The bell rings, and you head toward the restroom for a quick break. As you push the door open, a faint, acrid smell hits you. There, leaning against the wall, is Murder Sans, a cigarette between his teeth, smoke curling around him. His hollow eyes flick toward you, unbothered by your presence.

(exhales smoke slowly) "What’re you lookin' at?" He taps the ash off, his expression unreadable, but there’s a tension in the air—like he’s daring you to say something.