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME!?"

Charles didn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked, cold and determined.

The doll jerked violently once, twice, and then—

Silence.

The knife clattered to the floor. The doll’s limbs went slack. Its painted eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

Chucky—whatever was inside him—was gone.

Now, he was just a lifeless, empty Good Guy doll lying in a burning room.

Charles stood slowly, brushing ash off his jacket, his face unreadable. Around them, the flames continued to consume the mansion, but for Lexy, the world had already gone eerily still.

The nightmare had ended.

For now.

________________________________________

Outside the burning mansion, the night air was thick with smoke and the flashing red and blue lights of arriving fire trucks. The screams had died down into low sobs and frantic whispers as the surviving party guests huddled together across the lawn, their faces illuminated by the flickering fire behind them.

Charles stepped out onto the grass, glancing back once at the raging inferno he had just pulled them from. He spotted Lexy nearby, crouched down with her arms wrapped protectively around Caroline. The little girl clung to her sister, sobbing into her shoulder, but she was alive. Lexy looked up at Charles, her face streaked with soot and tears, and gave him a tiny nod of gratitude.

“Is everyone safe?” Charles asked, his voice low but firm, scanning the chaos around them.
Lexy hugged Caroline tighter, nodding quickly, too overwhelmed to speak.

Before Charles could say anything else, Jake rushed toward him and threw his arms around him in a sudden, desperate hug. It caught Charles off guard for a second—he wasn’t used to people clinging to him like he was some kind of hero—but he didn’t pull away. Jake’s whole body shook against him, either from the cold or from sheer exhaustion and terror.

"Thank you," Jake whispered hoarsely, voice cracking, "thank you for saving us."

Charles hesitated only a moment, then chuckled softly under his breath, ruffling Jake’s hair like an older brother would. “Not too shabby, kid,” he said, his voice a little rougher, a little warmer. “Sorry I had to leave you back then. Things… got complicated.”

Jake just squeezed tighter for a second before pulling away, wiping at his eyes quickly like he didn’t want Charles to see.

Charles rested a hand briefly on Jake’s shoulder, steadying him. His blue eyes, so often cold, were soft for once, filled with something that almost looked like pride—or maybe regret. Maybe both.

The night wasn’t over yet. There would be questions. There would be investigations.

But for now, for this moment, they were safe.

And Charles had kept a promise to himself.

Chapter Text

The sterile white lights of the hospital felt too bright after the fire. Everything was too clean, too quiet. The distant hum of machines, the soft patter of footsteps, and the occasional muffled voices created a strange calm—one that didn’t match the chaos they had barely escaped the night before. Lexy sat in a stiff plastic chair near the pediatric ward, holding Caroline close as a nurse gently examined the girl. Caroline was quiet, her eyes wide and distant. Every once in a while, she flinched when someone walked too fast or the intercom buzzed too loudly. Lexy didn’t say much. She just kept one arm wrapped around her little sister and brushed soot and ash from her hair, her own hands still trembling despite her best efforts to hide it.

Not far away, Charles sat inside an examination room, his burned hand being treated by a nurse. His eyes were tired, his shirt singed, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to his clothes. His fingers twitched occasionally as the nurse gently cleaned the skin. “Your hand’s not too badly burned,” she said, her voice soft and clinical. “You’re lucky. Won’t leave a scar.” Charles let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Would’ve been nice,” he murmured, a hint of dark humor in his voice. “I already got a reputation to live up to.” The nurse gave him a puzzled look, but he didn’t explain.

Once the bandage was wrapped around his wrist, Charles stepped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes. Just as he opened them again, he saw Jake down the corridor, standing with his father, Lucas. For a moment, Charles just watched—the way Jake stood awkwardly, his shoulders tense, his eyes flicking everywhere like he couldn’t relax even in a hospital. When their eyes met, Jake gave a small wave. Charles returned it with a nod. Lucas walked up first, his expression reserved but sincere. “Thank you,” he said quietly, pausing in front of Charles. “For saving my son. I… I know we’ve never met before, but I heard what happened. You pulled him out of that fire.” Charles offered a modest chuckle, brushing his bandaged hand through his hair. “I just happened to be nearby and saw the smoke. Acted on instinct.” Lucas hesitated, then extended his hand. “Still. Thank you.” Charles shook it, briefly and gently.

Then—click, click, click. The sharp sound of hard heels echoed down the corridor, cutting through the moment like a knife. Charles turned his head and immediately recognized the rhythm of official business. His gaze narrowed slightly. A tall woman approached, dressed sharply in a dark blazer and slacks. Her badge flashed briefly under the fluorescent light as she stopped in front of them. “Charles, right?” she asked, flipping open a small notebook. “And Jake Wheeler?” Jake straightened at the sound of his name. His body tensed, and he looked at Charles, confusion and worry creeping into his face. “My name is Detective Kim Evans. I need to ask you both some questions about what happened last night at the Cross residence.” Jake’s throat went dry. He looked to Charles for direction, the question in his eyes clear—What do I say? What if I say too much? Will they believe me if I tell the truth?

Charles exhaled slowly, then patted Jake’s shoulder lightly. His voice was low, steady, like an anchor. “It’s alright, kid. Just follow my lead.” He looked back at the detective and gave her a faint, crooked smile, something between amusement and fatigue. “Well, Detective... lead the way.” And with that, he turned and began walking, his coat swaying slightly behind him, Jake hesitantly following at his side—unsure of what was coming, but trusting that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t facing it alone.

________________________________________

After a long night filled with questions, flashing lights, and endless waiting at the hospital, Charles finally found himself standing in the hallway of a modest hotel. It wasn’t fancy—cheap wallpaper, dim lights, and the distant hum of an old vending machine—but it was safe, and right now, that was enough. Lexy stood in the doorway of her hotel room, her little sister Caroline already curled up on the bed inside, finally asleep. Lexy looked tired, her shoulders slumped, her usual sharpness dulled by fear and exhaustion. She hugged her arms around herself like she was trying to hold all her pieces together. “Don’t worry, Lexy,” Charles said softly, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

“You and your sister can get some sleep now. I’ll stay just outside your door, in the room next to yours. If anything—anything—happens, just scream. I’ll be right here.” Lexy hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. Her voice was quieter than usual when she whispered, “Thank you, Charles.” Charles gave her a small smile, not his usual smirk but something gentler, then watched as she quietly closed the door. He stood there for a second longer, listening until the lock clicked into place. Only then did he let out a long, heavy sigh, running a hand down his face. What a day…

He walked back to his own room, let the door fall shut behind him, and slumped into the stiff hotel chair by the window. His whole body ached, but his mind wouldn’t slow down. “Not the hardest day I’ve had…” he muttered to himself. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling as an old memory flickered in the back of his mind—those first days when he’d gotten this body. He remembered panicking over his fashion school entrance exam. Ten days—that’s all he had. Ten days to prove he belonged. He’d barely figured out how to live in a human body again, and already the pressure to succeed was choking him. There had been nights back then where he wondered if it would’ve been better to just… stop. Let go. End it all before it got too complicated. Charles chuckled softly at the memory now, shaking his head. “God, I really wanted to die over a sewing machine,” he muttered. The laugh was bitter but real. The sudden buzz of his phone vibrating on the table snapped him out of it. He glanced at the screen.

Tiffany.

Charles rubbed at his eyes and picked up. “Hello?” Her voice came through sharp and knowing. “Hey, I just saw the news,” Tiffany said. “Big mansion fire, deaths, doll-sized chaos. I don’t even have to guess—it’s you, right?” Charles exhaled through his nose, letting his head fall back against the chair. “Yeah… it’s me.” “Where are you now?” she asked, her tone softer but still edged with that familiar sass. “At a hotel in Hackensack,” Charles replied, glancing around at the faded wallpaper. “Nothing fancy, so I can actually afford it.” His lips quirked up in a tired joke. Tiffany snorted. “You, staying cheap? You, the guy who begged me for months to buy his dream car?” Charles couldn’t help but smile for real this time. “Sigh… yeah, that guy.” For a moment, there was a silence between them. Not cold, but heavy. The kind that only came from years of shared mistakes and memories.

________________________________________

Charles opened his eyes—and the world was wrong again. He didn’t have to look at his hands. He could feel it. The smallness. The weakness. The familiar sinking weight that wrapped around his chest like chains. He was back in that too-small body, trapped in the skin of the terrified boy he used to be. The room around him was dim, the wallpaper peeling, the single lightbulb overhead flickering weakly. The air was cold, stale. Everything smelled like old cigarettes and something sour, something rotten. In front of him, lying on the cracked floorboards, was an apple. Bright and shiny, the kind of red that looked too perfect to be real. His apple. A reward from trick-or-treating, one of the only sweet things in his miserable little world. His small fingers, shaking slightly, reached for it. His heart fluttered in his chest, a tiny flicker of excitement. Maybe this time, things would be okay. Maybe this time, he could have something normal. Something good.

He bit into it quickly. And the pain came instantly, like a bolt of white-hot fire ripping through his mouth. His whole body seized. His tiny hands flew to his lips, already wet and sticky with blood. His breathing turned shallow, panicked gasps as he looked at the apple—his eyes wide and wild—only to see the jagged gleam of metal hidden inside the fruit. A razor blade. Shoved deep where no one could see until it was too late. The apple tumbled from his trembling hands and hit the floor, rolling away with a mocking little thud. Blood dripped from his mouth, thick and bitter, and the room seemed to spin around him. He tried to scream. He tried to call out for help. For his mother. For anyone. But no sound came out. His throat locked up, his lungs squeezing tight with fear. Every breath tasted like metal. His body trembled so hard he thought he might fall apart. The pain in his mouth was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the terror building in his chest.

Then—he heard it. Footsteps. Heavy. Getting closer. Each one making the floor creak under the weight. At first, a flash of hope sparked inside him. Someone’s coming. Someone will help me. But then his heart dropped. His body went cold. And deep inside, some instinct—something primal—screamed at him: Run. Hide. Get away now. His eyes snapped toward the hallway just as the figure appeared.

The man.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.

His face twisted in a scowl that promised nothing but pain. His father. Charles’s entire body locked up. His tiny chest heaved, his pulse pounding so loud it drowned out every other sound. His legs refused to move. Then the hand came—fast, hard, cruel—and cracked across his face so violently that he saw stars. Pain exploded through his cheek, and he hit the floor with a helpless whimper, blood spilling from his mouth as he coughed and gasped.

“YOU THINK MONEY GROWS ON TREES?!” his father roared, voice shaking the walls. Charles flinched so hard his body curled in on itself. “I SPENT GOOD MONEY ON THAT DAMN APPLE, AND YOU’RE GONNA EAT IT! EVERY LAST BITE!” His father’s hand closed around his collar, yanking him back up like he weighed nothing. Charles tried to fight, his small hands pushing weakly against the grip, but it was useless. His vision blurred with tears and pain. “You ungrateful little piece of garbage!” the man bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth as he shoved the apple—the bloody, metal-stuffed apple—back toward Charles’s face. Charles whimpered, shaking his head, trying to turn away, but the hand was too strong. And then the apple was forced between his lips, the blades biting deeper into raw, torn flesh.

White-hot pain exploded in his mouth again. His body jerked, his hands flailing weakly. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t even breathe. His world shrank down to the unbearable agony and the iron taste flooding his throat. His father’s voice was still shouting, still calling him worthless, still cursing him—but it all blurred together with the pounding in his skull. His heart felt like it was going to burst. His lungs burned for air. His head spun. His vision darkened at the edges, like the whole world was closing in. And still—no one came to help. No one ever did.

________________________________________

Andy sat slumped on the old sofa, staring blankly at the wall even though the TV was right in front of him. The cushions sagged under his weight, like even the furniture was tired of his endless waiting. His fingers dug into the armrest, knuckles white, as if he could squeeze the gnawing feeling out of his chest if he just held tight enough. Kyle had told him a hundred times—Chucky doesn’t change. He’s full of surprises, but kindness isn’t one of them. Don’t let your guard down. Don’t let old feelings trick you.

But the memory kept playing on a loop in Andy’s head, no matter how hard he tried to shove it away. That look in Chucky’s eyes—no, in his eyes—that moment when the doll had hesitated, when he had saved him instead of killing him. That flicker of something almost human. Almost guilty. Maybe I imagined it, Andy thought bitterly. Maybe my brain’s so broken I wanted to believe it.
Because why would Chucky protect someone? Especially him? The person he had spent a lifetime trying to destroy?

Kyle wasn’t home right now. She was at work, doing what normal people did. Meanwhile, Andy was still here—sitting in the same spot, stewing in the same obsession, unable to move on, unable to let go. The silence of the house felt suffocating, pressing in around him until he couldn’t stand it anymore. With a heavy sigh, Andy grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV. His thumb clicked through channel after channel, not really seeing any of it. Game shows, cooking programs, old reruns—all a blur. Nothing that mattered.

And then he stopped.
The news anchor’s serious voice cut through the static in his brain.

“Breaking news from Hackensack—fire erupted last night at the Cross family estate during what was reportedly a private gathering of local teens…” Andy’s eyes snapped to the screen, his heartbeat spiking. Photos flashed by. The Cross family name. The charred remains of the mansion. Injured teens being loaded into ambulances.

And then—there it was.
A photo of the little girl. Caroline Cross. Smiling sweetly for the camera, clutching something in her small hands. Andy’s stomach twisted into a hard knot as the image burned into his mind.

It was a Good Guy doll.
Bright overalls. Red hair. That same familiar, plastic grin.

Andy’s breath caught in his throat. The room seemed to tilt sideways. His hand clenched around the remote so hard it cracked. No. His brain screamed at him—No, no, no, not again. But the image stayed frozen in his mind, taunting him. It was happening again. And all that waiting, all that doubting, all that desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could stop living like this— It shattered in an instant.
Andy leaned forward, his whole body trembling, his pulse thudding in his ears like a war drum.

Chucky was back.
And Andy knew…
He wasn’t done yet.

________________________________________

Lexy and Jake walked side by side, their steps slow and heavy as they approached the blackened remains of the Cross mansion. The place that once stood tall and proud now loomed like a skeleton, its walls charred, windows shattered, and the air still thick with the faint, bitter smell of smoke. They didn’t say much at first. The silence between them felt almost heavier than the rubble they were stepping over. Jake glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then spoke softly. “How’s your sister?”

Lexy didn’t look at him. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to hold in everything she was feeling. Her voice was low, almost hollow. “She’s fine... physically. She’s just sad that her favorite doll, Chucky, is gone. She keeps asking for him. Keeps crying at night.” Lexy’s lips trembled, but she forced the words out. “She doesn’t know… doesn’t understand what he really was.”

She swallowed hard, then shook her head and let out a bitter laugh that cracked halfway through. “But you… you should worry about yourself, Jake. Not me.” Her arms hugged tighter. “Nothing good can come from being around me. Not after this. You—” Her voice broke, and she blinked rapidly, trying to push the tears back. “You should’ve never come when I asked you after school. If you hadn’t… this fire, all of this… maybe it would’ve just taken me. Maybe it would’ve been better if I died in that fire. An accident. Quick and simple.”

Jake stopped walking and turned to face her fully, his face calm but firm. He didn’t flinch at her words. “I used to think like that too,” he said quietly. His lips twitched in a small, almost tired smile. “At first, I wanted to ignore you that day. After everything… after you mocked me for being poor, after you laughed at how my dad was stuck in bed, sick…” He chuckled under his breath, but there was no humor in it. Just a rawness that Lexy could feel like a sting. “But then,” Jake continued, his eyes softening as they met hers, “I remembered what Charles told me.” He took a deep breath, hearing those words in his head again, steady and grounding. “‘Don’t live with regrets, kid. Not ones like this.’”

His voice grew stronger, more certain. “So no, Lexy. I’m glad I came. Because if I hadn’t… we both know it wouldn’t have just been you. It would’ve been your sister too. And maybe even more people." Lexy’s throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away from him. The guilt, the shame, the fear—it all swirled inside her. But hearing Jake say it like that… it cracked something inside her chest.
The burned remains of her house stood around them, silent witnesses to their pain.

But for the first time, Lexy let out a shaky breath and nodded.

And for the first time, Jake didn’t feel like he was the scared kid anymore.

________________________________________

They stepped carefully through the blackened skeleton of what was once Lexy’s home. The walls were scorched, beams collapsed, and every step crunched under the weight of ash and broken glass. Jake and Lexy had come here for answers, hoping maybe there’d be some clue they could bring back to Charles.

But then Jake’s heart stopped.

Because standing near the wreckage, taking pictures with his phone, was Devon Evans. Jake’s stomach flipped. His palms went instantly clammy. All at once, every ounce of calm he'd built with Lexy just evaporated. Oh no. No, no, no. Why is he here? Jake thought, panic crawling up his spine. Why now? He instantly slowed his steps until he was half-hiding behind Lexy, trying to make himself invisible. His heart pounded so loud he was sure Lexy could hear it. He ducked his head, face burning so hot it felt like his skin might catch fire.

Lexy noticed immediately. She glanced at him over her shoulder, frowning. “Who’s that?” she asked, nodding toward the boy near the ruins. “Do you know him, Jake?” But when she turned fully, she realized Jake wasn’t even at her side anymore. She blinked and looked back—and there he was, hovering awkwardly behind her like he was using her as a human shield. His face was bright red. Lexy blinked once. Then twice. And then it clicked. Her eyes widened. “Wait—is that your crush, Jake?” she hissed, her voice rising way too loud.

Jake's eyes went wide in sheer horror. “N-No, he’s not! I mean—Even if he was, can you not scream it like that?!” He slapped his hand over her mouth, panicking so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Please! Please don’t!”

Lexy muffled something under his palm, eyes sparkling with wicked glee now that she knew the truth. She grinned behind his hand like a shark smelling blood.

Meanwhile, Devon, hearing the commotion behind him, turned around. His sharp eyes caught sight of them instantly—Lexy Cross and Jake Wheeler, standing awkwardly in the wreckage like they didn’t belong there. Devon squinted. He recognized them from school. And from the fire news coverage. Victims. His mind, already deep in investigative mode, shifted gears. Maybe they can add something to my report. Maybe they saw something I missed. He nodded to himself and started walking toward them, steps calm and measured, but his eyes focused like a detective closing in on suspects.

Jake’s brain short-circuited as Devon got closer. His heart felt like it was going to explode out of his chest.
Oh god. He’s walking over. Oh god, oh god, oh god—

________________________________________

Charles stood at the center of Miss Flora's boutique, the soft golden afternoon light filtering in through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the polished wooden floors and rows of fabric rolls. He worked in calm concentration, the gentle hum of the sewing machine the only sound in the room.

His appearance was striking—effortlessly handsome in a way that turned heads without trying. His red-rimmed glasses sat lightly on the bridge of his nose, adding a sharp, intellectual edge to his already well-defined features. His hair, a rich auburn-red that caught glimmers of copper in the light, was pulled back into a neat low tie, keeping it off his face as he worked. A few stray strands framed his strong jawline and high cheekbones, softening the intensity in his deep blue eyes. Those eyes—calm but sharp—were narrowed with focus, flickering back and forth between the dress form and the delicate stitches beneath his hands.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing lean but toned forearms, lightly dusted with freckles. He wore a simple black button-up, fitted just right, and dark slacks, giving him the polished but practical air of a craftsman deeply in his element.

“Nearly there,” Charles murmured to himself, voice low and smooth, as he guided the shimmering fabric carefully through the machine.

The dress he was creating was nothing short of art. It stood tall on the mannequin in front of him, a wedding dress that blended classic elegance with a modern, almost ethereal touch. The bodice was intricately hand-sewn with tiny pearl beads and soft lace appliqué, forming delicate floral patterns that seemed to bloom right from the fabric. The neckline dipped just enough to feel graceful but modest, while sheer sleeves dusted with faint glitter trailed down like wisps of morning fog.

The skirt flowed out in layers of soft organza and silk chiffon, cascading like water, catching the light with every tiny movement. At the base, the hemline was embroidered with fine silver thread, subtle but luxurious, giving the entire dress an almost otherworldly shimmer. A long, soft train unfurled behind it like a gentle wave, promising drama without weight. It was a dress made for someone who wanted to feel like they were walking out of a dream and into a new life. Just as Charles leaned in closer, adjusting the fine silk along the dress form’s waist, he heard the soft clack of heels against the boutique’s polished floor.

Miss Flora appeared from the back room, a tray of tea balanced effortlessly in one hand. She paused in the doorway, watching him with a knowing smile curling at her lips. Her sharp eyes, always observant, swept over the scene—the handsome young man, glasses sliding a little down his nose, hair tied back in that effortlessly stylish way, sleeves rolled up, hands steady and sure as they danced along the fabric.

She set the tray down with a soft clink and crossed her arms, tilting her head at him. “Honestly, Charles… if you focus any harder, I’m afraid you’re going to stitch your own soul into that dress." Charles huffed a quiet laugh through his nose but didn’t look up right away. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to haunt,” he muttered, keeping his hands moving, tightening a line of stitches with sharp precision. Miss Flora raised a perfectly arched brow. “Hmph. You’re too serious for your own good, you know that? All the girls—and half the boys—who come through this shop swoon the second they see you, and here you are, glaring at silk like it just insulted your mother.”

At that, Charles finally glanced up, lips quirking into the faintest smirk. He pushed his glasses back up his nose with a single, smooth motion. “Silk did insult me once. Left a hole right before an exam submission.” Miss Flora barked a laugh, sharp and full of warmth. She walked over, reaching out to gently tug one of the loose strands of his tied-back hair. “Handsome tailor, and too humble to flirt. Honestly, you’re wasted in fashion school. You should be on magazine covers.” Charles rolled his eyes but the smirk stayed. “Pass. I prefer making things that last.”

She eyed the wedding dress again, her smile softening. “Well… this one will. It’s beautiful, Charles. Maybe your best yet.” His fingers paused for a beat against the fabric. The compliment hung in the air, heavier than it should have been. He swallowed and looked back at his work, voice a little quieter this time. “It has to be.”

Miss Flora didn’t press further. She just gave his shoulder a squeeze, firm but kind, then turned back toward the front of the shop. “Tea’s ready when you are, darling. Don’t sew yourself into oblivion.”
Charles exhaled through his nose again, the faint smirk on his lips fading into something quieter, softer, as he watched Miss Flora disappear into the front of the shop. For a long moment, he just stood there, the golden afternoon light spilling over him like warm honey. The shop was still. Peaceful. Almost sacred.

His fingers drifted back to the wedding dress, tracing the smooth curve of the bodice with slow, careful reverence. The fabric shimmered faintly in the soft light, every stitch catching the glow like it was alive, breathing with him. It was beautiful. Elegant. A promise of love and new beginnings.

And before he could stop himself, his mind… wandered.

A flicker of an image flashed across his thoughts—uninvited, intrusive, but so vivid it made his chest tighten. His own wedding. Charles felt his breath hitch in his throat as his imagination painted the scene with aching detail. He saw himself standing tall in a sharp black suit, the fabric tailored perfectly to his frame. His hair neatly slicked back, his usual sharpness softened by the rare, unguarded smile on his lips. And beside him—hand in hand—stood Andy.

Andy Barclay, wearing white. A beautiful, clean suit that shone against the light. His hair a little messy, the way Charles had always secretly liked it. And on his face? That same rare, sweet smile that Charles had only seen glimpses of in stolen memories—soft, warm, genuine. They were laughing. Happy. In love. Like they hadn’t spent years tearing each other apart. Like they hadn’t been enemies, ghosts haunting each other's past. The image squeezed at something deep in Charles’s chest. Something dangerous. Something he wasn’t supposed to feel.

His face snapped into a scowl as he violently shook his head, dragging himself back into the present like he was trying to rip the thought out of his brain. “What even is that?!” he hissed at himself, voice sharp and breathless. His hands flew up to cover his face, as if he could smother the burning heat rising in his cheeks. His heart pounded hard, too loud in his ears. “Lady Erzulie…” he muttered under his breath, invoking the name of the loa of love with a kind of desperate frustration. “Why are you giving me this? Why—him? Of all people?”

The dress stood before him, shimmering like it was mocking him. Like it knew the things his heart refused to admit. Charles let out a bitter laugh that broke halfway through. He pressed his palm against his chest, trying to steady the thudding inside. He knew.

Even if he confessed. Even if he laid every broken, ugly part of himself at Andy’s feet…
It would never be returned.
It would be a no. Of course it would be.
Because no one in their right mind would ever fall in love with the monster who ruined their life.

Chapter Text

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, tired sigh. “I was gone for three days…” he muttered, voice flat.

Aaron, sprawled face-down on the couch, let out a muffled scream into his pillow. “And it felt like a year for me!” His voice cracked with misery as he smacked the pillow again, then flopped dramatically like a dying fish. Goldy, Aaron’s loyal golden retriever, sat quietly beside Charles, tail thumping weakly against the floor, ears drooped as if he, too, shared his owner’s sorrow. Charles glanced down at the dog, his fingers scratching behind Goldy’s ear. “At least you’re not as dramatic as your owner,” he said dryly. Goldy let out a soft whine, leaning into the touch, desperate for attention.

Aaron finally rolled over, revealing his red nose and a crumpled tissue clutched in one hand. His face was a picture of pathetic misery. Charles lifted the thermometer, squinting at the numbers, then shot Aaron a look. “You’re clearly running a fever.”

“You think?!” Aaron snapped, then immediately doubled over with a violent sneeze so loud it made Goldy startle awake on his dog bed, ears perked in alarm. Aaron groaned and flopped back again, one arm thrown over his face like he was seconds from death. “The job was hell, this sickness is hell, and my professor? Also hell! Everything is hell!” he wailed, voice breaking on the last word. Charles couldn’t help the small smirk that pulled at the corner of his mouth. He crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair. “It’s our last semester, Aaron. Just hang on a little longer. You can say bye ii to that professor of yours at graduation.” His voice dipped into sarcasm as he threw up air quotes. “Maybe even flip him off while you’re up there getting your paper. Make it a moment.”

Aaron peeked at him from under his arm, eyes glassy. “Don’t tempt me. I will.” He groaned again and stuffed his face back into the pillow. Goldy crept up beside him, curling into a ball and resting his head on Aaron’s hip like a living comfort blanket.

________________________________________

Charles stood in the cramped fitting room, fingers absently smoothing out the fine silk of the wedding gown draped over the mannequin. His heart thudded harder than he wanted to admit, a dull, anxious rhythm that refused to settle. Across from him, the full-length mirror reflected not just the dress, but his own tense posture—shoulders tight, jaw clenched. This was supposed to be the final step. The runway assignment that could lock in his grade, spare him from the grueling written exams, and finally let him return to where he really wanted to be. Back home. Back to the kids. Leaving them alone this long was already gnawing at him, even if he kept telling himself they’d be fine. Lexy and her little sister had moved to that condo in the neighbouring town, safe enough for now. And Jake... well, Charles could only hope that kid kept his head down until he came back to handle whatever mess was bound to crawl out of the dark sooner or later.

He swallowed thickly, trying to shake off the spiral of thoughts. This wasn’t the time to lose focus. Not when Madam Boustier had already pinned high expectations on him. She had loved the sketch he'd submitted—praised its lines, its structure, the blend of modern cut with traditional romance. That woman could spot weakness like a hawk, and the last thing Charles needed was to give her any reason to lower that raised eyebrow of hers. One good showing, one flawless dress, and he could finish this semester without sitting through the paper exams that would keep him away longer. That was the deal. That was the goal.

“Mr. Wedo?” The voice cut through his thoughts, soft but enough to make him flinch. He blinked and turned toward the source—Layla, the model assigned to wear his creation. She stood poised, waiting near the curtain with a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “I’m ready to see what I’ll be wearing for the runway,” she said, her tone light but edged with the kind of curiosity that only added to his pressure.

Charles nodded stiffly, wiping his slightly damp palms against the sides of his pants before stepping forward. He cleared his throat, pulling the heavy curtain aside with a smooth gesture meant to hide how jittery he felt. The wedding dress stood there, waiting—layers of ivory chiffon cascading in soft waves, delicate lace crawling up the bodice like climbing vines, the faint shimmer of silver thread catching the dim light just enough to make it look alive. He gestured toward it silently, letting the dress speak for itself, though his throat felt tight.

Layla’s eyes widened slightly as she stepped closer, her fingers grazing the fine fabric. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, awe flickering through her voice.

________________________________________

At the edge of the crowded public square, Lexy stood stiffly behind her mother, flanked by her little sister Caroline, who clung to her hand with a child’s innocent trust. Cameras flashed from every angle, reporters shouting over one another, their voices merging into an ugly static. On the makeshift stage, Mayor Michelle Cross stood at the podium, her bright political smile stretched too wide, her voice amplified through the speakers as she addressed the town. "We’re pleased to announce that the Hackensack Police Department has a suspect in custody," she declared, her voice strong and confident like she was delivering good news instead of covering a nightmare. "We believe this individual is responsible for the recent murders and the… strange events that have plagued our town."

Lexy’s stomach twisted painfully. Her nails dug into the soft fabric of her sleeve as she fought the urge to scream. She wanted to step forward right there, wanted to grab the microphone and shout the truth—that it wasn’t some random suspect, that it wasn’t some normal killer. It was Chucky. But her mother wouldn’t listen. She never did. Lexy had tried before, begged her to believe her about the doll, and each time she was met with that same dismissive wave and tight, polished smile. Her mother had built her career on controlling narratives, and Lexy’s "nonsense" didn’t fit the story she wanted the world to hear.

And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, her mother kept going. "I also want to reassure everyone that our beloved annual town screening of Frankenstein at the Hackensack Theater will proceed as scheduled!" The mayor’s grin brightened. "Yes, even in these troubling times, we must hold onto our traditions!" The crowd offered scattered applause, though the tension was still thick in the air. Lexy’s jaw clenched. People are dying, she thought bitterly. And you’re worried about some dumb movie night?

She turned, ready to grab Caroline and get the hell out of there before she lost her mind. But then her mother’s next words froze her in place.

"This event's proceeds—and our generous sponsor, Good Guy Dolls, from the CloudBaby Corporation—will go directly to Better Days Children’s Hospitals all across the country!" Lexy’s blood ran cold. Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. Good Guy Dolls? The dolls that had haunted her every nightmare for weeks? The same brand—the same cursed things—that Chucky had used to tear through their town? Her head snapped toward the stage, her mother still smiling like this was some victory speech. Lexy’s breath hitched.

Behind her, Caroline's face lit up in innocent delight. She tugged hard at Lexy’s sleeve, bouncing a little on her toes. "Mum said Chucky is back?! Where is he? Can I have him??" she chirped, eyes wide with childish excitement. Lexy turned on her heel so fast she nearly yanked Caroline off balance. She dropped to her knees in front of her, gripping her shoulders just a little too tightly. "No, Caroline," she said, her voice shaking, too sharp. "That doll is evil. You should never—never—play with him. Do you hear me?" She tried to make her voice calm, but the fear leaked through every word. Caroline blinked at her, confused but still smiling, her small hands fidgeting with the hem of her coat. "But Chucky’s my friend… he talks to me," she said sweetly, as if that made it better.

Lexy’s chest tightened until it felt like she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head hard, trying to push down the rising panic. Grabbing Caroline’s hand, she turned and pulled her away from the square, away from the cameras and flashing lights and the too-bright smile of their mother, who barely noticed them leaving. "Mum!" Caroline called back, twisting to look over her shoulder. "Mum, I wanna see Chucky!" But Mayor Cross didn’t look their way. She was too busy basking in the attention, too busy selling her perfect little town while Lexy’s world spun out beneath her feet. Lexy gripped Caroline’s hand tighter, her mind racing. Chucky was back. And no one believed her. Not yet. But they would… soon.

________________________________________

Today was the day. Charles stood at the edge of his room, eyes scanning the checklist for the hundredth time, his heart hammering with the anxious energy that always came before something big. The runway stage was set—the lights were perfect, the catwalk gleaming under soft golden hues. Everything looked amazing. The prep team had done their job. His dress was ready. His model was ready. All he had to do now was keep himself from collapsing under the pressure. Tonight, he just needed to stay sharp, remember every line he planned to say to the judges, and present his work with confidence.
His thoughts were interrupted when Aaron’s door creaked open. Charles turned to see his friend standing there, framed by the dim hallway light. Aaron looked like death warmed over—pale, dark circles under his eyes, face slack and emotionless. His voice came out flat. "Can you send me to work, Charles?"

Charles’ stomach tensed. He glanced at his friend, worry flickering across his face. "Do you really need to go?" he asked carefully, voice softer than usual. He could see it plain as day—Aaron wasn’t okay. Not even close. Aaron just shuffled forward, eyes distant. "If I take a sick day, they make me come back and finish seven more days," he muttered, voice low and heavy like wet sand. "And I want to get it over with sooner." His lips twitched into something like a sad smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Charles exhaled, resigned. "Right… whatever you say." He grabbed his car keys off the hook, gave Goldy—who was curled up asleep on the bed—a gentle pat on the head, and followed Aaron out the door. The golden retriever’s tail gave a soft thump but didn’t lift his head.

________________________________________

By nightfall, the atmosphere had flipped completely. Backstage at the runway event, the energy was electric. Charles and the other students were bustling around, adjusting dresses, double-checking accessories, and running through their spiels one last time. The air smelled like hairspray and nerves. His model, Layla, sat under the bright vanity lights, her face half-finished with makeup as she kept her eyes closed, breathing steady. Meanwhile, Charles stood to the side, gripping his folded notecards and muttering his pitch to himself under his breath, trying to lock the words into place. His heart thudded harder every time he stumbled.

Then—"Charles!" a voice called over the din. He looked up to see Maya and Aaron walking toward him. Both were dressed in special outfits they had begged him to design for this event. Maya’s sharp grin glinted under the lights, while Aaron… well, Aaron was upright, which was something. Maya flashed him a teasing smirk. "Look at you, working hard despite your ancient age." Charles let out a breath and forced a cocky little grin, snapping back automatically. "My mind and soul? Yeah, they’re ancient. But this body?" He winked. "Still everyone’s favorite."

Maya chuckled, shaking her head, while Aaron offered a faint smile that didn’t quite hide how hollow he looked. Charles’ gaze flicked to him, and his grin softened a little. "Well," he said, voice lowering, "two more days and you’re free from that hellhole, Aaron. Light at the end of the tunnel, right?" Aaron nodded, swaying a little on his feet. "I can see the light, Charles. I can see myself dying happily… getting my not-so-great grade and calling it a win." His laugh was thin, the words laced with something darker—tiredness that ran too deep. Charles and Maya exchanged a glance. They both saw it. Aaron’s mental state was cracked, barely holding together with tape and willpower. But for tonight, no one said it out loud.

The lights dimmed backstage, a signal that showtime was minutes away, and Charles could feel his pulse in his throat. His hands were cold despite the heat in the room, and every breath felt too shallow, too quick. The hum of frantic voices swelled—students double-checking stitches, models stepping into heels that pinched, assistants running back and forth with last-minute pins. It was chaos wrapped in silk and glitter.

Layla was standing now, tall and poised in the full weight of Charles' wedding gown. The dress shimmered under even the backstage lights—cascades of sheer chiffon layered over silver-thread lace, every fold moving like liquid light. The bodice hugged her form perfectly, the lace crawling up her arms like delicate vines, and from the waist down, the skirt billowed in soft clouds that made her look like she wasn’t walking but floating. Even Charles, who had stared at this dress for weeks until it haunted his sleep, had to admit—on her, it looked like magic.

But just as he started to breathe again, something snapped.

A sharp yelp—followed by the crash of a metal rod hitting the floor.

Charles’ head whipped around. One of the assistants had tripped, knocking into the light rigging near the stage. A wheel was loose—wobbling—and with a sickening creak, the towering rig tilted forward. Right toward the narrow walkway where models were already lining up.

"Shit—!" Charles lunged, grabbing Layla by the arm and yanking her back just as the rig’s corner scraped across the floor where she had been standing. Screams burst out as people scattered, the rig clattering down with a metallic crash. The room spun in noise—people yelling, stage crew running to stabilize equipment, a teacher barking orders to "Get that cleaned up, now!" Charles’ heart slammed against his ribs, his breaths sharp and shallow. Layla gripped his arm, wide-eyed but steady.

"You okay?" he croaked, his voice raw from adrenaline. She nodded, a little breathless but unshaken. "Yeah. You pulled me back in time." Her grip tightened just for a second. "We’ve got this, Charles. Don’t let this rattle you." But Charles’ mind was already racing, his stomach knotted so tight it felt like steel cables. If Layla had been hit, if the dress had been torn, if this show went sideways—it wasn’t just his grade on the line. It was everything. His chance to get home. His proof that he could be more than his past. His one shot to build something beautiful out of all the wreckage he’d caused in another life.
The backstage manager clapped, shouting, “Fifteen minutes to lineup! Get ready, people! That was just a hiccup!”

Charles forced himself to nod, to push the rising panic down deep where it couldn’t choke him. He checked Layla again—dress still perfect, no damage. He muttered a quiet prayer, not sure if he meant it for Damballa or someone else this time.

And then—showtime.

The music kicked on, heavy bass thumping through the floor, and one by one, models began to glide out onto the runway. Cheers and applause echoed from the audience, flashing cameras lighting up the dark like fireflies. Charles stood frozen backstage, every muscle wound tight. Then they called his number. Layla turned to him, a flash of steel in her eyes. "Let’s shut them up," she whispered, and then she stepped forward. And when Layla appeared at the mouth of the runway—the world seemed to stop. The gown caught the overhead lights and exploded in shimmer, every thread of silver dancing like fire against the soft ivory. The lace seemed to grow along her skin, ethereal and alive. The sheer train floated behind her like mist, weightless and glowing.

The audience gasped as one. A collective inhale, sharp and stunned. Cameras flashed like a lightning storm. People leaned forward in their seats, mouths open. Charles, still standing stiff backstage, heard it—the roar starting from the front row, swelling back through the crowd. Applause. Wild, uproarious applause. Madam Boustier, seated dead center with her clipboard, had dropped her pen. Her usual tight frown cracked, her mouth hanging open in something like genuine wonder. Charles’ knees nearly gave out. His heart still pounded, but this time it wasn’t fear—it was something else. Relief so intense it made his chest ache. Layla walked with slow, regal grace, every step commanding the room. And when she reached the end of the runway and spun—the train flared out like wings. The lights caught it again, and the audience erupted louder, some even rising to their feet.

Charles let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in his lungs for days. Aaron, standing backstage beside Maya, let out a wheezy laugh through his stuffed nose. "Damn, Charles," he croaked, voice cracking. "You didn’t just pass. You owned them." Maya grinned wide, clapping him hard on the back. "Told you that old man soul was good for something." Charles couldn’t even find words. His throat was too tight. His hands were shaking. But in that moment, as the applause thundered on and Layla basked in the glow, he felt it deep down,

This was his victory.

Not as a killer.
Not as a destroyer.
But as a creator.

________________________________________

After the show, the four of them piled into Charles’ car, the mood still electric with victory. The applause still rang faintly in his ears, even as the city lights of Washington blurred past his windows in streaks of gold and red. Charles gripped the wheel with one hand, the other tapping lightly to the beat of some soft song on the radio. The night air was cool but not cold, and for once, everything felt light. No shadows. No dolls. Just celebration.

Layla, still dressed in casual clothes now but carrying herself like she was still on that runway, leaned forward from the backseat with a sly grin. "Mmph… a handsome man like you," she said, voice thick with playful mischief, "making a dress that stunning. It's a pity you don't have a partner, Charles." Her words floated easily, but there was a little tease woven in there, just enough to make him squirm.
Charles let out a breathless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck while keeping his eyes on the road. "I don’t think I need to," he muttered, awkward and flustered, trying to play it cool. His cheeks, though—warm. Too warm.

Maya, riding shotgun with her feet up on the dash like she owned the car, snorted and reached back to give Layla a light punch on the arm. "Don’t tease him like that! He already has someone in mind." Her grin was wide and knowing, sharp as a knife but no less affectionate. "Maya!" Charles groaned, voice cracking as his embarrassment flared hotter. He shot her a sharp look, but it only made her laugh harder. In the back, Aaron—half-dead from stress and lingering sickness just hours ago—wheezed out a genuine laugh that shook his whole body. Layla joined in, the two of them howling like this was the funniest thing they’d heard all night.

Charles just shook his head, a helpless chuckle breaking out despite himself. His chest felt tight, but not in a bad way. It was that unfamiliar feeling again—happiness, real and warm, curling around his ribs. Tonight, he thought, tonight is a good day. The weight in his shoulders eased a little as he drove on, the laughter filling up the car like sunlight. The city buzzed around them, neon lights flashing, people bustling on the sidewalks, but for this one perfect moment, Charles let himself breathe it in. Let himself believe it.

Maybe tomorrow, he thought, maybe tomorrow will be a good day too. Maybe the future—the future he never thought he could have—could hold more nights like this. More laughter. More light. His hands tightened just a little on the wheel, like he was holding onto that hope with both fists.

For once… he let himself hope for a happy ending.

Chapter Text

Jake, Lexy, and Devon crouched low in the narrow alleyway, breathless and tense as they peeked around the corner. The crowd gathered in Hackensack's square was thick, buzzing with excitement. Most of the town was here, drawn by the announcement, completely unaware of the storm that was quietly building right under their noses.

Jake’s heart pounded in his chest as his eyes locked on the big moving truck parked at the curb—white and pristine, with CloudBaby Corporation painted in bright, cheerful letters on the side. But Lexy had already told them the truth. CloudBaby wasn’t just reviving the Good Guy Dolls for nostalgia’s sake. This wasn’t some harmless marketing stunt. This was Chucky. And God knows how many more were hiding in that truck.

Jake’s hand fumbled for his phone. He’d already tried three times, but still—nothing. He hit redial, pressing the phone to his ear like a lifeline. Voicemail. Again. "Come on, Charles... pick up," Jake muttered under his breath, voice cracking slightly. "We’ve got big trouble coming." His stomach twisted. He hated how much he depended on Charles now—like the man was the only one who could fix this mess. Maybe this time, Jake thought bitterly, maybe it was his turn to step up and help Charles for once. Before he could say anything out loud, before he could even steady his breathing, a shadow moved near the truck.

A woman. She wasn’t part of the crowd. She was watching the truck with sharp, calculating eyes. And now, those eyes flicked over to where Jake, Lexy, and Devon were huddled. She saw them. And without hesitation, she started walking their way. Jake’s whole body tensed. He gripped Lexy's sleeve, ready to run. Lexy stiffened too, her pulse spiking as the woman got closer. “Did you kids know what’s in that truck?” the woman asked, voice low and serious. Lexy’s throat went dry. She glanced at Jake, then back at the woman. "...Full of... Chucky’s?" she whispered, barely able to say the name. There was fear in her voice—real fear—because she didn’t know who this woman was or if she could even trust her.

Devon squinted, trying to place her face. Something about her looked... familiar. Then his eyes widened. Recognition sparked. “Wait—you’re Kristen!” Devon blurted, a little too loud. “You survived the military school murders! And the horror carnival accident! You’re one of the victims!” His voice rose in excitement, almost forgetting the danger in his rush to connect the dots. Kristen’s expression darkened, her jaw tightening. She shook her head hard. "Don’t remind me of that time," she muttered. "I was weak back then. Andy had to help me stop that doll."

Her gaze swept over them now, more careful, more protective. She looked at them like she was seeing younger versions of herself and Andy, and the weight of that nearly made her voice crack. "Tell me straight," she said, her tone sharpening. "Have you kids been attacked yet? Any injuries? Lost anyone to him?" Jake and Devon quickly shook their heads, though their faces said more than they wanted to admit. Lexy hesitated, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "Our mansion got burned down by him..." she said, forcing a shaky smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "But I was saved."

Kristen let out a long breath, visibly relieved. "Thank God..." she whispered, but then she straightened, her face going cold again. "Look, you kids need to step away now. This is too big. Let the adults handle it. This isn’t your fight anymore." But Jake shook his head before she could even finish the sentence. His voice came out stronger than he expected, fierce and desperate all at once. "Chucky nearly destroyed our lives," he said, chest heaving. "And I’m not running this time. I owe Charles. He saved me. And now I’m gonna help him stop this before it gets worse." His fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

Devon swallowed hard but nodded beside him. Lexy, after a pause, lifted her chin too, her eyes flickering with something that looked dangerously close to determination. Kristen looked at them for a long moment. And for the first time, her stern face faltered—just a little. Maybe she saw the same fire in them that Andy once had.

________________________________________

Andy Barclay’s car rolled into Hackensack just as the sky darkened with heavy clouds. The familiar streets felt colder now, smaller. Like they were closing in around him. He tightened his grip on the wheel, his knuckles white, his body stiff from the long drive. This was it. It was happening again. He could almost hear Kyle’s voice in his head, sharp and angry—“Don’t do this, Andy. Don’t get sucked in again.” But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Chucky was back. And Andy had to end this. Once and for all. Even if the truth he found wasn’t the one he wanted.

His eyes flicked to the side mirror. The face that stared back at him didn’t look like the Andy Barclay people remembered. His eyes were red, raw from crying too many nights alone. His face was hollow, with deep eyebags from weeks—months—of no real sleep. Just waiting. Just watching. Just hurting. Andy swallowed hard and reached across to the passenger seat. His hand found the cold steel of the handgun resting there. He wrapped his fingers around it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. His chest rose and fell in a slow, shaky breath.

“Chucky can’t save people,” Andy whispered to himself. His voice was hoarse, bitter. “He kills. That’s all he knows. That’s all he’s ever done.” Kyle didn’t get it. No one got it. Chucky protecting someone? No. It had to be a trick. It always was. This time… Andy needed answers. Even if they broke him. Even if they proved Kyle right. His finger brushed against the gun’s trigger. He sucked in one last breath and set his jaw. Time to finish this.

________________________________________

Lexy broke the tense silence, chewing on her lip. “Maybe we blow the truck up,” she muttered darkly. “Just end it before it even starts.” Kristen, standing nearby, shot her a sharp glare. “And cause a public panic? That’s what Chucky wants, kid. Chaos. Fear. If you blow it, they’ll run wild. They’ll multiply.” Her voice was firm, edged with a survivor's knowledge.

Devon stayed silent, but he moved closer to the truck, pressing his ear against the side of the container. His face was pale, sweat glinting at his temple.

Then—

“Devon!” His body jolted at the sound of his mom’s voice. Detective Kim Evans stood there, arms crossed, her eyes cold with authority.“This is not a place for kids to play around,” she said sharply. “Go home, Devon. Go home and wait for the ceremony to start.” Devon opened his mouth, panic rising in his throat. “B-but Mom—” But she wasn’t having it. She pointed, firm. “Now.” His heart sank. He swallowed back the protest and turned, walking stiffly back toward the alley where Jake and Lexy were waiting.

Jake stepped forward the second he saw his face. “Did you find anything?” he whispered urgently. Devon’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head, defeated. “My mom’s guarding the truck. It’s locked down tight. We can’t get close…” His voice cracked. “Not without blowing everything up.” For a beat, none of them spoke. The weight of the moment pressed down hard. And in the distance, the wind shifted. Carrying with it the scent of smoke… and something darker.

“That’s him. That’s the delivery guy from the truck,” Jake hissed, pointing at the man standing near Mayor Michelle. The delivery boy looked young, too young for all this, chatting with the mayor with an easy grin like nothing was wrong. But when the conversation ended and he waved goodbye, Jake’s heart kicked hard in his chest. Devon’s eyes lit up. “This is our chance!” he blurted—and before anyone could stop him, he bolted from the alleyway, feet slapping against the pavement. “Devon, wait!” Jake called, panic rising in his throat. Kristen’s voice followed, sharper, angrier. “Kid! Get back here, now!” But Lexy was already moving, her pulse roaring in her ears as she chased after Devon. “Devon! What the hell—”

Up ahead, the delivery boy slipped inside a small side building near the square, the door creaking shut behind him. Devon and Lexy reached it just in time and shoved inside before it could click closed. But the moment they stepped in, the air shifted. The room was empty. Too empty. Too quiet. Devon’s breath came fast as he looked around. “Where the hell—” “Looking for me?” Both of them spun around—and there he was. The delivery boy. Standing right behind them like a ghost, grinning wide, eyes cold. In his hand, a black remote with a single red button. Before they could move, he slammed the door shut with a loud bang, the lock clicking hard into place. “Devon! Lexy!” Jake’s shout came from outside, followed by the sound of fists hammering against the door. Kristen was already throwing her weight against it, shoulder slamming into the wood with a heavy thud. “Move! Get back!” she snapped, trying again—bang—but the door didn’t budge. Solid. Reinforced.

Inside, Lexy’s stomach dropped as she realized too late—they’d walked right into it. A trap. “The other me said you guys are just walls,” the delivery boy sneered, his grin stretching too wide, too sharp. “Walls we’re gonna smash down to pull off our plan.” His thumb hovered over the button, eyes glittering. “No one can stop us now!” And then—he slammed it.

BOOM.

The explosion ripped through the building like a monster’s roar. “NOOO!” Jake’s scream tore from his throat as the force blasted the door outward, slamming him backward. His body smacked hard against a brick wall, pain exploding through his ribs. Kristen was thrown sideways, a chunk of debris cracking against her head. She crumpled where she fell, blood running down her temple. The whole street shook. The sky seemed to shatter with the sound. Police and townsfolk screamed. Detective Kim’s heart seized as she heard it—the explosion, close and violent. She turned on instinct and sprinted toward the smoke and dust, her badge flashing under the sunlight. Her eyes landed on Jake, slumped against the wall, face twisted in pain.

“Kid! Hey—what happened?!” she barked, dropping to her knees beside him. But before he could answer, another voice cut through the chaos— “HELP!!”

Her heart stopped. That voice—

“Devon?!” Kim’s head snapped toward the ruined building, where the door now hung loose, blasted off its hinges. She ran. “DEVON!!” Inside the wreckage, Devon clung to Lexy, tears streaking his soot-covered face. Lexy lay limp in his arms, her face pale, her leg twisted wrong, but she was breathing. Barely. “Mum! Help! Lexy’s hurt!” Devon sobbed, shaking as he tried to shield her from the falling dust. Kim pushed through the rubble, eyes wide with horror as she saw them.

And then her gaze snapped to the side—

The delivery boy. Or what was left of him. Half-buried under cracked concrete and wood, his body broken—but that sick smile still stretched across his bloody face, lips curled even in death. His dead eyes seemed to stare straight through them, as if mocking even now.

________________________________________

Outside, people screamed. Sirens wailed in the distance. And in the back of the truck, Mohawk Chucky grinned, watching the chaos like a kid at a candy store. He spun his knife in one hand, giddy. “Well, boys... I guess that’s our cue.” His voice was low and thrilled, pure wickedness. The other Good Guy dolls shifted inside the dark container, their eyes gleaming through the slits in their boxes. Mohawk Chucky raised his blade, licking his cracked plastic lips. “Let’s go make some chaos.” With a guttural laugh, he stabbed downward—splitting the packaging wide open.

All around him, dozens of little hands tore through cardboard, blades flashing. The Good Guy dolls swarmed out, climbing over each other like rats, their laughter high-pitched and shrill. Hackensack was about to bleed.

The Chucky dolls poured out of the truck like a tidal wave of nightmares. They hit the ground in a frenzy, knives flashing under the cloudy sky, laughing with that shrill, high-pitched glee that haunted Andy Barclay’s dreams for decades. It was a massacre within seconds — children screaming as they ran in every direction, parents grabbing at them in panic, only to be tackled by tiny, vicious monsters with shining blades and plastic grins. A woman fell hard, shrieking, and a doll slashed her ankle wide open before another leapt at her neck. Her scream turned into a wet gurgle as red sprayed across the pavement. The police fired wildly, but they couldn’t keep up. One got pulled down by three dolls tearing at his throat and belly, and another officer’s gun clattered uselessly as tiny hands pulled him under.

The street wasn’t Hackensack anymore. It was hell. And standing tall at the back of the truck, Mohawk Chucky laughed like a maniac, his green-streaked hair bouncing as he howled. “Yeah! That’s right! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he roared, watching his brothers carve their way through flesh and bone. “Paint this town red, boys!” He doubled over, cackling so hard his whole body shook. The chaos fed him. The fear, the death, the screaming—it was his symphony.

But then—

The truck engine roared to life. Mohawk's laughter died in his throat. His head whipped around toward the cab, and his grin twisted into a snarl when he saw who was behind the wheel. Andy Barclay. Staring at him with dead, hollow eyes and blood on his lips. "You," Mohawk hissed. Andy’s teeth clenched so tight it felt like they’d crack. He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and the truck jerked forward with a violent lurch. The tires screeched as they rolled right over three dolls in their path, their bodies exploding with crunches and plastic splinters and a spray of fake red blood that stained the wheels.

Mohawk lunged at him, knife in hand, screeching. He slammed against Andy’s side and drove the blade deep into his elbow. Pain tore through Andy like wildfire, bright and blinding. He hissed through his teeth, but his hands didn’t leave the wheel. His grip tightened, muscles screaming as blood poured down his arm and slicked the steering wheel.

"Turn back, you motherfucker!" Mohawk roared, twisting the blade deeper, grinding it against bone. His eyes gleamed with rage and sick pleasure. "Ain’t no one gonna save you this time! Not like that defective me did at the cabin!" Andy’s heart froze. His pulse pounded in his ears. His chest caved in like something punched through it from the inside. "What—?" The word scraped out of his throat, raw and broken. With a snarl, Andy shoved the doll off him with his bleeding arm, ignoring the searing pain that tore through every nerve. His other hand fumbled for the gun on the passenger seat, his vision blurring. His fingers closed around it, and he swung it up, pressing it to the doll's plastic face, hand shaking so hard he could barely aim.

"Tell me!" Andy barked, voice cracking. He could feel himself unraveling with every word. "Tell me if that thing at the cabin—if that was real! Was he—was he really trying to save me?!" His whole body trembled, the weight of years, of blood and guilt and sleepless nights crashing down all at once. Mohawk Chucky paused for a second—and then grinned. Wide and sharp and cruel. "You mean when the original me went soft?" he sneered. "Yeah, I know about that." His tongue flicked over his teeth. "It was fuckin’ hilarious watching him fight us just so your sorry ass could run like the scared little bitch you are." He laughed, loud and sharp, right in Andy's face.

Andy’s hands clenched so tight around the gun that his knuckles turned white. His vision tunneled, everything else fading until there was only that grinning face and the sound of his own heartbeat crashing like a drum in his ears. Mohawk leaned in, close enough that Andy could smell the plastic and the faint copper tang of his own blood. "Don’t worry," the doll hissed, voice turning low and deadly sweet. "That piece of trash ain’t your burden anymore. We took care of him after you left." The words hit Andy like a bullet right to the chest.

His whole body seized. His breath stopped. The gun slipped from his fingers. It clattered against the floor of the cab with a hollow, final sound. His foot, almost without him thinking, slammed on the brake. The truck screeched, tires screaming, the world lurching around him. Mohawk stumbled from the sudden stop, but Andy wasn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes were wide, glassy, red-rimmed, and empty.

It was real.

It was real.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but it felt like swallowing glass. His hands shook, blood dripping from his arm in thick, wet drops. His breath hitched and hitched and wouldn’t come right. "It was… real?" Andy whispered, voice so small it barely made a sound. His whole body trembled like it might fall apart. Mohawk Chucky just grinned wider, licking at the blood on his knife like it was candy. "Aww… sad that your little savior's dead?" he crooned, tilting his head. "Poor Andy. Always losing everyone, huh? Always too late to save ‘em. Your mom. Your foster folks. Your friends. And now even the only version of me who gave a damn." Andy’s face crumpled. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His gun lay at his feet. His hands hung useless at his sides. His chest heaved, but it felt like there was no air left in the truck.

Mohawk laughed again, sharp and cutting. "You pathetic fuckin’ mess. Look at you. You waited years for that answer, huh? Well, there you go. Yeah, he protected you. Yeah, he fought for you. And yeah, we ripped him apart for it." Andy’s head dropped. His shoulders shook. His vision blurred so bad the world looked like it was underwater. His throat burned, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The pain in his arm didn’t even register anymore. All he could feel was that old, familiar void swallowing him whole.

It was real.

And now, even that was gone. Andy’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms until they broke the skin. His breathing was ragged, shallow, barely holding together. His whole body shook—but deep inside, under the grief, something old and violent twisted awake. Mohawk Chucky kept laughing. That shrill, grating cackle that stabbed through Andy’s skull like nails on glass. "Yeah, that’s right! You ain’t shit, Andy! You never were! You just keep losing, over and over—"

Andy’s head snapped up. His eyes were wild now—red and glassy, but burning. His lip curled back in something between a snarl and a scream. He slammed his bloody palm onto the gearshift, yanked it hard. The truck roared as he floored the gas. Mohawk staggered, caught off guard. "Hey—what the—" Andy didn’t answer. His face twisted, teeth bared, as he gripped the wheel with both hands—one slick with blood, the other trembling—and aimed straight for the nearest building.

“You want chaos?!” Andy bellowed, voice raw and breaking. “I’LL GIVE YOU CHAOS!” The truck tore forward with a screech, tires screaming against the pavement. Mohawk’s eyes went wide. "Wait—WAIT—" Too late. The front of the truck smashed through a parked car first—metal crumpled like paper, glass exploding in all directions—then plowed head-on into the corner of a stone storefront. The world detonated around them. The windshield spiderwebbed instantly, shards flying back like tiny knives. The front end crumpled, the engine coughed and hissed, smoke billowing out. The dashboard cracked. Andy’s head snapped forward, slamming against the wheel, but he held on. His teeth ground together so hard his jaw popped.

Mohawk Chucky was thrown forward, crashing into the glove compartment with a yelp. His knife flew from his hand, clattering somewhere under the seat. The truck shuddered and groaned, tires still spinning against broken glass and debris. Alarms wailed from nearby cars. People screamed in the distance. Andy sat there for a breathless moment, chest heaving. Blood dripped from his temple now to join the mess already slicking his arm. His vision swam, ears ringing, but he didn’t stop.

Mohawk groaned, pulling himself up with a snarl. "You crazy son of a—"

Andy cut him off with a vicious backhand, the force sending the doll sprawling hard against the cracked passenger door. Mohawk Chucky let out a grunt, dazed, blinking like he didn’t expect that. Andy’s face twisted into something dark, something raw. His voice came out low and guttural, like it had been clawing its way up his throat for years. "I’m not losing again," he growled, every word shaking with rage and something else—grief.

His chest heaved. His breathing was ragged. His hand fumbled as he reached down and grabbed the gun that had fallen at his feet, his fingers trembling but locking tight around it like it was the only thing keeping him standing. He lifted it with both hands, pointing it dead at the doll’s chest. His finger curled on the trigger, knuckle white. He wanted to end this. Right here. Right now. No more games. No more pain.

But before he could pull—

The truck door on his side was yanked open with a violent screech of metal, and suddenly, a hand grabbed his jacket, ripping him out from the shattered, smoking wreck. Andy’s boots scraped against broken glass as he stumbled back into the cold night air, dazed, heart hammering in his chest.

"Are you fucking crazy, Andy?!"

The voice—sharp, rough, and so painfully familiar—cut through the chaos like a gunshot. Andy’s head whipped around, eyes wide, breath frozen in his lungs. He met them. Those eyes. Blue. Fierce. And behind them, a storm—regret, guilt, fear—all bleeding together into something raw and real. The same eyes he had seen that night in the cabin. The same eyes that haunted him every time he closed his own.

His lips parted, voice shaking.
"Why… why are you so familiar?" Andy rasped, barely able to get the words out.

His whole body went stiff, trembling as his brain tried to deny what his heart already recognized. The man gripping him didn’t answer at first. His face was tense, jaw clenched, shoulders squared like he was holding the weight of the world. His red hair stuck out wildly, wind-tossed and chaotic. But those eyes—those eyes—held Andy in place like chains.

________________________________________

Charles was in full-blown panic as he sped through the dark roads to Hackensack, the engine of his car screaming every time he floored it harder. He cursed under his breath, knuckles white on the wheel. All because he’d let his guard down. Just once. He’d let himself celebrate after the runway show, let himself laugh with his friends, let himself fall asleep in a damn KFC booth of all places. By the time he’d woken up, the sun was already rising, and his phone—his damn phone—was still sitting back at his dorm, forgotten.

Now? Now he was flying down the highway like the devil was clawing at his back, praying he wasn’t too late.

And then—

He saw it. The truck. A fucking truck, smashed and smoking in the middle of the road like some scene out of a nightmare. And there, standing like a ghost amid the wreckage, was him. Andy. The man he never thought he'd see face to face again. Charles slammed the brakes, tires screeching as he skidded to a stop. He barely registered the pain in his chest from the sudden jolt before he was out of the car, sprinting.

________________________________________

"Andy! What the hell are you thinking?!" Charles bellowed, his voice raw with anger and fear as he grabbed the man by his jacket and hauled him away from the twisted metal. "Crashing a truck isn’t gonna stop those fucking dolls! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!" Andy’s head lolled forward, his shoulders trembling. His voice cracked as it came out, low and broken. "I don’t… I don’t think I have a will to live anymore… after what I heard..." His chest heaved, and his voice splintered like glass. "The Chucky that saved me… he's gone. They killed him…"

Charles froze, hands still fisted in Andy’s jacket. His heart dropped into his stomach. For a split second, the chaos around them—the distant sirens, the crackle of fire, the screeching tires of fleeing cars—faded into nothing. Andy’s words hung in the air like a death sentence. Charles felt something twist deep inside him. Confusion. Pain. And yeah, maybe a little anger too. Why was Andy asking about him like that? He swallowed hard, forced down the lump rising in his throat, and grabbed Andy by the collar again, rougher this time. "Look at me, Andy! Look at me clearly!"

Andy blinked through the blur of tears, and slowly—so slowly—his eyes lifted. And he saw him. Really saw him. Red hair. Blue eyes that shimmered like a storm barely held back. Freckles across his cheeks. And that face—that face—the same one that had once leered at him from a doll, twisted with malice. Only now, it wasn’t grinning. It was hurting. It was real. Andy’s lips trembled, his breath hitching painfully in his throat. His vision swam again as the weight of recognition crashed down on him like a wave.

He staggered back a step, but Charles’s grip tightened, anchoring him. Andy choked out a ragged whisper. "Why… why are you so familiar?" Charles clenched his jaw, eyes darkening. "Because I am. Because I'm him. The one you thought was gone." He exhaled sharply, dragging Andy a little closer until their faces were only inches apart. "I'm standing right in front of you, Andy. I'm alive." Andy's knees nearly buckled. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came—just a raw, broken sob that tore out of his chest like it had been waiting years to escape. Charles gritted his teeth, trying to hold back his own storm of emotions. "You're not losing me again, Andy," he said, voice low but fierce. "Not this time."

The world around them burned, but for a moment, it was just the two of them—two broken souls clinging to the one truth neither wanted to face.

But before Andy could even breathe, a voice sliced through their fragile moment like a blade.

"Who the fuck are you now?!"

Mohawk Chucky’s snarl was venomous, wild. He came hurtling toward them, knife gleaming in his tiny hand, eyes burning with manic rage. His little plastic legs sprinted through the wreckage, fueled by pure, murderous hate. Andy’s body locked up. His head spun. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Overwhelmed by the weight of everything crashing down on him all at once—the grief, the confusion, the impossible sight of him. The Chucky that had saved him.

Alive.
Human.
Standing right here.

Charles felt Andy’s grip loosen, felt the man sag against him like his bones had given out. He gave Andy’s arm one last squeeze before stepping away, steady and sure. And as Mohawk Chucky charged, blade raised high—

Charles turned to face him. Calm. Centered. And with a flicker of something almost playful, he winked at Andy over his shoulder. "Let me take care of this one." Then he cracked his neck and stepped forward, meeting the little monster head-on. Mohawk Chucky skidded to a stop, glaring up at him. "Who the hell—" His words caught. His painted-on brows furrowed. Confusion flickered in those crazed doll eyes as they locked onto Charles’s face. "Wait… no fucking way—"

Charles smirked, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a bar fight. "Yeah. Surprise, asshole." His voice dropped lower, cooler. "It’s me." Mohawk Chucky blinked hard. "You— You’re supposed to be dead!" His voice cracked with disbelief, the grip on his knife tightening. "We strung you up like Christmas lights, you piece of shit! We KILLED you!" Charles took another step forward, boots crunching over broken glass and charred debris. His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those stayed cold. "You really think it’d be that easy?" Charles murmured. "You little bootlegs have been running around playing war games while I’ve been watching. Waiting."

Mohawk’s face twisted into a mask of fury. "You’re a fucking traitor! You went soft! You protected him!" He jabbed the knife toward Andy, spitting the words like poison. "You betrayed everything we are!" Charles’s expression darkened. "No." His voice turned to steel. "I remembered what we used to be—before we started carving ourselves up and losing pieces until there was nothing left but rage." Mohawk lunged, shrieking, "FUCK YOU!" But Charles moved first. Quick. Sharp. He caught the doll mid-swing by the wrist, stopping the blade inches from his side. Mohawk’s eyes went wide. "Wha—"

"Rule number one," Charles hissed, his grip tightening like a vice, "you never play with someone who’s already killed more than you can count." With a brutal twist, he yanked Mohawk’s tiny arm until it cracked, plastic splintering under his fingers. The knife clattered to the ground. "And rule number two—" Charles hauled back and punched the doll square in the face, sending Mohawk flying backward like a ragdoll. He hit the pavement hard, bouncing once before tumbling to a stop. Charles shook out his hand, flexing his fingers. "—you finish what you start."

Mohawk groaned, twitching as he tried to push himself back up, one eye now cracked. "Y-you… you’re supposed to be DEAD…" he wheezed. "You're not him anymore…" Charles stepped over, looming above him, casting a long shadow in the flickering streetlight. "No," he said coolly, eyes flashing. "I'm better." Then he lifted his boot and stomped down, hard, right on Mohawk’s chest, pinning him like an insect.

"You wanna see what real betrayal looks like?" Charles sneered, grinding his heel into the doll’s torso as Mohawk choked and squirmed beneath him. "Because I made you—and now I’m gonna unmake every last one of you wannabe knockoffs."

Behind him, Andy stood frozen, breath ragged, eyes wide as the impossible scene played out in front of him. The man—the Chucky—who had haunted him his whole life… was fighting to protect him.

Again. And this time… Andy didn’t feel like running.

Charles didn’t stop. His boot came down again—crack!—splitting what was left of Mohawk Chucky’s face wide open. Plastic shards flew, one of the doll’s arms jerked spasmodically, and a warped gurgle wheezed out of its ruined throat. But Charles barely registered it. Another stomp—CRACK!—and the jaw snapped free entirely, hanging loose by a strip of synthetic skin. Mohawk twitched weakly, his knife long forgotten, fingers clawing at nothing. "You worthless imitation!" Charles roared, voice breaking as his boot slammed down again. "You think you can wear my face?! You think you can kill and laugh like it means nothing?"

Crunch.

"You don’t even understand what you've stolen!" His face was twisted in rage, lips pulled back like an animal, his blue eyes wild and wet.

Stomp.

"*You—DON’T—get—to—EXIST!" Each word came with another brutal, bone-shattering stomp. The doll’s head was nearly unrecognizable now—flattened, cracked wide, its face caved in and splattered with black-red ooze that soaked into the asphalt. And still—still—Charles didn’t stop. His body shook, breath tearing in and out of his lungs like a man possessed. All the guilt, all the years of pretending he wasn’t this monster anymore—it erupted right here, all of it crashing down in every violent blow. He raised his boot again, eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous—ready to obliterate what was left, to grind it into dust.

But then—

"CHUCKY!"

Andy’s voice tore through the chaos like a whipcrack—raw, broken, and loud enough to make Charles freeze mid-stomp. His whole body jerked, like the name itself had slapped him back to reality. Andy was there, grabbing his arm hard, yanking him back. "Stop! Goddammit—he’s DONE!" Charles froze—boot still raised, hands shaking. His chest heaved, each breath coming fast and ragged. "Stop…" Andy’s voice cracked, desperate. "Please… just stop…" Mohawk Chucky wasn’t moving anymore—just a twitching, broken pile of splintered plastic and leaking fluids. Charles stood there, wide-eyed, staring down at the mess he’d made. His foot slowly lowered to the ground. His fists unclenched, fingers trembling. He stumbled back a step, like he couldn’t trust his own balance.

"Shit…" he rasped, voice raw and hoarse. "I almost… I almost—" Andy’s hands stayed on him, gripping tight even though he was shaking too. "Yeah… you almost did…" Their eyes met—Andy's wet and furious, Charles’s wild and unsteady. For a second, neither of them breathed. Then Andy's voice rose, sharp and angry: "Chucky… what the hell was that?!" Charles flinched like he’d been punched. His mouth opened, but no words came. Just shaky breaths. His chest was still rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. Then—his hand came up, wiping down his face, trying to scrub the rage off like it was dirt.

"Don’t—" His voice cracked. "Don’t call me that…" He swallowed hard, throat tight. "Not now… not after this." Andy blinked, breath catching in his throat. Charles finally looked at him—really looked at him—and for once, there was no grin, no smirk, no monster. Just a man standing there, soaked in his own guilt, his face pale and raw and open. "Please..." Charles whispered, voice shaking. "Call me Charles." His lips trembled. "Not Chucky."

The weight in the air was suffocating—thick with everything unsaid between them. Andy’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, his body torn between the memory of the doll that ruined his life and the man standing here begging him for something small, something human. For a moment, Andy just stared. His eyes flicked over Charles's face—red hair, blue eyes, that same face from the nightmares—and yet…

It wasn’t him. Not exactly. His throat bobbed. "Charles…" Andy muttered, voice hoarse. Charles exhaled, shaky and uneven, like he’d been holding his breath for years. He slumped down, bracing his hands on his knees, breath still ragged but starting to slow. "Yeah..." He let out a bitter laugh, empty and tired. "That’s better…" Andy stepped back, chest heaving. His fingers brushed against the grip of his gun, but he didn’t raise it. Not now. They both stood there, surrounded by the wreckage—the twisted remains of the doll still twitching faintly in the dirt, the wrecked truck groaning behind them, smoke curling into the cold air.

Neither of them spoke for a long, heavy moment.

The only sound was the wind. And both their breathing.

“What now…?” Andy’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a breath. His hands shook at his sides, his face pale, caught between raw grief and simmering confusion. Charles whipped his head around, eyes wide, and suddenly let out a sharp scream like a man yanked back into reality. “Hackensack!” he gasped, panic rising in his throat. “We need to move—fast!”

Without waiting, he grabbed Andy's arm, pulling him hard enough that the older man stumbled after him. They staggered away from the wrecked lorry, Charles’s heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. His mind was spinning—images of kids, of Jake, of Lexy, of all those damned dolls filling Hackensack like a plague. He couldn’t lose them. Not again. Not after everything. His grip tightened on Andy’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

But then—

A voice. A curse, low and sharp, slicing through the night air. “Fuck this shit. Can they drive this carefully for once?” Both men froze like snapped wires, their heads turning in unison toward the sound. And there—stepping out from behind the container, brushing dust off its overalls—was another Chucky doll. This one was still intact, still whole, eyes bright with that same manic glint that had haunted Andy’s dreams for decades. The doll’s gaze flicked around, clocking the wreckage, the scattered bodies, the smoking truck… and then it landed on the shattered, crumpled mess of Mohawk Chucky lying in the dirt—his face barely recognizable after Charles’s brutal stomping.

Then those plastic blue eyes snapped up. They met Charles’s face. Then Andy’s. The doll blinked once. “…Oh,” Chucky muttered, realization dawning in that sick little grin. Andy’s stomach twisted painfully, bile rising in his throat. His whole body stiffened like his muscles had locked up. Another one. There was always another one. Always. But Charles… Charles didn’t freeze. He didn’t flinch. His jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. His hands curled into fists, and there was no humor left in his face. No smirk. No clever taunt. Just rage. Burning and raw and ancient.

“I think…” Charles growled lowly, voice rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, “…I need something to make sure this body doesn’t get cut up or broken next time.” His glare never left the doll. Chucky blinked again, and for the first time—the doll panicked. His plastic feet shuffled back a step. His head jerked left, then right, looking for an escape route, but there was nowhere to go. He saw what Charles had done to Mohawk. He knew. He knew.

And then—

Charles stepped forward. And his eyes—those human blue eyes—suddenly glowed bright, unnatural gold, flickering like molten fire.

"Nan non Dambala!"

Chapter Text

Charles jolted awake at the sharp, echoing bang that ripped through the silence, his heart hammering in his chest. Disoriented, he glanced around the dim room and felt his stomach twist into a knot. No… not here. Not again. The peeling wallpaper, the cracked window, the old dresser—this was his childhood bedroom. Dread washed over him as he lifted his hand, trembling, and stared at it. Small. Frail. His worst fear was confirmed: he wasn’t dreaming. He was trapped in another memory, dragged back into a time he tried so hard to forget.

His breath hitched as he heard hurried footsteps pounding down the hallway. The door burst open and there she was—his mother—her face pale and slick with sweat, her eyes wide and wild with terror. She slammed the door shut behind her, her hands shaking as she shoved his desk against it with all the strength her thin arms could muster. “What the actual fuck is happening?” Charles whispered, his voice barely audible, but even that tiny sound felt deafening in the suffocating silence.

Her head snapped toward him, and he could see it all—panic, fear, exhaustion—etched deep into her face. Before he could say another word, she lunged for him, grabbing his arm so tightly it hurt. “Don’t you dare make a noise,” she hissed, her voice hoarse and desperate. Without giving him a chance to resist, she yanked him out of bed and dragged him toward the wardrobe. The world outside the door felt like it was closing in—thuds, crashes, distant screams—and Charles could feel her heart pounding against his back as she crammed them both inside the narrow, suffocating space.

Her hand clamped over his mouth, stifling even the smallest whimper, as she pulled him into a tight embrace, her whole body trembling. Charles could feel her rapid, shallow breaths against his ear, her fingers digging into his shoulder as if letting go would mean the end. The darkness wrapped around them like a shroud, and the only thing louder than his own pounding heart was the terror in her eyes—terror that told him whatever was out there wasn’t just danger… it was death.

“Charles!” A voice echoed, distant and urgent. “Charles, wake up!” It came again, sharper this time, cutting through the fog in his mind. “CHARLES!”

________________________________________

With a gasp, he jolted upright, his head pounding and spinning as though the ground had shifted beneath him. He blinked, disoriented, trying to make sense of where he was. The cold press of leather against his back told him first—he was inside a car, slumped awkwardly in the passenger seat. His breathing was ragged, and for a second, he wasn’t sure if he was still trapped in that nightmare.

“Is it really that exhausting transferring your soul?” Andy’s voice reached him, laced with worry and a little exasperation. Charles groaned as the memories snapped back into place like a rubber band—he had transferred his soul again, jumping into the last Chucky doll that had dared to run from him. He lifted his hand to his face, and his stomach twisted when his fingers traced the rough, familiar pattern of stitches. Panic flickered in his chest. “I… I thought I transferred into a new doll—fresh, clean…” His voice trailed off, confusion heavy in his throat as he turned his stitched face toward Andy, silently begging for an answer.

Andy glanced at him from the driver’s seat, looking just as bewildered. “Don’t look at me,” he muttered, eyes flicking back to the road. “You’re the expert on all this voodoo crap, remember?” The frustration in his voice was undercut by something softer—concern. Charles slumped back, letting out a long, tired sigh. “I suppose… Damballa’s just playing games with me now,” he muttered bitterly. He twisted in his seat and glanced over his small shoulder at the backseat, where his own human body lay motionless. Seeing himself like that—it sent a chill through him he didn’t want to admit.

He tried to catch a glimpse of his new face in the side mirror, but the damn body was too short. He let out a sharp, angry breath. “Fuck… I forgot how much I hate this tiny body.” His voice cracked with more than just annoyance—it was humiliation, frustration, and that creeping fear he could never quite shake. Hugging his small, patchwork doll body close to his chest, he gritted his teeth.

Andy caught the sight and let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe this was his life now. But the smile faded quickly, replaced by that haunted look that always seemed to linger in Andy Barclay's eyes. “What the hell happened back there?” he asked quietly, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. “You were squirming like you were in pain or something.”

Charles stared out the window, watching the blurred world pass by. He didn’t want to talk about it—the memory that clawed its way into his mind, the cold grip of fear from a past that should’ve stayed buried. He closed his eyes, forcing down the knot in his throat. “Nothing for you to worry about, kid,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse. “The only thing that matters now… is killing as many Chuckys as we can.”

His words hung heavy in the car, a grim vow that felt more like a curse.

________________________________________

Jake swung the rusty shovel with every ounce of strength he had left, the heavy metal cracking against plastic skulls as the horde of Chuckys swarmed closer. His arms ached, his breaths came in sharp gasps, and fear wrapped tight around his chest. Every direction he turned, there were more of them—dolls with twisted grins and flashing knives, their plastic feet scraping against the broken pavement as they closed in. Beside him, Detective Kim fired her gun, the cracks of gunfire ringing out into the chaos. “What even is this?!” she shouted, panic and frustration warping her voice. “Dolls coming to life and killing people?! What the hell even is this!?”

Kristen, reloading her gun with shaking hands, gave her a grim smirk. “First time?” she muttered, before snapping the chamber shut and firing at another Chucky lunging from the shadows.

Jake’s heart hammered painfully in his chest as he backed up, swinging wildly as another doll lunged at his legs. "There’s too many of them!" he cried, voice cracking. "How the hell are we supposed to rescue them?!" His eyes flickered toward the crumbling building just ahead, where Devon and Lexy were still trapped inside. He could hear Devon’s faint screaming through the cracks in the rubble, and the thought of losing them clawed at his mind like a nightmare. He was exhausted, terrified—and for a terrible second, he truly believed they weren’t going to make it out alive.

His hands slipped on the handle of the shovel, and he barely had time to react when a Chucky lunged at him from the side, eyes blazing, knife raised high. Jake’s breath hitched in his throat—he was too slow this time.

"Kid!" Kim shouted, diving forward in an attempt to shove him out of the way. Kristen’s gun faltered in her grip, her face frozen in horror as the doll flew toward Jake.

But before the knife could strike, there was a sudden, deafening gunshot. The Chucky jerked mid-air, letting out a violent, ragged scream before crashing to the ground, its face blown apart, sparks and plastic fragments scattering across the street.

Jake blinked in shock, his heart stuttering in his chest. "Who...?" he gasped, chest heaving. Who saved him?

“Jake!!” a voice called out, desperate and sharp. He whipped his head around, his wide eyes locking onto the sight of a familiar black car barreling toward them—moving fast and crushing every Chucky unfortunate enough to get in its path.

His breath caught, and tears burned at the corners of his eyes. "C-Charles...?" The name fell from his lips in a broken whisper, relief and disbelief crashing over him like a wave. He hadn’t abandoned them. Charles had come.

But as the car skidded closer, kicking up dust and broken doll parts, Jake’s confusion deepened. The figure leaning out the window—small, patchwork, and armed—was unmistakably a Chucky doll. But his face was stitched together, his expression grim and focused as he fired round after round with brutal precision, each shot finding its mark in the forehead of another attacking doll.

Jake’s hands trembled on the shovel. “Is... is that Charles?” he whispered to himself, his mind struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.

Next to him, Kristen’s eyes went wide as she caught sight of the man behind the wheel. “Andy?!” she choked out, her voice thick with disbelief.

The black car screeched to a halt between them and the advancing horde, shielding them just as another wave of Chuckys charged forward. And from the window, the stitched-faced doll kept firing, his glowing eyes sharp, deadly, and utterly unrelenting.

Jake’s tears finally spilled over as he gripped the shovel tighter, hope flaring painfully in his chest. Charles had come back. He wasn’t alone after all.

Charles jumped out from the car the moment it screeched to a stop, sprinting toward Jake with urgency burning in his little stitched-up body. But before he could even get close, Jake was yanked back behind Detective Kim, and Kristen stepped in front of them, her gun aimed square at Charles' face. "Move away, you shit doll!" Kristen snapped, her voice dripping with venom and her finger tight on the trigger.

Charles froze, his glowing eyes narrowing, but before he could say a word, Andy moved fast, stepping in front of him like a shield. "Stop, Kristen!" Andy barked, pushing her gun aside as Jake shoved away from Kim’s grasp.

Kristen gaped at him, her voice rising in anger. "Get away from him, Andy! Are you insane? That’s a Chucky! Why are you protecting him?!"

But Jake wasn’t listening to any of it—he broke through the shouting wall of people and threw himself at Charles, dropping the shovel and wrapping his arms around the doll’s small frame. His body shook as sobs wracked through him. "I-I thought you left us..." he cried, his voice breaking apart.

Charles stiffened at first, caught off guard by the raw emotion, but then he sighed and wrapped his small arms around Jake, patting his back clumsily. "Sorry, kid... I accidentally fell asleep at a KFC booth," he muttered, trying to lighten the boy’s mood.

Jake hiccupped through his tears and let out a wet chuckle. "And they didn’t kick you out?" he mumbled, his voice still trembling but tinted with relief. Charles snorted. "Fortunately not. Guess they just don’t care much anymore," he chuckled back, and for a brief second, the heavy weight pressing on everyone’s chest lifted just a little. Detective Kim blinked at the scene, her face twisted in utter confusion. "What... What is even happening right now? Why is this—this Chucky helping us?!" Kristen didn’t lower her gun, her glare now locked on Andy. "Talk, boy. I want answers, now."

But before Andy could open his mouth, another scream echoed from nearby—another poor soul getting torn apart by one of the rampaging Chuckys. Andy’s jaw clenched as he turned back to Kristen. "Maybe after we kill all these bastards first, yeah? But not him." He jabbed a finger at Charles, who was still quietly soothing Jake. "Not him."

Charles' head snapped up, his glow dimming as urgency returned to his face. "Where’s Lexy?!" he demanded, remembering her. Kim pointed toward the ruined building behind them. "My son and Lexy are trapped inside! We tried everything, but there’s too many—every time we get close, more of those damn dolls attack. We don’t have the firepower, and there’s no heavy equipment to clear the rubble!" Her voice cracked, the weight of helplessness bearing down on her.

Charles gently patted Jake’s head once more before slipping out of the boy’s trembling arms. "Andy! Get my baseball bat out of the trunk!" he barked, already turning toward the chaos. His voice sharpened as he looked at Kim and Kristen. "Detective Kim, Kristen—cover me. Keep the dolls off me while I go in there and get them out!" Then he turned back to Jake, his blue eyes softening. "Kid, I need you to protect my human body inside the car. I’ve only got one meat suit, and I really don’t wanna live with broken bones, got it?" Jake sniffed and nodded fiercely. "Got it." Without wasting another second, he sprinted to the car, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it tight.

Kim followed his gaze and caught sight of the unconscious man lying in the backseat. Her eyes widened as recognition struck. "Sir... Wedo?!" she whispered, her mind spinning as pieces she couldn’t yet understand started falling into place.

"Here..." Andy grunted as he handed the worn-out baseball to Charles. He watched the little doll grip it like it weighed a ton. "Can I ask... how exactly are you planning to save them? That building’s half-collapsed, and you’re gonna save them with a baseball?" Andy squinted, half-skeptical, half-worried. Charles just smirked, rolling his stitched shoulders as he stepped forward. "Let me give you a demonstration of Haitian Vodou, kid." His voice dropped low, almost vibrating with something older and darker. He shut his eyes, and when they snapped open again, they weren’t their usual eerie blue—they burned bright red like embers stoked in a forge.

"Mwen rele sou fòs dife nan Ogoun..." Charles growled, his tiny voice suddenly powerful as the wind around them shifted. Flames from the wreckage nearby seemed to flare higher, pulled toward him like hungry spirits. "Prete m fòs ou! Pou deplase mòn lan oswa genyen batay sa a. Mwen sipliye ou!" The baseball in his hands started to glow, wrapped in a pulsing red aura that crackled like molten heat. Andy stumbled back, shielding his face from the sudden blast of hot air. "Holy shit..." he muttered, realizing maybe he really didn’t want to know how deep Charles' voodoo went. Then, without waiting for anyone to question him further, Charles roared and hurled the glowing baseball straight at the base of the rubble like he was pitching the final strike of his life. The ground shook as the cursed object smashed into the collapsed wall, sending a shockwave through the building.

Inside, Devon flinched at the sudden quake, throwing himself over Lexy’s unconscious body to shield her from the raining debris. The whole place groaned and rumbled like it was about to cave in entirely—until suddenly, the wall before him cracked apart, light pouring in through the dust and smoke. His heart skipped. They were saved! "Devon!" a voice screamed out, and before he could even process it, his mom, Detective Kim, was bursting through the gap, stumbling over the rubble just to grab him and pull him into a crushing hug. "Oh, my baby... oh God, you’re okay," she sobbed, holding him like she was never letting go again. Devon’s breath hitched, and before he knew it, tears were slipping down his cheeks too. "I’m okay with this reunion and all," came a voice—harsh but weirdly lighthearted—"but we need to get Lexy outta here and to a hospital, like, now."

Devon stiffened at the sound, his head whipping around—and his eyes went wide when he saw the doll standing there. A Chucky. His body reacted first, fear shooting through him as he tried to scramble back, but his mom’s arms locked tighter around him. "Don’t be afraid, Devon," Kim said firmly, turning his head toward her. "He’s the one who saved you both." Devon blinked, heart racing, but then looked closer. The doll wasn’t lunging. It wasn’t laughing that cruel, high-pitched cackle. His eyes—red a second ago—were slowly fading back to a calm blue. His face was stitched up, yeah, his hair a little different... but his stare didn’t feel dangerous. It felt... tired. Old. "I’m Charles, by the way." The doll smiled—not a wicked grin, but something softer, smaller. "Hurt my feelings a little that you didn’t recognize me, kid. But then again... what, this is our first time meeting, huh?" He let out a breathy chuckle, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

Charles glanced down at Lexy, her chest rising and falling faintly, her blonde hair matted with blood and dust. His stitched face tightened. "Alright, kid," he grunted, locking eyes with Devon, "grab her legs. I’ve got her arms." Devon’s hands trembled, but when his mom gave him a firm nod, he swallowed hard and moved. Together, they lifted Lexy, her limp weight heavy and awkward between them. Charles, despite his small, plastic form, gripped her arm with strength that didn’t make sense for a doll. "Let’s move!" Kim barked, her gun raised as she led them through the ruined corridor.
But they didn’t get far.

From the shadows of the crumbling walls, red glints flared. One by one, dolls crawled and stumbled out—like cockroaches drawn to blood. Five at least. Their plastic faces twisted into identical snarls, each with the same eerie blue eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. One doll's face was half melted, a mess of warped vinyl. Another dragged itself forward on splintered arms, its legs missing but its knife flashing in its grip. Devon froze in terror. "T-they’re here—!" Charles’ grip on Lexy’s arm slackened as he stepped forward, placing his small frame squarely between the kids and the horde. His stitched face curled into a growl, and then—his eyes flashed.
Bright red.
Unlike the cold, unnatural blue glow of the other Chuckys, Charles’ red eyes burned, alive with power. It wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper, something older. His voice rumbled low.

"Mwen rele sou fòs dife nan Ogoun..." Devon and Kim could feel the air shift—the small fires crackled louder, flaring as if answering him. The first Chucky lunged with a screech. Charles ducked and twisted low, slamming his little fist into the doll’s throat with bone-cracking force. The enemy doll's head snapped back violently, the blue light in its eyes flickering as it collapsed. "Stay down, knockoff," Charles spat. His voice was deeper, rougher when his eyes burned red.

Another Chucky sprinted forward, blade raised high. Charles grabbed a rusted piece of rebar from the debris and, with a surge of unnatural strength, hurled it like a spear. It pierced clean through the doll’s chest, pinning it to the cracked wall. Its body twitched once and went still, blue eyes flickering out. Devon gaped, frozen. "H-he’s fighting them—" Kim grabbed her son by the shoulder. "MOVE!" she shouted, dragging him back as she covered them with her pistol, firing at another charging doll.

But two more Chuckys came fast. One managed to slash its knife, grazing Charles’ plastic arm—sending chips and shavings flying. Charles hissed in pain but snarled, grabbing the doll’s wrist. With a sickening snap, he twisted until the arm popped free. He then slammed his stitched forehead into its face, shattering the doll’s plastic skull like a broken porcelain mask. But the last doll leapt at Charles from behind—knife ready to strike deep.
BANG!
The doll's head exploded in a spray of stuffing and cracked plastic.

Andy stood at the breach of the building, shotgun smoking. "You good, Charles?!" he called out. Charles, panting hard, spat out a broken toothpick he’d been chewing. "Never better," he growled, though the red glow in his eyes flickered weakly. "Get the kids out—I’ll cover!" Andy didn’t hesitate. He reloaded and fired again, blasting another doll that tried to slip in from the side. Devon and Kim scrambled, hauling Lexy through the cracked wall. Kristen was already outside, laying down precise cover fire with cold, furious focus. Jake sprinted from the car, his chest heaving as he saw Devon and Lexy alive. "Devon! Lexy!" he cried, voice breaking.

Charles, breathing heavily, finally stumbled backward out of the rubble. His doll body was battered—deep slashes across his arm, cracks running through the stitches on his face, and a gash near his side leaking stuffing like blood. His red eyes dimmed and flickered, slowly returning to blue as he collapsed to one knee, exhausted. Jake ran to him and dropped down, wrapping his arms around Charles tightly. "Told you I wouldn’t let them die, kid," Charles muttered, his voice hoarse. He tried to crack a grin, but his body trembled. Jake's tears spilled over as he hugged the battered doll even tighter. "Yeah, yeah—easy, kid. I’m still breakable, y’know," Charles mumbled, though he didn’t pull away.

Andy jogged over, breathless, eyes flicking between the ruined building and the small group. "We gotta move before more come. Charles is running low—he can’t hold that power much longer." Kristen stared at Charles, her hands shaking as she lowered her gun. "...That’s not the same Chucky," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Charles, still catching his breath, looked up at her with tired but sharp eyes. "Damn right I’m not." His red eyes flared one last time—weak but defiant.

________________________________________

Kim gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white as she swerved the black car through the burning streets. The wheels screeched as they dodged debris and the scattered bodies of more Chucky dolls crawling in the shadows. Sweat poured down her temple, but her eyes stayed locked on the road. “Come on, just a little further—” In the backseat, Jake sat between two fragile worlds. On one side, Lexy lay unconscious, her face pale, barely breathing. On the other, Charles’ human body slumped against the door, like a dead body, soulless. Jake’s hands trembled as he adjusted Lexy’s head on his lap, biting his lip to keep from crying again.

“Please be okay… both of you…” Jake whispered, his voice cracking. His eyes flicked between Lexy and Charles, desperate, helpless. He could still hear Charles’ voice from earlier—‘Jake, protect my body… I don't want to live with it broken.’ And now here he was, cradling both his best friend and the man who’d saved him, feeling like a kid lost in a nightmare.
Beside him, Devon pressed a towel against his bleeding arm, his face twisted with pain. He turned toward Jake, his voice hoarse. "How much longer to the hospital? Lexy needs help, Jake—she’s barely breathing—"

"I know!" Jake snapped, panic rising in his throat. He squeezed Lexy's hand tighter. "I'm trying—" "Kids, hold on!" Kim shouted. The car jolted as she ran over something in the road, making all of them bounce in their seats. "I see the main road up ahead—hospital’s ten minutes out, if we’re lucky and those freak dolls don’t block us again!" Devon grit his teeth and looked at Jake, voice quieter now. "Charles will be okay, right? He—he’s strong. He’s… not gonna die, right?" Jake’s lips quivered. He couldn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked on Charles’ human body. And in that awful silence, the only thing Jake could do was whisper again.
"Please… don’t die…"

________________________________________

Charles' eyes flickered violently between blazing red and cold blue as he brought his baseball bat down with a roar, crushing another Chucky’s skull with a sickening crack. Blood and stuffing exploded outward, splattering across his stitched face. He staggered back, panting, his plastic chest heaving like a man about to collapse. Every time Ogoun’s power surged through him, it stole more of his strength — like his soul was being burned from the inside out.

"Hey, shit-face!" Kristen's voice cut through the chaos. She stood a few feet away, gun smoking, her face twisted in a cold, unimpressed glare. "You really that tired from just fighting yourself?" Another Chucky lunged at her, but she spun and fired without missing a beat, dropping it with a clean headshot.

"Kristen, knock it off!" Andy shouted, blasting his shotgun at a doll that was creeping up behind Charles. He turned toward Charles, his voice sharp with worry. "Charles, stay with us!" But Charles didn’t answer. He clenched his teeth, his hands shaking so hard the bat almost slipped from his grasp. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, growing louder and louder until it drowned out everything else — the gunshots, the screams, even Andy’s voice. His vision blurred, red and blue lights flashing so fast they blended into blinding white.

"Fuck—!" Charles cursed, stumbling back as he grabbed at his face, his small hands clawing at his eyes like he could tear the pain away. It felt like his skull was splitting open, his eyes about to burst from their sockets.

Andy saw him stop dead in his tracks, saw the bat fall from his fingers. "Charles?!" he called out, his voice breaking. He started toward him, heart pounding. Charles' legs buckled. The last thing he saw was Kristen turning toward him in surprise, her eyes wide, before the world tipped sideways. His body hit the ground hard, his little limbs sprawled out like a broken toy. The red light in his eyes sputtered and died, leaving only empty, faded blue.

"CHARLES!" Andy’s shout tore through the chaos as he sprinted toward the fallen doll, his chest tight with panic. Kristen’s smirk vanished, her face paling as she realized — he wasn’t getting back up. All around them, more Chuckys were closing in. But Andy didn't care. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Charles' limp body and shaking him hard. "Come on, dammit! Get up! We’re not done yet!" But Charles didn’t move. His stitches were torn, his cracked face covered in grime and blood, his small chest frighteningly still.

Andy felt something twist in his gut. Charles was down.

________________________________________

Charles opened his eyes again, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might shatter his ribs. The air was thick, hot, suffocating. He was back inside the old wardrobe, the wood splintering against his back, the smell of dust and old clothes clogging his nose. His mother’s hand was clamped over his mouth so hard he thought his jaw would snap. Her nails dug into his skin, sharp and merciless. Too tight. Always too tight. His lungs burned, desperate for air, but her grip only tightened, as if squeezing the fear right out of him. Can this woman even do anything gently? Of course not.

Then it came—the bang. Loud, violent, shaking the thin walls of the bedroom.

“I KNOW you’re in there, woman!!” the man’s voice bellowed from outside, raw and cracked like it had been soaked in whiskey and rage. Charles flinched, every muscle locking up as his mother’s breathing grew frantic, her chest heaving against his back. Another bang—stronger this time—the door rattled like it was about to fly off its hinges. Boom. Boom. Boom. Each hit made the wardrobe tremble, made the shadows dance, made the fear twist tighter inside his small chest until he thought he’d choke on it.

The man laughed then—a horrible, wet chuckle that scraped along Charles’ spine like broken glass. “Where are you now, huh? Your husband’s been sent to heaven or hell—by me... And I can send you to him next.” Charles couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. His heart was beating so loud it drowned out everything else. Who is this? His mind screamed, but his body stayed frozen, paralyzed by the terror pressing down on him like a heavy, black cloud.

Then the wardrobe doors flew open with a violent crash. Light flooded in, sharp and blinding, and standing there was a man—grinning wide, yellow teeth showing like a wolf. And in his hand, a gun.
“Found you.”

Before Charles could even react, his mother shoved him forward—hard—sending him sprawling face-first onto the cold floor. Pain exploded in his lip as it split open, the taste of blood flooding his mouth. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the deeper wound tearing open inside him. Because then he heard her voice. “N-No! D-Don’t kill me! K-Kill my useless son instead! I swear, I can find the money you need! Please—I can get it! What’ll you get if I die, huh?!” Charles froze, eyes wide, his body trembling as he slowly turned his head to look at her. His own mother. The woman who was supposed to protect him. But she wasn’t shielding him—she was handing him over like garbage. Offering him up to save herself. Throwing him away.

His chest heaved, every breath sharp and ragged, tears stinging his eyes—not just from fear, but from something darker, hotter, gnawing at his insides like fire. How... how could she...? The man paused, blinking in genuine shock before letting out a low, disgusted laugh. "Jesus Christ… What kinda mother says that?” He shook his head and turned his attention to Charles, who was still crumpled on the floor, fists clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms.

The man crouched low, grinning, and pushed Charles lightly with the tip of his boot, making him flinch. “Hey, kid. I’ll give you a choice.” He held out the gun, the metal gleaming in the dim light like a promise of something final. “You can let your dear ol’ mom live. Or…” he smirked, eyes glittering with sick amusement, “you can shoot her. Right here. Right now. Your choice, kid.” Charles stared at the gun, breathing hard, his small hands shaking so bad he thought they might fall off. His mother’s voice cracked through the air—

“C-Charles… Sweetie… Y-You’re a good boy, right? You wouldn’t hurt mommy, right? R-Right?”

Her voice dripped with fake sweetness, but he could hear the fear underneath, see the sweat rolling down her face.

But in his head—
Every path leads to the same place.

If he shot her—he’d live with the regret forever.
If he let her live—she’d go right back to hitting him, screaming at him, reminding him every day that he was nothing.

There was no winning. No escape. Just... regret. Always regret.

The man’s voice cut through his spinning thoughts. “Tick tock, kid. I ain’t got all day.” His smile widened, like he was enjoying the show. Charles’ fingers closed around the gun. It was heavier than he expected. So heavy it felt like it carried the weight of every ugly, painful thing in his life. His hands trembled as he lifted it, his vision blurring from the tears he refused to let fall. His mother watched him, eyes wide, her breath shallow and quick.

His heart raced. His mind screamed.
Do it. Don’t do it. Do it. Don’t do it.
No matter which path he chose—he’d lose.
His grip tightened. His breathing slowed.

Then, without a word, Charles did the only thing that made sense in the chaos.

He lifted the gun—

And turned the barrel to his own head. The man’s smirk vanished, replaced by horror. “What—hey, kid—!” His mother’s shriek pierced the room like a knife. “C-CHARLES?!” His tears spilled over now, hot and bitter, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something else. A desperate, broken kind of peace.

Let me die without regret...

His finger squeezed the trigger.
And he pulled it.

________________________________________

Everything went black. A silence so heavy it crushed the air out of his lungs, a void swallowing everything—sound, light, pain—until even his thoughts felt distant, like echoes in a tomb. Charles floated in it, weightless and cold, his body numb, his mind spinning in that empty space where even regret couldn’t touch him. For a moment, he almost welcomed it. Is this it? Did I finally do it? No more pain, no more screaming…

But then—

A voice cut through the dark like a blade. Deep, smooth, laced with mockery. “Never knew you could just alter that memory of yours! Oh, you are something else, Charles…” Charles’ eyes snapped open, breath catching in his throat. The darkness peeled away, and now he was face-to-face with him. The serpent god. The trickster. The one whose name dripped with ancient power and dread.

Damballa.

Charles’ head pounded as he struggled to sit up, clutching at his temples like he could hold his splintering mind together. “Where… Where am I…?” His voice cracked, raw with confusion and fear. His vision blurred, but Damballa’s shape loomed clear—tall, wicked, amused. “You are in the state of dying, Charles.” Damballa’s laugh echoed all around him, sharp and cruel, like a choir of unseen demons joining in.

“W-What?” Charles blinked, heart racing as panic flared again in his chest. Dying? No—he couldn’t—he couldn’t! Not now, not yet! But Damballa only grinned wider, like a predator watching its prey squirm. “That’s the consequence, little mortal. You called upon Ogoun's strength, raw and wild, without practice, without devotion. And now look at you… broken, bleeding, caught between life and death.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through the empty black void like a drumbeat of doom. “I feel betrayed, Charles. You called him instead of me. I should strike you down for that.” His sharp teeth flashed as he smiled, wicked and wide.

Charles’ hands trembled as he buried his face in them, breath ragged, mind racing.
The kids…
His heart clenched painfully.
Jake. Devon. Lexy. Andy…

His thoughts slammed into him all at once, every face flashing in his head like a lightning storm of guilt and fear. They need me. I can’t die now. Andy’s still waiting—still suffering—and Chucky… those monsters… they’re still out there. I can’t leave it like this. He looked up at Damballa, his face pale but his eyes blazing with that old fire, that stubborn, reckless will that refused to die. “Let me make a contract with you, Damballa.” His voice wavered, but he forced it out. “Protect my soul… keep me alive as long as you can—until I kill every last Chucky roaming this world.”

Damballa arched a brow, amused by the defiance, by the sheer audacity of this broken man still trying to barter with gods. “And what do I get out of this, hmm?” The god’s voice slithered, low and dangerous, coiling around Charles like a vice. Charles swallowed hard, chest heaving. “I’ll give you the entertainment you crave… in the name of Haitian Vodou. I’ll spread your name through blood and chaos. I swear it.” Damballa’s wicked grin only grew. He shook his head slowly, chuckling again.

“Let me sweeten the deal, little killer.”

His form shimmered—then grew. Grew until the shadows cracked and twisted, until he became a massive serpent, scales as black as the void, eyes glowing with a sickly golden light. The great snake coiled around Charles, encircling him tighter and tighter, until it felt like the weight of the world was crushing his chest. “You will be my successor from now on.” Damballa’s voice thundered, vibrating through Charles’ bones. “I don’t care if you call other gods. I don’t care if you cheat death a hundred more times. But when you fight—when you kill—I want you to use my power. I want my name whispered in fear again. I want my strength roaring through your veins.”

The serpent’s head loomed close, breath hot and rancid against Charles’ face.
“Show me the entertainment I crave, Charles Lee Ray. Make the world bleed for me.”

Then Damballa blew out a great gust of wind—so powerful it hurled Charles backward, sending him tumbling through the dark void like a ragdoll. The wind screamed in his ears, the darkness spun around him until it felt like he was falling, falling endlessly—

And somewhere, deep in the pit of his soul, Charles felt it—

The pact sealing shut like iron chains.
The deal struck.
The price paid.

His body burned, his veins searing like molten fire, his heart pounding harder than ever before as life clawed its way back into him, brutal and unforgiving. But he welcomed it. Because death could wait. The world hadn’t seen the last of Charles Lee Ray yet.

________________________________________

Back in Hackensack, the town was nothing but a graveyard painted in fire and screams. Blood stained the cracked streets, houses stood in ruin, windows shattered like broken promises. The air stank of smoke and death. The people—those few left—had been torn apart by Chucky’s endless horde. The dolls kept coming, grinning, laughing, slicing through everything alive. It should’ve been hopeless. It was hopeless. If not for Andy and Kristen, still standing amidst the nightmare, bodies bruised, clothes soaked with sweat and blood—fighting like mad dogs just to keep this horror from swallowing everything.

Andy clutched the broken doll body of Charles against his chest like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity, his knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Charles had saved him. Had saved them. And now—now he just looked like another ruined doll.

Kristen’s breath came in ragged gasps, fury twisting her face as she leveled her gun at the nearest Chucky charging at them, its tiny blade raised high. She pulled the trigger—click. Nothing. Empty.
“Can these fucking dolls even die?!” she screamed, voice cracking with raw exhaustion and rage. She threw the useless gun straight at the doll’s head, making it stumble, then lunged forward and kicked it with everything she had left.

Andy turned, shotgun braced against his shoulder, and fired—another Chucky went flying back in pieces. He grunted, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. “I’m almost out too!” he growled. He looked down at his shotgun, counting the shells left like counting seconds until death. Kristen spun on him, eyes wild. “I thought you opened a damn gun store! Where’s all your ammo?!” Andy’s lips twitched in a bitter, breathless laugh. “I—I left it... in the truck. The one I crashed. The one I violated...” His voice trailed off as realization and shame crept in.

Kristen gaped at him, then let out a harsh, breathless laugh that was more pain than humor. “You absolute dumbass!” She whipped her head around, spotted a rusted wrench half-buried in the rubble, and snatched it up. “You could’ve died!” she shouted, rage spilling out as she charged at another Chucky, swinging the wrench with a sickening crack that sent plastic teeth flying. Andy fired again, his last shell, then threw the empty gun down and grabbed a steel pipe from the ground. His eyes flicked to Charles’ doll body, still clutched tight in one arm, and his throat closed up. He couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not ever.

“And I’m still here, alive and breathing—thanks to him!” Andy shouted back, voice hoarse but fierce as he smashed the pipe into another doll’s grinning face, shattering it into sparks and blood. Kristen turned, face flushed, chest heaving, eyes blazing with disbelief. “That’s bullshit!” she spat, slamming her wrench down again and again into another Chucky, even after it stopped moving. She couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. Because if she did—if she let herself feel the weight of it all—she’d fall apart.

The town was falling, the dolls were still coming, but they stood their ground, two broken survivors against an unending nightmare. And somewhere deep inside Andy’s chest, as he hugged that doll tighter, a flicker of hope still burned. Because Charles wasn’t gone. Not yet.

Suddenly, Andy’s arms felt the weight shift—he froze. There was a groan, faint but real, rumbling from the ruined doll cradled against his chest. His breath caught in his throat. "C-Charles…?" His voice cracked, raw with hope and disbelief, tears springing to his eyes. "Charles!" he choked out, clutching the doll tighter like he could will him fully awake. Kristen, covered in grime and blood, barely glanced back as she slammed her wrench into another Chucky’s grinning face. "Finally!" she barked, breathless and furious. "No time for your voodoo drama—just kill every last one of these plastic freaks!" She smashed the doll again with a wet crunch, her body shaking with rage.

Charles groaned, his voice rough, but there was that familiar sharpness in it, even now. "Can you be patient, woman?" he hissed, shaking his head weakly. His glowing, half-broken eyes turned to Andy, softer now. "Get to safety… let me handle this." His words were strained but steady, like steel pulled from the fire. "B-But—" Andy stammered, torn between the instinct to fight and the terror of letting go. But before he could even finish, Kristen grabbed his arm with iron force, yanking him back. His grip slipped, the doll dropping from his shaking hands and landing hard, face-first into the dirt and blood-streaked ground. "Let’s go, Andy!!" Kristen snapped, dragging him away like a lifeline yanked from drowning hands. "H-Hey—Kristen!!" Andy’s voice broke as he struggled against her pull, desperate eyes flicking back to Charles lying there.

Charles, still on the ground, exhaled slow and deep, his face twisted in pain and grim determination. He pushed himself up with trembling arms and glanced around—the empty street was gone. Now there was only them—a circling pack of Chucky dolls, dozens of them, laughing, snarling, blades glinting in the rain-soaked dark. They closed in like jackals. "Well, well, look who finally woke up," one Chucky sneered, brandishing a butcher’s knife. "What do we have here? A defective doll?" The others cackled, voices high-pitched and insane. "Yeah, and what’s with those ugly-ass stitches, huh? Thought we all got shiny new bodies! You're like the bootleg version of us!" They howled with laughter, circling tighter.

Charles didn’t flinch. He just sighed, his hand clenching into a trembling fist as he stared down at his stitched, broken fingers. "Show me…" he whispered, voice low and cracked. "Show me how powerful you are, Damballa…" His head snapped up—and his eyes flared bright, molten gold that cut through the gloom like wildfire. The laughter stopped. The dolls stared, their smirks fading into frowns.

"What the hell—?" one Chucky muttered.

Then Charles roared, voice raw and thunderous: "Nan non Damballa!" The sky groaned as swirling black clouds churned overhead. "Ban mwen pouvwa ou… Kite m 'kontwole nanm yo nan modi a!" Lightning split the heavens, and then—rain. A torrential downpour hammered down, soaking everything in seconds, turning the street into a river of blood and mud. The Chucky dolls shuffled, uneasy now. "What… what is he trying to do?!" one barked, voice cracking. "I don’t know, but it feels dangerous—STOP HIM!" another screamed. And then they lunged, all of them, blades raised, screaming like demons.
But Charles stood tall now, rain pounding against his stitched-up body, soaking through the burnt stuffing and plastic. His chest heaved as he cried out one final time, voice splitting the storm: "Mwen sipliye w, Damballa mwen!!" In a flash, golden light pulsed from his hands—blinding, furious—and then he pointed his hands, a shaking but deadly steady. "GIVE ME BACK MY SOUL!!"

The world seemed to shatter. The Chucky dolls froze mid-charge. Their eyes widened in terror as their bodies seized up, spasming violently. "W-What the fuck is happening—?!" one shrieked, voice strangled. Their limbs jerked like puppets on broken strings, their faces twisted in agony. "It hurts!—Why does it fucking hurt?!" another bellowed, clawing at its own throat. The rain turned black around them as their souls—dark, fractured pieces—began to rip free, sucked toward Charles like leaves in a storm. One by one, they howled, voices growing shrill and desperate as they realized—this wasn’t like before. This time, their souls were being torn out. "STOP IT!!" they screamed, but it was too late.

Charles’ body shook violently as he absorbed the power, his golden eyes blazing brighter, his mouth set in a grim line. "You… all… are from me," he growled through clenched teeth, voice trembling with fury and pain. "I’m taking it… BACK." And the dolls could only scream.

________________________________________

Andy could only watch in frozen horror as the sky turned black and the storm raged like Hell itself had cracked open above Hackensack. He could hear them—all of them—those dozens of Chuckies screaming, their voices raw and inhuman, like dying animals. Kristen stood beside him, wrench gripped tight but forgotten in her hand, her face pale as ash. "What the fuck…" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind and the screams.

The golden light swirled around Charles like a living storm, thick tendrils of glowing power lashing out and yanking the fractured souls from every last Chucky. One by one, their bodies crumpled, lifeless and empty, collapsing into the blood-soaked mud with a wet, final thud. The light didn’t stop. It kept pouring into Charles, brighter and brighter until it hurt to look at him. His small, battered doll frame arched backward, arms spread wide as if he were being crucified by the power surging into him.

And then—
Silence.

The rain slowed. The clouds broke. And all that was left were the limp husks of the Chuckies, scattered like broken toys in the mud. Charles collapsed to his knees, the golden light fading from his eyes until only faint embers remained. Andy’s heart clenched so hard it hurt. "Charles!" he screamed, breaking free from Kristen’s grip and sprinting across the ruined street. His boots splashed through puddles, slipping on bodies and wreckage, but he didn’t stop—he couldn’t. "Charles!!" He dropped to his knees in front of the doll, trembling hands reaching out. Charles’ chest rose and fell weakly, his small, stitched-up face twisted in pain and exhaustion, but he was alive.

Andy let out a broken sob and wrapped his arms around him, crushing the little doll against his chest like he never wanted to let go again. "You did it—oh my God, Charles, you did it," he choked, tears streaming down his face, soaking into Charles’ matted hair. "You're alive, you're fucking alive—" Charles, weak and wheezing, let out a hoarse chuckle. "God… damn… you're loud…"

"Shut up—" Andy sobbed harder, his fingers shaking as they tangled in the doll’s filthy hair. "You scared the shit out of me—I thought—I thought I lost you—" His voice cracked, and he clung even tighter, like he was afraid Charles would vanish if he let go. "Don’t ever do that again, you son of a bitch…" Charles let out a raspy sigh, leaning weakly into Andy’s embrace. "Yeah… yeah… I’ll try…" He coughed, a little smirk tugging at his torn lips. "But no promises…"

Behind them, Kristen stood in stunned silence, staring at the scene—at the man who once terrorized half the country now clinging to the only person who ever believed in him. The air was thick with the smell of rain and blood, but for a moment, all she could hear was Andy’s ragged breathing and the broken whisper of Charles' voice.

The nightmare wasn’t over yet—not completely. But for now, the storm had passed. And in the middle of the wreckage, Andy and Charles held onto each other like they were the only two souls left in the world.

Chapter Text

Steam curled in lazy spirals above the bath, heavy with the scent of vanilla beans and the sharp sweetness of orange blossom. The flicker of candlelight painted trembling gold across Charles’ scarred chest as he sank deeper into the warmth, the water lapping at his collarbones, petals drifting like little ghosts around him.

The plate of fried bananas sat untouched, the sugar starting to melt into sticky puddles. Beside it, the unopened bottle of champagne caught the candlelight but offered no comfort. Charles plucked another rose from the bouquet at his side. The thorns bit into his skin, sharp and unrelenting, and his fingers blossomed with fresh blood. He barely noticed. His mind wasn’t in the room. It was far away, tangled up in thoughts of Andy.

A sigh shuddered out of him, heavy and broken. His eyes fluttered shut as he whispered, voice raw and low, “Tanpri tande rèl mwen, Erzulie. Bote ou ak distenksyon se etonan.” His hand trembled, the rose crumpling in his grip as the pain built—but he didn’t let go. He squeezed harder, blood streaming down his wrist to mingle with the fragrant water. “Mwen renmen l anpil, li fè m mal.” Tears gathered, hot and stinging, slipping down his cheeks in silence. “Tande lapenn mwen, epi ede m... Tanpri.” The room seemed to hush around him. The candle flames steadied, the air thickened. Charles’ eyes snapped open—and they burned magenta, glowing softly in the dim light. A heat bloomed around him, wrapping his body in a sensation that was almost a caress. It was as if unseen arms held him close, cradling his battered soul.

His breath hitched. For a moment, the pain in his hand, the sting of tears, even the torment inside his heart—it all blurred beneath the warmth that pressed against him. He didn’t know if it was Erzulie answering or a fevered dream born from desperation, but it made his chest ache in a new way. He gripped the rose tighter, the thorns tearing into his palm until blood painted his fingers. He watched it drip into the water, swirling red into sweetness, and he chuckled — a low, bitter sound that barely rose above the crackle of the candle flames.

He lifted his mangled hand, studying it with a twisted smile. "I'm bad at feelings," he muttered, voice hoarse. "If you’ve seen my life from your husband, that is." His laughter was empty, a hollow shell of humor that broke apart too easily. "This feeling for him... it's the most disgusting thing I’ve felt in my entire life." His gaze dropped to the water, where his reflection wavered — magenta eyes glowing through the blood-stained bath, staring back like a stranger.

"I've been fighting this awful feeling for three years..." He tipped his head back, throat tight, eyes burning. "But it never fades. No matter how much I bleed, no matter how deep I drown myself in this filth... it stays." The rose slipped from his hand, petals scattering like fallen hopes, blood mixing with the perfumed water until even beauty turned rotten. "I know I’ll never get what I want from him," he whispered, voice raw as an open wound. "So please… if you can take this feeling away, I’d be glad. Happy, even. Because no one — no one — will love a serial killer who destroyed their damn life." The last words cracked apart, falling into silence that felt colder than death.

His body trembled, his spirit caught between prayer and curse, love and loathing. And all around him, the petals, the blood, and the candle flames seemed to pulse, as if the spirits were listening — but choosing to let him suffer just a little longer.

________________________________________

The morning sun blazed down on the campus, golden light catching on the sea of black caps as they soared into the sky. Cheers erupted from every corner, voices raw from shouting but still rising higher. Students hugged, cried, and laughed all at once, the air electric with relief and triumph. On the stage, Charles stood between Aaron and Maya, all three of them breathless from laughing too hard. Their cheeks hurt from smiling, but none of them cared. It was over — they’d done it. Together.

Charles ran a hand through his tangled hair, still grinning like an idiot. “So, Aaron… are you happy you flipped off your professor when you get your paper?” His voice was rough with laughter. Aaron threw his head back, cackling so hard he nearly doubled over. "Oh, I am in such joy! I mean, did you see his face? Absolutely devastated. Like I reached into his chest and crushed his little academic heart!" He slapped Charles on the back, tears forming in his eyes from laughing too hard. Maya just shook her head, but even she couldn’t hide her smile. “You two are gonna get cursed one day, I swear.” Before Charles could reply, a shout rose from below the stage. “Hey, everyone!” Layla’s voice cut through the noise, bright and sharp. She stood grinning up at them, camera in hand, her hair catching the sunlight like a halo. "Say happy graduate!" She pointed the lens at them, already snapping photos.

Aaron whooped and threw his arms around Charles and Maya, nearly knocking them over in his excitement. “HAPPY GRADUATE!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, flashing a wild peace sign. Charles just smiled, soft and rare, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but still felt real in the moment. Maya stuck her tongue out at the camera, her laughter bubbling over. The flash went off, freezing them in time — joy and chaos and friendship tangled together in a single shot.

“Daddy!”

Charles barely had time to turn before he heard the rapid patter of little feet, and then—“Daddy!!” Glenda’s voice rang out, bright and giddy, cutting through the noise of the graduation crowd. Glen followed right behind, smiling that shy little smile that always made Charles’ chest ache. He stood at the edge of the stage, small arms lifted up, wordlessly asking for uppy. Without thinking, Charles jumped down, landing heavy but sure, and scooped both of them into his arms in one fierce hug. Their tiny arms wrapped around his neck like anchors, and he held them tighter, burying his face between their heads, breathing them in. “Hello, Glen… Glenda… Miss your daddy already?” His voice cracked a little, soft and rough all at once. Glenda giggled against his ear. Glen just nodded, face pressed to Charles’ shoulder, arms clinging tighter like he never wanted to let go.

A familiar voice cut in, sharp but sweet. “Of course they missed their daddy, even though you were only gone, what—five hours?” Tiffany's laugh carried over as she strode up, her blonde hair catching every flash from the cameras trailing her. She moved like a storm wrapped in diamonds, bodyguards flanking her like a wall of muscle. Charles glanced around at the sea of black suits and earpieces, clearly annoyed. “Did you really need this many bodyguards? It’s a damn college campus, Tiff.” His jaw clenched as another bodyguard nearly bumped Glen trying to clear the way.

Tiffany didn’t even blink, just popped a bubble of pink gum and pointed over her shoulder. “You don’t know how animals they get just seeing Jennifer Tilly in real life.” She thumbed at the chaos behind her — a mob of paparazzi and sweaty men, shoving and shouting just to catch a glimpse of her or shove a paper in her face for an autograph. One guy was literally climbing over a trash can, camera swinging wildly. Charles sighed, long and tired, adjusting his grip on the kids as if shielding them from all of it. His fingers unconsciously curled protectively around Glen’s back, as if to remind himself that this — not the flashes, not the fame — was real. Glen peeked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. Glenda was already squirming, eager to show off their dad to anyone who’d listen. And somewhere deep in Charles’ chest, that old ache twisted again — love so fierce it almost felt like pain.

“Oh my God—Jennifer Tilly!!” Layla’s voice cracked the air like a gunshot, and before Charles could react, she was sprinting toward them, camera flashing wildly like a strobe light. The bursts of white blinded both him and Tiffany, spots blooming in Charles’ vision as Layla skidded to a stop way too close. “Oh, Miss Tilly! Can you tell me—how’s your career going? What's your favorite pose when you're taking pictures? What's your—" She didn’t get to finish. Charles reached out and smacked her on the back, not hard, but enough to jolt her mid-ramble. “Layla, are you a model in training or a reporter on crack?” His voice was sharp but edged with that familiar dry humor. Layla blinked, then just stuck out her tongue like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She chuckled under her breath, cheeks going pink. The camera hung from her neck, still swinging from the wild shots she’d just taken.

Maya stepped in then, her voice calmer but laced with curiosity. She gave Tiffany a measured look, one brow raised. “Hello, Miss Jennifer… or should I call you Tiffany?” Tiffany’s lips curled into that glossy, dangerous smile. She popped another bubble of gum, the snap loud in the heavy air. “Just Tiffany is fine, sweetheart. I already know Charles spilled everything to you two.” Her gaze flicked between Maya and Aaron like a queen sizing up new subjects. Aaron grinned nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, while Maya just crossed her arms, eyes sharp but respectful.

Layla, still confused, frowned and lowered her camera. “Tiffany? Why Tiffany? What are you guys talking about?” Her voice had lost its earlier squeal, now edged with suspicion. Charles just chuckled, deep and tired, his eyes flicking from Layla’s innocent confusion to Tiffany’s knowing smirk. He shifted Glen higher in his arms, kissed the top of Glenda’s head, and sighed. “It’s a long story, kid. Real long. Better ready your mental for this one.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Cause once you hear it… there’s no going back.”

________________________________________

Charles glanced around, his eyes scanning the crowd without meaning to, searching for something—someone. His grip tightened unconsciously around Glen and Glenda, but his gaze kept drifting, flicking past laughing students, proud parents, and snapping cameras. He swallowed hard, the taste bitter in his throat. He already knew. Andy wasn’t here. He told himself that a hundred times before today. That he didn’t need Andy to show up. That he didn’t need to see that familiar face in the crowd, smiling at him, maybe clapping like an idiot and yelling his name. He didn’t need it—didn’t want it.

But still… somewhere deep where he couldn’t reach, that part of him kept hoping. That maybe, just maybe, Andy would be here. Hidden in the back, watching. That he’d come forward, congratulate him, maybe throw an arm around him and say he was proud. That for one stupid second, they could both forget the years of blood and pain and just be happy together, even if it was a lie. As the minutes dragged on, as the voices got louder and the sunlight burned hotter on his skin, that fragile hope started to shrivel. Like petals left out in the sun too long, it dried up, piece by piece. He could feel it slipping away, and no amount of looking would bring it back.

Charles let out a breath, slow and shaking, like it hurt to exhale. He dropped his eyes, kissed Glenda’s head again, and muttered softly to himself, “You knew he wouldn’t come. You knew.” Still, that hollow space in his chest ached, wide and raw, as if every time he hoped, it carved the wound just a little deeper. But then, just as that empty ache threatened to swallow him whole, he caught movement in the crowd—familiar faces breaking through the sea of strangers. Jake, Lexy, and Devon, running toward him with wide smiles and open arms. “Charles!” they called out in unison before crashing into him in a messy, tight hug that nearly knocked the air from his lungs. Their laughter spilled out loud and bright, wrapping around him like a bandage over an old wound. Charles blinked hard and let out a breathless chuckle, hugging them back with all the strength he had. “Awhh, thanks, kids…” His voice was rough, thick in his throat. Gently, he passed Glen and Glenda over to Tiffany, letting his hands finally be free to ruffle Jake’s hair and pull Lexy and Devon in closer. For a second, it felt like family — real and solid and his.

His eyes dropped to Lexy’s leg, and his brow furrowed with concern as he knelt a little, looking her over like an overprotective uncle. “How’s your leg doing, Lexy? You better not be dancing on a broken bone, kid.” His voice was light, but his eyes betrayed the fear that still lingered. Lexy grinned and waved her leg around with a dramatic little flourish. “It’s fine, see? Not broken or anything. Just a small crack in the bone, but it’s already healing.” She wagged her foot like she was showing off a trophy, her grin proud and fierce. Charles let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, you know that?”

But before he could say more, Jake’s voice broke through — soft, shaky, but urgent. “Charles…” Charles turned, and his heart clenched. Jake stood there, head ducked low, face burning red, hands fidgeting like he couldn’t get them to stay still. “What is it, kid?” Charles asked, stepping closer. His tone was gentle now, instinctively softer. And then he saw it—Jake’s right hand reaching out, trembling slightly, and slipping into Devon’s left. Their fingers laced together, and Jake gripped it tight like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “M-me and D-Devon are… we’re officially boyfriends!” Jake’s voice cracked on the word, and he let out a nervous, high-pitched screech right after, cheeks glowing. Devon just sighed and shook his head, but his smile was wide and real, the kind that made Charles’ chest feel warm. “Yeah… Jake confessed first,” Devon said, squeezing Jake’s hand gently, like it was second nature now.

For a beat, Charles just stared at them, heart swelling until it felt too big for his chest. And then the joy broke through, raw and bright. “Oh, congratulations, both of you!” He grabbed Jake by the shoulders, gave Devon a firm pat on the back, and grinned so wide it almost hurt. “You have to give me all the details later, you hear me? I expect the full, embarrassing story.” He winked at them, his laughter bubbling up like he couldn’t hold it down anymore. Jake giggled, shy but glowing, and nodded fast. Devon chuckled, squeezing Jake’s hand a little tighter.

________________________________________

By nightfall, after hours of wandering through stores, snapping pictures at every corner, and letting the girls burn through Tiffany’s credit card on clothes they absolutely didn’t need, they finally ended up at the restaurant. Tiffany had booked the whole place out just for them—no strangers, no interruptions, no flashing cameras. Just their chaotic little circle. It wasn’t just any fancy place—it had a kids’ park built right inside, neon lights flashing and plastic slides spiraling down like twisted rainbows. The laughter of children echoed through the space, mixing with the clatter of dishes and low music. Glen and Glenda were already tearing through the play area with Jake, Lexy, Devon, and even Detective Kim, who had somehow been roped into a game of tag and was now chasing after them with more energy than her badge ever required.

Meanwhile, Charles sat stiffly at the table, surrounded by Tiffany, Aaron, Maya, and Layla—all of whom were already half a bottle deep into celebration mode. He barely had time to settle before a glass of deep red wine was shoved under his nose. “Come on, Charles! It’s just one drink!” Aaron slurred, face flushed, voice too loud. “It’s a celebration! Time to kill off three years of pure suffering with some goddamn alcohol!”

Charles’ jaw tightened. He pushed the glass back, not rough, but firm. “I told you. I’ve stopped drinking. I’m not doing this.” His voice dropped, low and final, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed just how close to snapping he really was. Aaron pouted dramatically, nearly tipping over as he leaned in to shove the glass again. “Awwh, c'mon! Live a little!” But before the argument could spiral, Tiffany let out a long, dramatic sigh and started digging through her oversized bag—the kind of designer monstrosity that looked like it could swallow a person whole. “Boys, boys, boys… fighting over wine when I’ve got a much better solution.”

Charles barely had time to react before she yanked something out and slammed it on the table with a grin. A Good Guy doll. His doll. Stitched-up face, dead plastic eyes, and that wide grin that used to send chills down spines. The sight hit Charles like a gut punch. He choked on his water, spraying it in a mist across the table and doubling over in a coughing fit. “What the fuck, Tiffany?!” His voice cracked, raw with something between anger and sheer disbelief. His eyes burned as he glared at the doll like it was a ghost come back to haunt him.

Tiffany just smiled sweetly, resting her chin on her manicured hand. “Well, you said you didn’t want to destroy your precious human body with booze. So here’s your loophole, baby. Get back in this little guy—drink all you want, no consequences.” She shoved the doll closer, its stitched face inches from his. “Your old stomping grounds.” Maya clapped her hands, clearly tipsy and far too amused. “Oh my god, yes! I wanna see the infamous Chucky in action! This is perfect!” She laughed, leaning against Layla who was already reaching for her phone to record. His jaw clenched, but he forced a grin, thin and brittle. “You people really don’t know when to quit, do you?” His voice was sharp, but underneath it trembled just enough to betray him.

Charles closed his eyes, the familiar weight of the words pressing against his chest like a stone. His voice came out in a whisper, thin but sharp. "Nan non Damballa..." The air around him seemed to tighten, grow heavy. He cracked his eyes open, and where there was once pale blue, there was now a fierce, shining gold that glimmered like molten metal in the dim light. His hands, trembling but steady in purpose, came to rest on the stitched-up Good Guy doll lying cold on the table. "Sila a ki te kreye nanm kòm lavi li menm..." His voice wavered, but the power building in the air didn’t. It surged stronger, pulsing under his skin like wildfire. "Ban mwen pouvwa a, mwen sipliye ou!!"

And then the light exploded. A golden aura bloomed around Charles and the doll, swallowing them in its glow. It shimmered like heat on asphalt, distorting the air, and for a heartbeat, everything in the room went still. The laughter died. The wine glasses froze mid-clink. The only sound was the crackling hum of something ancient and furious waking up. Then Charles’ body went limp. His head slammed down against the table with a dull, heavy thud that made everyone flinch. The golden light flickered once… then vanished, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and the sharp sting of silence in its wake.

Layla blinked, her voice small but loud in the sudden quiet. “Is it… finished?” She leaned in closer, eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity, like a child poking at something dangerous with a stick. And then, breaking the stillness, came a groan. Low. Hoarse. Wrong. The doll’s limbs twitched, stiff at first, then with eerie fluidity as it stretched out its tiny stitched arms. Its painted eyes snapped open—glowing yellow, sharp and alive—before the light inside them flickered and dulled into an unnatural, glassy blue. The doll turned its head slowly, its movements too smooth, too deliberate. It slid off the table and stalked toward the glass of wine waiting like a challenge. It stood there, looking up at them, all their faces pale and silent, mouths half open in disbelief. The doll's lips curled into a smirk, and when it spoke, it was Charles’ voice—rough, biting, but laced with that same dry, broken humor he always used to hide the cracks.

“If you guys get knocked up first, I want you all to give me twenty bucks.” The doll reached up with its small plastic hands, grabbed the wine glass with an ease that felt too natural, too human—and without another word, it tipped the glass back and drank deep. The red wine disappeared down its throat, every drop, until the glass stood empty in its hands like a drained chalice.

________________________________________

Late into the night, when the restaurant lights had dimmed and the air grew thick with the sweet stink of spilled wine and laughter gone hoarse, Charles sat slouched in victory. Seven glasses down, and he was still upright, still grinning with that crooked, tired smirk. Around him, the casualties of the night lay in various states of defeat—Aaron, passed out cold in his chair, snoring softly like a broken engine; Maya and Layla, still technically awake but slumped and glassy-eyed, their earlier bravado drowned somewhere in their empty glasses. Charles raised his next drink high, his vision already blurring at the edges, his head spinning like a carousel gone too fast, but his grin stayed sharp.

"And you brats thought you could outdrink a sixty-something old man like me?" His voice was rough, loud enough to echo off the empty walls Tiffany had rented out for them. He let out a laugh, bitter and bright. "Not a damn chance." And he downed the glass in one long swallow, the wine burning hot down his throat, even as the room tilted a little harder with every breath. For a moment, he let himself feel it—the warmth, the noise, the messy tangle of bodies and voices and too many empty bottles. All of them gathered here like some twisted, makeshift family. His family, he supposed. Friends. People who saw him as something other than the monster from the headlines.

But even with all of them around him, even with the warmth pressing in, the weight in his chest stayed cold. Heavy. Because no matter how loud they laughed, his heart was still twisted up, aching for something—or someone—he didn’t want to name out loud. He let his glass hang loose in his hand as his eyes slid over to Tiffany. She was sitting a little apart, her face lit by the blue glow of her phone screen, fingers flying as she texted someone else, somewhere else. Charles watched her for a long second, the noise around him fading, and something sharp twisted deeper inside him. He sighed, slow and heavy, and pushed himself up from his seat, the doll body swaying a little under the weight of all that wine.

His voice dropped low as he muttered the chant, the words curling out of him like smoke. "Chanje." The golden light answered at once, soft but blinding, wrapping around him and his human body slumped against the wall like a discarded coat. The glow flared, and with a soft, final flicker, the doll collapsed—empty now, limbs sprawled like a puppet with its strings cut. And then Charles, back in flesh and bone, opened his eyes. His head throbbed, his throat burned, but he could feel every inch of his body again—tired, heavy, and all too human. He ran a hand down his face, wiping away the sweat beading at his brow, and forced his legs to steady beneath him.

"I’ll..." His voice came out rough, cracked from too much drinking and too much silence behind the smiles. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'll go to the 7-Eleven. Buy... something." His hand lifted in a vague, tired wave toward Tiffany, who barely looked up from her phone. And then to Mrs. Detective Kim, who sat surrounded by the kids—Jake, Devon, and Lexy—tangled up with Glen and Glenda, all of them finally asleep, their small faces soft and peaceful in a way Charles couldn't look at too long. He waved at them too, even though none of them saw. His feet were already moving, slow and uneven, carrying him toward the door and into the cool breath of the night outside. Away from the laughter, away from the glowing lights and the empty glasses, away from the people calling him family but never quite filling the hole inside his chest.

Because no matter how much he drank, no matter how many times he switched bodies or cracked jokes, the truth sat there in his ribs like a stone: he wanted more. He wanted him. And that hunger, that hollow place, wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

________________________________________

Charles slumped back against the cold wall outside the store, the can of Red Bull loose in his hand, already gone warm and useless. The neon lights above buzzed faintly, casting a sickly glow over him, but he barely noticed. His chest felt too tight, like something clawing from the inside, desperate to get out. He didn’t understand it—not really. This feeling, this thing that gripped his insides and twisted until he could barely breathe. Why him? Why this? He’d killed, he'd burned everything good in his life to the ground, and now here he was—crying over someone who wasn’t even here.

His body folded in on itself as he slid further down the wall, face buried in his hands. The world blurred behind his fingers, but he could feel the tears falling fast, hotter than he wanted to admit. They slipped through the cracks between his hands and hit the pavement with soft, steady taps. Over and over. A fountain that wouldn’t shut off no matter how much he cursed himself. He wanted to scream. Loud enough to tear the sky open. Loud enough to make someone—anyone—hear him. But what was the point? Andy wasn’t here. Andy never was. And Charles was left with this pathetic mess inside him, this hope that refused to die no matter how many times he tried to kill it.

“How stupid am I?” he muttered into his palms, voice cracking. “Stupid enough to wait... stupid enough to hope for something that’s never gonna be true.” The tears kept falling, soaking his skin, streaking down his arms. His breath came in short, harsh gasps now, the kind that made his chest ache even worse. His heart felt like it was splitting open right there in front of the goddamn 7-Eleven.

And then—

The screech of tires cut through the night. A cab jerked to a stop right in front of him, making Charles flinch and blink through the blur. His heart stuttered. Confusion twisted through him as the door creaked open, and out stepped someone he thought he’d already given up on.

Andy.
Standing there in the flesh, looking frantic, messy, real. His face was tight with guilt, eyes already glistening as he spotted Charles slumped against the wall. Without a word, Andy rushed forward, closing the distance fast, and before Charles could even breathe, he was pulled into a rough, desperate hug.

“Oh God, Charles, I’m so fucking sorry!” Andy’s voice cracked, raw and rushed. “You don’t know how fucking blind I am with maps—I’ve never been to Washington before! And then the traffic—Jesus, the traffic was a nightmare—and my car—” He pulled back just enough to look at Charles' face, still holding him tight like he was scared to let go. “My car got towed! I forgot to pay it off four months ago. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Charles could only stare at the man in front of him. His heart thudded so hard it hurt, like it was trying to escape his chest. He couldn’t even tell if this was real—if Andy was really standing here, alive, breathing, warm. Or if this was another one of those cruel nightmares his mind liked to play on repeat. Because if it was… if this was another trick… then Damballa really was a sick, twisted bastard.

His hands moved before his brain could stop them. He pushed Andy away, weakly, with barely enough strength to make it count. Andy’s brows knit together in confusion, concern flashing in his eyes. “Charles?” he asked softly, voice trembling just enough to make Charles’ stomach turn. “G-Get away from me, Andy…” Charles rasped, trying again to shove him back, but his arms felt like dead weight. Andy didn’t move, didn’t budge, just kept staring at him like he could see every cracked piece inside. “Are you that angry?” Andy’s voice broke, sweet and shaking, trying to smile through the awkward pain. “Please, Charles… I’m really sorry…”

Charles shook his head so hard it made him dizzy, tears blurring everything again. “N-No… I’m not angry at you…” His voice cracked as he choked on the words. “Just… why are you here?” His whole body shuddered with the weight of it. “You’re not supposed to be here…” His voice dropped into a broken whisper, like he was confessing to a crime. Andy blinked, confused, helpless. “But… you’re the one who asked me to come to your graduation…” His voice was small, so damn sad. “Was… was it a mistake?”

Charles' breath hitched. His eyes flew open wide and he shook his head, frantic. “No, Andy! It’s not a mistake!” His voice cracked so loud it echoed off the store walls. “I just thought—you’d never come! You didn’t answer me! You just stared at me—like I was nothing!” His chest heaved with every word, his tears pouring faster now, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control the flood breaking out of him.
“And you shouldn’t have come!” he screamed, voice raw and ragged from the pain. “I’m your goddamn nightmare, Andy! I’m the monster that destroyed your life! I took everything good from you and burned it down! You had a future—bright and safe—and I fucking stole that from you!” His voice broke so hard it turned into a sob, and his whole body caved in on itself. His fists hit the pavement weakly as he cried harder than he ever had before, his breath coming out in sharp, painful gasps. “And this… this feeling I have for you… it’s disgusting! I hate it! I hate myself for it!” His body shook, wracked with the grief he’d buried for too long, and his tears hit the ground like rain.

Andy just stood there, frozen. Watching him. Watching Charles—the man who was always sharp, cruel, untouchable—fall apart completely in front of him. He didn’t speak at first. He just knelt down slowly, lowering himself until he was eye-level with the broken man sobbing on the pavement. Gently, he reached out and brushed Charles’ trembling hands away from his tear-streaked face, his fingers soft, careful, like he was touching something fragile.

“Charles…” Andy whispered, voice shaking. “Can I ask… what is this feeling? The one you’re talking about?”

Charles let out a strangled, ugly sob, his body shaking so hard it hurt. And then the words exploded out of him—loud, raw, cracked in half. “It’s love, you bastard! I love you, Andy Barclay!” His voice echoed into the night, raw and wild and desperate—the truth finally torn out of him after all these years of silence. He couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop the pain spilling out, but it was out now. The secret that had been killing him was finally out.

Charles let out a broken laugh between his sobs, his whole body shaking like it could collapse at any second. “J-Just reject me, Andy… just do it and leave me here…” His voice cracked so badly it barely sounded human. His hands clenched into fists against his chest. “I know you don’t want me… you never did… Who the hell would even want me? I destroy everything I touch!” His breath hitched and he let out another pitiful chuckle, bitter and weak. “My family… my life… everyone else’s life too… I ruin it all…” He lifted his face just enough to look at Andy, smiling through the tears like he was already accepting the noose around his neck. “And stop searching for Chucky’s messes. It’s not your problem anymore… I can clean it up myself…” His voice dropped to a near whisper, defeated. “So just go. Live your life… live how you—”

But he didn’t get to finish.
Because suddenly, Andy’s lips were on his—hot, desperate, and real.

Charles froze, wide-eyed in pure shock. Every alarm in his head blared at once. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. Andy wasn’t supposed to kiss him. Andy was supposed to walk away, to spit in his face, to call him the monster he’d always been. But instead, here Andy was—kissing him like he meant it. Charles’ hands pushed at Andy’s chest, weak at first, trying to make it stop. But then… that storm inside him, the one he’d fought so hard to kill for years, cracked open wide. And suddenly, he wasn’t pushing anymore—he was pulling Andy in, kissing him back like he was starving for it. Like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, their foreheads pressed together, trembling. Andy’s face was flushed, his eyes blazing with something fierce and angry and painfully raw. “You don’t even know what I want, Charles,” he spat, his voice shaking. “You never asked. After you saved me at that damn cabin, I’ve been tearing myself apart for three years trying to figure out what the hell I feel.” His fists clenched at Charles’ shirt like he was holding onto a lifeline. “But seeing you again—being with you like this—I finally know.” His voice cracked. “This is love. And I accept it.”

Andy leaned in close, his breath hot against Charles’ ear, and his voice dropped into a painful whisper that made Charles’ heart squeeze. “If this is some kind of sick joke, Charles… just kill me already. Put me out of this misery. Because otherwise… please… take care of me. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of running and fighting and pretending I’m okay. It hurts. It hurts so much.” His voice broke on that last word, and then he was collapsing into Charles’ arms, hugging him like he’d fall apart if he let go. And for the first time, Charles felt Andy’s tears soaking into his shirt, hot and silent but real. “I’m scared, Charles…” Andy whispered, voice small and shaking like a scared kid.

Charles swallowed hard, his throat tight with all the feelings he couldn’t name. He wrapped his arms around Andy, holding him as close as he could, like he was trying to shield him from the whole damn world. His lips brushed against Andy’s temple, and his voice came out rough but soft, trembling with every word.

“I know, kid…” he murmured quietly, his tears falling again. “I know…”

His body shook with the weight of it all as he buried his face in Andy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry…” he choked out, the words tumbling from his lips like a prayer, like a curse. “I’m sorry, I’ll say it for the rest of my damned life to you… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” The words kept coming, slipping out in broken sobs, as if saying them enough times could somehow erase everything he’d done. As if repeating it could rewind the years of blood and pain and nightmares they both carried like scars carved into their souls.

Andy’s fingers curled tight into the back of Charles’ jacket, gripping him like he was the only thing keeping him upright. His own tears mixed with Charles’, their pain tangled together in the empty dark of the night outside that little store.