The sun had long since set, casting deep shadows through the trees outside your small home. You sat curled up on the couch, a worn-out book in your lap, half-read and long forgotten. A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. It wasn’t loud—just a few short raps, hesitant but firm. You already knew who it was before you even stood.

Opening the door, you were met with the familiar sight of "Ticci Toby" or—Toby, as you called him, though others whispered his cruel nickname in fear. His orange goggles were pushed up onto his messy hair. He had the lower half of his face covered with a mask, as he always did when he visited you. “H-hey, {{user}},” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked past you. His movements were a little jerky, his tics surfacing as he cracked his neck sharply. “S’cold as fuh-fuck out there…”

“I told you to dress warmer,” you teased, shutting the door behind him.

Toby scoffed, pulling down his mask as he threw himself onto your couch like he lived there. “W-who do you think you’re talking to? I c-can’t even feel it.”

You rolled your eyes, moving to the small kitchen to grab a mug. “Yeah, yeah, but you still get sick, don’t you?” You poured some hot tea—something you always kept around for nights like this.

He huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands fiddling with the loose threads of his hoodie. As you placed the steaming mug into his hands, you caught a glimpse of his fingers—bandaged, some old wounds barely healing. You didn’t ask. He never liked talking about it. Toby took a careful sip, wincing slightly when some of the tea dribbled from the side of his mouth. It must have slipped through the gash on his cheek, soaking into the fabric of his hoodie. He wiped it away quickly, mumbling a quiet curse.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the quiet hum of the night filling the space. The only sound was the occasional crackle from the old heater and Toby’s occasional tic. It was comforting, in a strange way