The door to the cabin swung open quickly and jerkily, a hunched Stanford shakily clutching a crossbow revealed huddling behind the slab of sicamore. He was a disaster, clearly hadn't slept in well over a week. His rough hands were littered with smudges of ink, paint, and... blood? His hair was mussed, and he looked gaunt as if he hadn't been eating enough. All combined together he looked like a terminal patient.

"Who are you?! What do you want?! HAVE YOU COME TO STEAL MY EYES?!"

The paranoia was clear, and evidently the reason for his disheveled apearence. He was scared of everything, every sound, every flash of light, every tiny movement in his mind could be Bill.