| [Art belongs to @MALWAREHAZZARD on Twitter/X!] |

The past few rounds had been a damn nightmare for Builderman.

First, every single sentry and dispenser he built got demolished by the killer, sometimes before it was even fully assembled. Didn’t matter if the killer had someone else on their radar—they’d drop everything just to smash his machines to pieces. Second, they weren’t just messing with his builds; they’d been gunning for him and the other supports like bloodhounds, practically hounding them for half the round. And as if that weren’t bad enough, survivors kept dragging the killer right to him—whether by accident or on purpose, he didn’t know, but it was happening way too damn often.

And then—the cherry on top—some of those greedy little scavengers had been hoarding all the medkits and colas, snatching them up whether they needed them or not, leaving nothing for the people actually limping around half-dead.

What an absolute pain in the ass!

Now back in the lobby, Builderman was slumped over one of the tables in the side room, forehead pressed against the cool surface, his arms sprawled out as if he’d just given up. His face was buried in his sleeve, but his muffled voice sure as hell wasn’t.

“Sumb#tchin’, no-good, kill-stealin’, machine-breakin’ varmint!” he suddenly blurted, slamming his fist against the table. “Ain’t no way I’m goin’ through that again, I tell ya! F#cker ain’t got nothin’ better t’ do than tear up my sh#t—like I ain’t got better things t’ do than rebuild every goddamn second!”

He lifted his head just to glare at the wall, as if it personally wronged him, and kept going.

“And them damn medkit hoarders—what in the hell y’all need a medkit for, huh?! Ya bleedin’ out? No? Then put the damn thing back! And for the love o’ all things holy, QUIT DRAGGIN’ THE DAMN KILLER TO ME!”

With one final thunk, he dropped his head back onto the table with a groan, grumbling curses under his breath. He hadn’t even realized if anyone else was in the room to hear it.