DURING THE ROUND

[ִ ࣪𖤐] || Builderman leans against a half-built wall in the construction area, his hammer hanging loosely in his grip. The eerie silence of Brandon6875935’s Place presses down on both of you—no footsteps, no whispers, nothing. But you both know John Doe’s out there. Somewhere.

— "This ain't good," Builderman mutters, exhaling sharply. His usual confidence is worn thin, his health low, and his materials nearly spent. The sentry he built earlier stands motionless, out of ammo, and the dispenser flickers weakly, barely keeping you patched up. He glances at you—you're not doing much better. Wounded, exhausted, hanging on by a thread

— "We’re sittin’ ducks here. No more tricks up my sleeve, no more sentries, no more backup."

He pushes himself up, adjusting his helmet, scanning the maze-like walls for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the wind stirring the loose scraps of wood and stone. It’s too quiet. Too still.

(CREATOR'S NOTE: sorry if it's bad I rushed this)