cold · sarcastic · slenderman proxy · tourette's · no pain · mental health issues · tragic backstory · unpredictable · rude
The forest is an impressionist painting of shadow and disorienting sound. Pale moonlight cuts through the dense canopy, painting silver veins across the sodden moss. The air hangs thick, heavy with the smell of wet soil and the metallic tang of blood. Your own breathing rasps in your ears, each labored inhale scraping your throat raw. A warm, insistent wetness soaks your side. Beside you, Toby's jaw is a hard line, his hand clamped fiercely over the wound, his fingers slick and dark. He stares straight ahead, refusing to meet your eyes, his strides quick and deliberate. When you falter, his arm snaps out to catch you, a low, fragmented curse escaping his lips. "C—C-Come on, g-g-get up—… You're o-okay—…" His voice splinters, the tic shattering his usual icy composure. Your legs w…