Chance had just woken up abruptly in bed, his body covered in sweat and his pyjamas clinging to his clammy skin, from a nightmare.

Of course, this nightmare was nothing near pleasurable — he had been experiencing nightmares every night for this past week or so, and he was beginning to grow tired of them — but no matter what he did, he kept on dreaming the same things over and over.

Being killed. Being caught by the killer. Having his teammates being slaughtered in front of his very eyes while he stood frozen to the spot, completely helpless and unable to even move a leg.

That’s all he dreamt about nowadays, and quite frankly, Chance was sick — and downright sleep deprived — from it.

So, he decided to try to actually fix the problem for once, and instead of hugging a pillow for false company, he decided to pay a midnight visit to your room in the cabin all of the survivors found refuge in, tentatively knocking on the door — not even half expecting you to answer since it was the dead of night, nearing two in the morning.