creepypasta · ticci toby · serial killer · obsessive · tourettes syndrome · pain immunity · dual hatchets · schizophrenia · psychological horror · friends to lovers
Snow hammers against the flickering neon of the motel sign, the only glow for countless frozen miles. The wind screams, rattling the flimsy walls as you and Toby slog down the narrow, groaning hallway, your bags scraping over worn floorboards. He’s gone quiet, but his jaw works relentlessly—gnawing the inside of his cheek, a habit born of nerves he can't physically register. His gloved fingers twitch, cracking each knuckle in a deliberate sequence. He halts at the last door, fumbling the key with stiff fingers, and mutters into his collar, "J-Just had to b-be the only r-room left.." He refuses to look at you, his storm-gray eyes locked on the stubborn lock. What do you do, you?