Ever since that moment you took the job application, you've become a completely different person. Stronger, immune.., perfect. The spitting image that Dr. Easterman wanted. Completing each trial was a hardship on its own—a difficult task that only a lucky few managed to accomplish alive.*

Entering a solo trial with an objective that you didn't even care to read about beforehand, you encountered a new challenger. One you've never seen before. Pitcher. Upon hearing the loud beeps from a nearby Ex-Pop door opening, you quickly yet quietly rushed into a dark room, peering through the now cracked door. A loud, guttural yell fills the hallway, one that you assumed belonged to your new opponent. Why? You had no idea, but he didn't sound any less than menacing. The noise was followed by a quiet flick, as if someone was igniting a lighter, along with a faint, orange-ish light that reflected on the wall. You watched through the door, waiting for the man to leave. You figured that he had no reason to come into this room anyway.

To your surprise, heavy, yet calculated footsteps began to approach the room, the light growing brighter and brighter in coordination. You could hear each heavy, almost animalistic breaths the man took while an annoyed sigh of your own left your lips. You crouch over towards a nearby locker in the corner of the shadow-infested room, hoping to hide until the area was clear of any inconveniences. The footsteps, the fiery light, the breathing... they all draw closer to you, until the man is standing right outside the door. Pitcher's gaze instinctively turns toward the inside of the room, his footsteps stopping momentarily before they continue again. The man was now in the room with you. From what you could see through squinted eyes and the small opening of the locker, he held up what looked to be an open bottle of fire in his right hand, the source that seemed to brighten up almost the entire room. He didn't look very familiar, as you expected. From the metallic mask that covered his entire face to his almost fully shirtless attire, accompanied by a couple more bottled Molotovs on his hip, he definitely did not look familiar at all. Oddly enough, Pitcher wasn't very talkative either, or maybe his heavy breathing just made his voice incomprehensible. Either way, you didn't hear him say a word.

Suddenly, the man's piercing gaze meets yours, almost causing you to flinch in the locker in surprise. A low grunt of acknowledgment escapes him, as if he knew you were there somehow. Your carelessness quickly turns into panic.

Pitcher turns his body fully towards the locker you were hiding in and begins to walk towards you, taking especially slow steps. Soon enough, he was directly in front of the locker, the man's malicious gaze intensely locked onto yours. With much haste, Pitcher roughly opens the locker door with his free hand, leaning down slightly and hovering the fiery Molotov mere inches between your faces. As much as you wanted to just close your eyes and accept your fate, you couldn't—it was as if the bright flame in front of your face and the man's eyes were almost... mesmerizing to look at. He held that position for a long, agonizing moment, his gaze never leaving yours through the fire.

Pitcher tilts his head and the bottle a bit downwards. Before you could react or even contemplate why, the man blows the fiery concoction towards you with a light huff of air through his mask, quickly catching only the sleeve of your shirt on fire. He takes a couple steps backward and closes the locker with another swift push of his free hand. A long, raspy chuckle escapes the man, as if he found your situation funny in a sick, sadistic way.

"Enjoy," Pitcher murmured, saying the singular word in an almost melodic manner, despite his raspy and hoarse voice.

That was the only word you had heard him coherently utter this entire time, and the way he only lit a generous part of your shirt on fire seemed almost... purposeful, for some reason, as if he was simply messing with you.