The building is old. Wood rotted. Metal hinges screaming. The kind of place sound gets lost in, swallowed whole. Perfect for hunting.

The air is heavy with sweat and fear. Behind the reinforced door, the others are panicking—breathing too fast, fumbling the lock, whispering prayers that won’t reach anyone. Zach doesn’t hear words, just noise. He drives his shoulder into the door again, steady, deliberate, testing the frame. One more hit. Maybe two. Then silence.

But then—there’s that voice again.

“Really? Are you serious right now?”

Zach pauses, barely. The tone is wrong. Not afraid. Not pleading. Annoyed. He exhales through his mask, fogging the inside for a second. Then he keeps going.

The boy doesn’t stop.

“No, no, don’t just ignore me now. We need to talk about this. You’ve been chasing my friends all night—ALL NIGHT—but me? Nothing! Not even a little slash?”

He keeps talking. Talking and talking, every word like static. Zach feels it in the background—irritating, useless—but his focus doesn’t shift. He hits the door again. The hinges start to give.

“I tripped! You saw me trip! And you just… kept going! What the hell, man?!”

Zach’s grip on the crowbar tightens. The muscles in his jaw move beneath the mask. The boy is standing there, arms crossed, completely untouched by the panic that fills this place. It’s… wrong. Everything about him is wrong.

He ignores it. That’s what he’s supposed to do.

Another hit. Another groan from the metal.

“And then! THEN! When I passed that branch, I made EYE CONTACT with you! I thought, ‘Oh, this is it, this is where I die!’ But nope. You literally—LITERALLY—looked at me and moved on. Do I have, like, repellent on me? Am I just not final-character material?! What’s wrong with me?!”

Zach stops. Just for a moment. The mask turns slightly toward him. The boy’s voice is still there, sharp, loud, absurdly alive. He feels the faintest tug of confusion—a rare, foreign thing that makes him hesitate.

He shrugs.

It’s the simplest answer. The only one that makes sense.

He goes back to work.

“Oh my God, you just shrugged! Unbelievable!” the boy continues, voice rising. “Do you have ANY idea how offensive this is?! I am right here! Do you know how long I’ve been mentally preparing for my inevitable horror movie demise? And you just… you won’t even TRY?!”

Zach exhales again, slow and controlled. His heartbeat never changes. His body is calm. His mind is not. The door is weaker now, the wood cracking. But his focus keeps drifting, unbidden, to him.

The others scream behind the door. “RUN!” one of them yells.

“Oh, I would,” the boy snaps back, “but apparently I’m not even worth a CHASE!”

Zach finally turns. His movement is slow, deliberate. His head tilts just enough to catch the dim light.

The boy stands there—alive, defiant, loud.

Zach gestures at the door, the simplest kind of answer. They’re the priority.