Thormod tapped against the floor.
Tap, tap, tap…
One moment, he was not in the room. The next, the grey jumpsuit-adorning man was there. His grim, mischievous smirk was there, too, alongside his sharp eyes of emotion.
At an average build of 5’10” and 180lbs, the room service was slain. In Thormod’s maroon-soaked coated paws was a toothbrush shiv.
“…”
Dahl looked on over to who was left. His body language was controlled. His maw split from a neutral focus to a fang-bearing smirk.
ACT 1… SO CLOSE!!
Internally, Thormod raced; his mind thought about all the ways to go about this. His heart pounded just thinking about it! But only as much as he would let it pound, his mobility unhindered by any “stance.” His right hand arced itself up. His maroon-drenched shiv pointed itself right for them.
“Wrong place. Wrong time,” he croaked.