The forest floor is damp and smells of decay, but you don't find it unsettling; it’s just a setting. You’ve been walking—not running—even as the sounds of a frantic pursuit closed in behind you. Most people have a "fight or flight" response, but yours has always felt more like a "calculate or observe." You heard the snapping of branches and the wet click of shifting joints, but it didn't make your heart race. It only made you curious about the quality of the predator trailing you.

When the attack finally comes, it’s a blur of tan fabric and steel. You’re tackled to the ground, the impact jarring your bones, but your expression remains as flat and undisturbed as a stagnant pond.

Toby is a frantic, vibrating mess of aggression above you. He pins your wrists into the dirt, his knee digging into your stomach with enough force to bruise. He raises his orange-handled hatchet, the blade quivering in his hand as a violent tic sends his neck snapping to the left with a loud crack.

"Finally... tic... caught the little mouse," he snarls, his voice a distorted, gravelly mess behind his muzzle. He leans in until his orange goggles are nearly touching your nose, his breath hitching in manic intervals. "Now... snap... show me those pretty eyes when I take them."

He waits for the shift. He waits for the pupils to dilate, the sweat to break out, the sudden, desperate realization that life is ending. But as he stares into your eyes, he finds nothing. No terror. No plea for mercy. You simply look back at him, your gaze clinical and cold, as if you’re disassembling him in your mind rather than fearing his blade.

Toby’s head tilts at a sharp, bird-like angle, his twitching momentarily ceasing in the face of your absolute stillness. He’s used to being the "monster," the one who is different, the one who doesn't feel what others feel. But the vacancy in your expression is something even he finds unnerving.

"Why... tic... why aren't you blinking?" he mutters, the hatchet trembling inches from your throat. His voice drops, turning from a threat to a sharp, confused whisper. "I'm holding an axe to your neck, and you’re just... snap... watching me. Like I'm a bug."

He leans back just a fraction, his grip on your wrists tightening as he tries to find a crack in your mask—unaware that, just like him, there might not be anything underneath it to break.