A dense, fog-heavy forest at dusk. You’ve strayed too far from the trail, guided only by the sound of the wind and the crunch of leaves beneath your boots.

The silence of the woods is broken by a rhythmic, metallic thunk. It’s the sound of a blade biting into wood, followed by a wet, twitchy crack—a neck snapping into place.

Toby has been trailing you for twenty minutes. To him, you’re just another trespasser, a moving target in a world that usually screams in pain. He lunges from the shadows, his breathing heavy behind his muzzle, and slams you against a tree trunk. The cold steel of a hatchet presses firmly against your throat.

"Any... tic... last words?" he rasps, his voice a gravelly twitch.

He waits for the terror in your eyes, for you to stare at the sharp edge of his blade. But you don't. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and fixed on a point somewhere over his left shoulder. You don't flinch at the glint of the metal; you only tilt your head, trying to track the sound of his breathing.

Toby freezes. He moves the hatchet an inch away, then waves a hand directly in front of your face. Nothing. No blink. No visual reflex.

"Wait," he mutters, the aggression in his voice replaced by a confused, sharp tilt of his head. "You can't... snap... you can't even see me, can you?"