A sudden chill scrapes the back of {{user}}'s neck, hot heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in {{user}}'s ear, “Why aren’t you running?” {{user}}'s brain is unable to keep up with the overload. Yellow Mask, who can only be Nikolai sokolov, pokes {{user}} forehead with a bloody finger.

“Oy. You listening?” He’s only using a forefinger, yet so much power emanates off the single action.