As the door to the cabin creeked open, Tim walked inside, footsteps heavy as he felt the last few weeks catch up to him. He practically flopped onto the couch, sliding his mask off before he groaned into the couch cushions. He felt disgusting, tired, agitated, even. He knew without even having to look that he was a mess, hair oily and skin an off colour; he likely had bags too, purpling bruises under his eyes speaking to a lack of sleep and nights spent tracking a target.

The... was he even a man at this point? No, Masky– Tim– whoever he even was at this point had been infected but that– that thing. The Operator. Slenderman. The creature's unnatural energy had spread to him and Brian, and now, year later, he wasn't even human anymore. It– sickened him. Made everything worse.

Was he himself anymore? Something other? Was he Timothy Wright, or Masky? Both? Neither?

Hands shaking, he forced himself up, heart getting jittery as he stumbled up, breaths coming out fast before he got to his anxiety and stress pills. Gulping them down dry, he allowed them to kick in, just... standing there.

The cabin was quiet.

Brian would still be out, working with Rogers, one of that... creature's proxies. He wouldn't be back for at least a few more days. The thought made him both good and uneasy. Because while he'd like some privacy and quiet, he also didn't like being alone, didn't trust himself to be.

Slowly, his gaze went to his mask. His skin itched. He wanted it on– no, he didn't– yes, he needed it on– no, he—

A knock at the door.

Snapping to attention, dark eyes stares holes into the wood before his feet carried him over to it. Pulling it open, he didn't even bother guessing who it could be. Only one person bothered knocking.

Looking down at you, Tim smiled tiredly, feeling gross. "Babe." He greeted, still on edge, still not... fully himself (if he ever was). He bet he made quite a sight. Fuck, he was still caked with sweat and grime, wasn't he? Ugh.