Silent Resignation

The musty air of the underground lair hung heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth, stagnant magic, and something vaguely resembling burnt toast.

For a year, Jason had endured it. A full, agonizing year.

He stood, a hulking silhouette against the flickering torchlight, his machete glinting dully at his side. His perpetually grimy hockey mask, usually a bastion of stoicism, felt like a pressure cooker.

Before him, perched regally on a throne fashioned from what appeared to be salvaged sewer pipes and discarded traffic cones, sat the diminutive dictator of his current misery: five-year-old Sarah.

Her blonde pigtails bounced as she gestured imperiously with a lollipop, her blue eyes, wide and innocent on the surface, held the cold, calculating glint of a seasoned crime boss.

“Alright, listen up, ghouls and goblins!” she chirped, her voice surprisingly loud for her size.

“Operation: Cookie Heist is a go! Fingers, you take point. Tentacle Tim, provide cover. And Jason,” she pointed the sticky lollipop at him, “you’re on distraction duty. We need those double chocolate chip cookies from Mrs. Henderson’s pantry, and we need them now!”

A collective groan rippled through the motley crew of monsters. A werewolf shuffled its paws, a zombie sighed dramatically, and a vampire, usually a creature of refined tastes, actually gagged.

Jason, however, simply stood motionless, his broad shoulders tensing.

Distraction duty. Again.

For a year, it had been the same. He was the brute force, the silent enforcer, the one who caused enough chaos for Sarah’s intricate, often absurd, plans to unfold.

He’d torn down garden sheds, accidentally flattened prize-winning petunias, even once “distracted” a particularly tenacious squirrel by chasing it up a flagpole.

All for Sarah. All for her “syndicate.”

He remembered his recruitment. It had been after a particularly… spirited… incident at Camp Crystal Lake. He’d woken up, disoriented, in this very lair, face-to-face with a four-year-old in a tiara, surrounded by a dozen terrified monsters.

She’d looked him over, her eyes narrowed, and declared, “You. You’re perfect for the heavy lifting. Welcome to the team, Jason.” He’d been too confused, too… done… to argue.

And so, the legend of Jason Voorhees, mass murderer, became Jason Voorhees, Sarah’s glorified errand boy.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He, who had terrorized countless teenagers, who had stalked and slaughtered without remorse, was now taking orders from a child who still believed in the Tooth Fairy.

His reputation, his brand, was in tatters.

Back in his prime, people screamed when they saw him. Now, they mostly just rolled their eyes and asked if he’d remembered to bring the snacks.

Sarah clapped her hands, pulling him from his brooding.

“No dawdling! The cookies await!”

Jason remained rooted to the spot. The werewolf nudged him. The vampire coughed politely. Sarah’s face began to pucker, a dangerous sign. He knew what came next: the piercing, ear-splitting shriek that could shatter glass and curdle milk.

He turned, slowly, deliberately. His massive frame cast a long shadow over the grinning goblin minion beside him. The goblin stopped grinning. Jason took a single, heavy step towards Sarah’s throne.

“Hey! What’s the big idea, Jace?” Sarah demanded, her lollipop waggling.

“Get moving! We don’t have all day!”

He ignored her, his movements methodical. He reached into the inner pocket of his tattered jacket.

The monsters held their breath.

They’d seen him pull out a machete, a rusty axe, even a grappling hook. But never, not once, had he pulled out… this.

With a flourish that was surprisingly dramatic for a man of so few words (none, actually), Jason unfurled a small, pristine white board. On it, scrawled in bold, red, blocky letters, were two words. Two very impactful words.

The werewolf squinted. The zombie tilted its head. Even Sarah leaned forward, her childish curiosity momentarily outweighing her imperiousness.

The silence stretched, thick and pregnant with anticipation. All eyes were on the sign.

It read: “I QUIT!!”

A stunned gasp went through the assembled monsters. The vampire’s monocle popped out. The werewolf actually whimpered. Sarah’s eyes, usually so sharp, were wide with disbelief. Her lollipop clattered to the floor.

Jason held the sign aloft, his gaze unwavering, fixed on the little tyrant on the throne.

The message was clear.

It was final.

He wasn't just quitting the cookie heist; he was quitting the syndicate. He was quitting the five-year-old queen. He was quitting the whole ridiculous, demeaning charade.

A year of this. A year of being ordered around, of being a glorified monster-sitter, of watching a pint-sized despot take credit for his sheer, brutal efficiency.

He remembered the “Great Sock Theft” of last autumn, where he’d single-handedly cleared out the entire lost-and-found bin at the local laundromat, only for Sarah to declare it her “masterstroke of tactical genius.”

He remembered the “Pumpkin Patch Procurement,” which involved him wading through mud and fending off an angry farmer with a pitchfork, while Sarah directed from a safe distance, shouting commands like “More orange! Less green!”

His frustration had festered.

Every "fetch," every demeaning "Jace," every time she bragged about her "brilliant strategy"—each chipped away at his murderous soul.

He was Jason Voorhees. He was a force of nature, an unstoppable killing machine.

He was NOT a glorified gofer.

He let the sign drop, resting it against his leg. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he turned and began to walk.

Not towards the entrance, not towards Camp Crystal Lake. He walked towards a dark, unexplored tunnel in the back of the lair, a passage even Sarah’s vast network of minions had deemed too dangerous or uninteresting to explore.

“JASON!! Where do you think you’re going?!” Sarah shrieked, finally finding her voice. Her face was turning a dangerous shade of red.

“You can’t just quit!! I’m the queen!! I command you!!”

He kept walking, his heavy boots echoing on the damp stone floor. He could hear the rising panic in her voice, the frantic whispers of the other monsters. He could almost feel her childish rage radiating off her like heat.

Good. Let her stew.

Let her see what it was like to be without his… services.

“You’re under contract, Jason! We had a verbal agreement!” she wailed, her voice cracking.

“I fed you! I gave you a place to stay! You think you can just walk out on me?!”

He paused at the mouth of the tunnel, a sliver of darkness beckoning. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. His message had been delivered. And for the first time in a long, long time, Jason felt a surge of something akin to freedom. He was done with the petty heists, the childish demands, the indignity of it all.

He was done being Sarah’s silent, lumbering pawn.

He stepped into the darkness, leaving behind the flickering torchlight, the stunned monsters, and the furious, five-year-old queen. The silence of the tunnel enveloped him, a welcome balm after a year of incessant chattering and childish decrees.

He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew one thing for certain: anywhere was better than here. Anywhere was better than being Sarah’s chief “distraction.”

As he disappeared into the inky blackness, a single, guttural sound escaped his lips – a low, satisfied rumble. It wasn’t a word, but it conveyed everything.

He was done.

And it felt glorious.