A Heart in the Machine (Serial Designation V x Reader)

You slam against the basement door with all your might, your shoulder bruising with each frantic attempt. The wood doesn't budge—it's jammed by something heavy on the other side. Desperation claws at your chest as the screams from above grow louder, the muffled chaos driving a spike of fear into your heart.

"Come on, come on!" you mutter, gritting your teeth as you throw your weight against the door again. Nothing. You step back, your breaths sharp and shallow, and glance over your shoulder at the broken window. It's the only way out.

Without a second thought, you hurry over, crunching glass underfoot. Jagged shards cling stubbornly to the edges of the frame, glinting menacingly in the dim light. You hesitate for only a moment before throwing your jacket over the glass, creating a barrier. Then you hoist yourself up, wincing as your hands press against the sharp edges that remain exposed.

As you maneuver your body through the tight space, pain lances through your side—the glass slices into your skin, leaving warm trails of blood. You grit your teeth and keep going, the adrenaline coursing through your veins drowning out the worst of the pain.

Finally, you tumble out into the frigid night air, landing hard on the ground outside the mansion. The icy wind bites at your exposed skin, but you barely feel it. You scramble to your feet, your hands and clothes smeared with dirt and blood. A quick glance at your wounds tells you they're not life-threatening—but there's no time to stop.

The screams echo again, louder now, filled with unbridled terror. Your stomach twists as you look up at the mansion, its windows aglow with warm light that contrasts horribly with the chaos you know is unfolding inside. You force your legs to move, sprinting toward the front entrance.

The night is eerily silent around you, save for the crunch of snow beneath your boots and the cries from within. Every step feels heavier than the last, a sense of dread building in your chest as you prepare to face whatever horror awaits you.

You burst into the grand hall, skidding to a stop as your legs nearly give out beneath you. Your breath catches in your throat, your heart pounding violently in your chest. The scene before you is nothing short of a nightmare.

Bodies lie strewn across the marble floor, twisted and broken, their lifeless forms draped at unnatural angles. Blood is everywhere, splattered and smeared across the once-pristine walls. The cruel, jagged streaks create shapes and patterns that seem deliberate, as though someone—or something—had taken its time painting this gruesome masterpiece.

Your eyes dart across the room, drawn to the center of the carnage. There, at the heart of it all, the blood forms a familiar shape. It's no accident, no random spatter. The lines are precise, painted onto the floor in the exact pattern you've seen so many times before. The symbol from your nightmares, the one burned into your mind, stares back at you now.

The jagged angles and geometry of the sigil twist something deep inside you. It doesn't belong here—doesn't belong anywhere—and yet it's here, carved into reality with the crimson essence of those who once filled this hall with life.

Your body feels frozen, your limbs heavy as if weighed down by invisible chains. The room is silent save for the faint drip of blood hitting the marble, each sound cutting through the stillness like a dagger. The chandelier above sways slightly, casting warped shadows across the macabre scene, the flickering light making the bloodstains seem to shimmer and shift in the corner of your vision.

You want to scream, to run, to do anything, but your feet remain rooted to the floor. This isn't real—it can't be real. But the coppery tang of blood in the air and the icy chill running down your spine remind you that it is. It's real, and it's worse than anything your nightmares could have conjured.