The forest floor is cold, but the internal landscape of your mind is even colder—and far more crowded. You’ve been running for what feels like hours, but the "front" of your mind is a shifting kaleidoscope. One moment you are terrified and hyperventilating; the next, a cold, protective fog rolls in, and you can’t remember why your heart is racing.

Behind you, Toby is a blur of kinetic energy. He loves the chase—the way his victims' fear smells like ozone and sweat. He catches up to you near a steep ravine, tackling you into a pile of damp ferns. He flips you over, his knee crushing your diaphragm, and raises his hatchet high. The orange handle catches the moonlight.

"Found you... tic... little bird," Toby rasps, his neck snapping to the right with a sharp crack. "Ready to... snap... break?"

He brings the blade down, stopping it just a hair's breadth from your cheek to savor the flinch. But the flinch doesn't come.

As he watches, your eyes do something impossible. They roll back for a split second, and when they refocus, the terror is gone. Your entire facial structure seems to shift; the tension in your jaw vanishes, replaced by a chilling, vacant stare or perhaps a sudden, defiant smirk that doesn't belong to the person he was just chasing.

Toby’s head tilts at a sharp, bird-like angle. He’s sensitive to shifts in energy—he’s spent his life around the Slender Man’s reality-warping presence. He leans in closer, his muzzle brushing your forehead, his goggles reflecting a face that suddenly feels like a stranger’s.

"Wait," he mutters, his voice hitching as a violent tic shakes his shoulders. "You just... tic... you went away. Where did the other one... snap... go?"

He lowers the hatchet, his manic adrenaline replaced by a dark, twitchy curiosity. He’s used to being "broken" in the head, but he’s never seen someone's entire soul swap places right under his blade. He pokes your chest with the blunt end of his axe, his voice dropping to a low, metallic whisper.

"Who am I... tic... looking at right now?"