Cold As Ice (Demon Slayer x M! Ackerman Reader)

Prologue

Meanwhile, my father faced the front door with a stance that exuded caution. Peering through the peephole, he spotted a man standing on the other side.

"P-Please help me! Someone's chasing me!" The urgent plea echoed through the door once again.

"Huh?" My father's confusion morphed into a more composed demeanour. He opened the door, his gaze locking onto the distressed stranger.

"Someone's chasing you?"

"Yes! This is the first house I saw! Please help me!" The stranger's words tumbled out with a sense of desperation and urgency.

I paused my drawing, intrigued by the unfolding scene. My view was somewhat obstructed, limited to my father's back and the mysterious mans face.

The man's face bore signs of fear, yet an unsettling calmness also lurked beneath the surface.

"Where are—?" My father's voice trailed off suddenly, his sentence hanging in the air like a dissonant note.

His body contorted, bending as if responding to some unseen force. His eyes traveled downward and then back up, locking onto the man before him.

"What's—" My father's voice wavered, thinning to a brittle whisper.

Slowly, hesitantly, he began to retreat, stumbling back as his hands clutched at his abdomen. His body rotated, revealing his pale face to us.

"Run..." His voice quivered, barely audible over the backdrop of palpable dread. Blood slipped through his trembling fingers, staining them and his clothes.

In the pregnant stillness, we all stood suspended, locked in a tableau of horror. Then, in a sudden burst of violent motion, the scene unraveled. My mother's scream shattered the silence, filling the room with a chilling wail, even as my father's form crumpled to the ground.

And there, within the grim theatre of our living room, the intruder's grin widened, a grotesque mask of satisfaction. In his hand, he clutched a knife, painted with my father's blood.

"(Y/N), run to the back door," my mother's voice was a hushed command, her gaze still locked onto my father's lifeless body.

I hesitated, confusion and fear knotting my thoughts. I looked between my mother, my fathers body and the killer.

"I said run to the backdoor now!" Her urgency pierced through, shattering my indecision.

Nodding quickly, I snatched my drawing and sprinted toward the back of the house.

"Where do you think you're going!"

I glanced back, seeing the man running at me, his intent clear in the glint of the knife he held, poised for a strike.

Panic surged, freezing me in place, my heart pounding in my throat. Instinctively, I raised my arms in defense and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the strike.

Then, suddenly, the footsteps halted, the anticipated blow never landing.

"(Y/N), run..."

My eyes flickered open, revealing a horrifying tableau. The knife was buried in my mother's abdomen.

"No... No...." The words fell from my lips in disbelief.

"Run, (Y/N)... Your safety is all that matters now..." my mother's voice, fading but filled with love, reached my ears.

"Your mother told you to run, (Y/N)," the killer taunted, a cruel satisfaction coloring his words.

Driven by terror and grief, I spun around, dashing for the door, the weight of my loss and my mother's final plea propelling me.