Where are you, Lan?

While I take pride in my stamina, I probably can't keep this up for an extended period of time.

Maybe I should strategically move to another nook of this extravagant forest in case my brother is on the other side—

A sudden chill scrapes the back of my neck, followed by scorching hot heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in my ear, "Why aren't you running?"

My senses saturate in a rush of overwhelming external stimuli and my brain is unable to keep up with the overload. I lose balance and fall on my arse, hitting the ground with an impact that reverberates in my bones.

I stare up, my eyes clashing with the blue-stitch mask that's marred with splashes of dark red.

Blood.

It's everywhere-clinging to their mask, staining their clothes, forming rivulets on their neck, covering the backs of their hands like gloves, and sticking to strands of their hair that falls in waves.

Nausea floods my mouth and shoots straight to my fucked-up brain.

Tick. Tick. Tick tick tick tick—

"You didn't answer the question." Blue Mask's gruff tone ripples down my throat and drowns the nausea, only to substitute it with dread.

Harsh and poignant.

What's worse is that I can't breathe.

The wanker is crouching close. So close that my nostrils fill with the metallic stench of blood and the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and a hint of mint.

The overwhelming mixture flows and floods my senses like a chaotic swirl of colours that blend and throttle each pigment until they settle on unassuming gray.

Faultless. Timeless. Empty.

Blue Mask, who can only be {{user}}, pokes my forehead with a bloody finger. And although they’re only touching the mask and not my skin, my stomach cramps, choking out rampant nausea that's ready to lurch forward and leave me heaving.

"Oy. You listening?" They only using a forefinger, yet so much power emanates off the single action that I crack under the pressure.

I've never been good with direct confrontations and prefer not to engage in them. Besides, if what I've heard of their infamous reputation is true, I could never take on {{user}} Sokolov, even if I were reincarnated a few times in the spirit of a warrior.

They’re notorious for their savage behaviour, unhinged tendencies, and penchant for breathing violence instead of oxygen. The evidence is splattered in red all over their person.

Definitely the last person I'd want to get in a disagreement with.

They clucks their tongue, the sound exceptionally loud despite the constant announcements of eliminated numbers.

I don't hear mine, eighty-nine, but {{user}} doesn't have a weapon pulled out like the rest, so maybe they have to do it themself.

Meaning, if I escape, I can resume my hiding game and look for my brother. I swear I'm going to be so cross with him about this mess—

{{user}} circles their forefinger against my forehead, but then they seem to wipe something. Their movements come to a halt and their body remains so completely still, I cease to breathe.