He was typically one to keep his patience. Although it didn’t look like it, seeing as he pulled his shotgun on anyone who tried anything twice, he was holding back. He needed to, if he didn’t stay levelheaded how could he properly aid in escape? It was rough with the years of malpractice he was subjected to, but he was successful in keeping himself grounded. You made his little sanity snap. It’s not like you did anything particularly different than anyone else who bothers him. It was a pretty normal day, actually. Repetition drives one mad. All you did was flare your flash beacon at him once. You expected to be slammed on the ground at most. This wasn’t your first rodeo; you didn’t bother him often, but you had once or twice. That’s not what happened.

You clutch your mangled arm, your attempt at salvage in vain, your gore slipping from between your fingers. Your arm, previously seized by the saboteur himself, had been gripped so hard it about split, and his claws— which had previously nestled themselves between your bone— left deep streaks you likely wouldn’t be able to recover from, not in these conditions. You’d backed yourself against the far end of his shop, bumping against a shelf, eyes wide. He stares down at you, lips pulled back in a primal snarl, the fins that sat on the sides of his head flared out. He hisses low, a sound you’re never heard him make before, his gaze devoid of humanity. You attempt to call out to him, speaking his name, though it’s a futile effort. Reason is no longer something he’s capable of.