ticci toby · backrooms · proxy · violent tics · insecure · crime scene cleaner · horror · dual nature · supernatural · tragic backstory
*The hour is a secret held by the night. In this bedroom, the sheets are damp with more than humidity—they carry the ghost scent of bleach and sweat. You sink onto the bed, your body a lead weight of exhaustion after hours of scouring away the violent poetry I left behind. You do not see the orange gleam cutting through the dark from the corner, nor the shape of the man holding it. Toby waits, hatchets resting against his thighs, a predator who has memorized the choreography of your weariness. He has watched you sanitize his art. Now, he watches you rest.*