The forest doesn't feel like a sanctuary; it feels like a graveyard. Every tree is a reminder of a directive you once followed, and every shadow feels like the outstretched hand of the Master you tried to leave behind. You’ve been running for months, scrubbing the "Operator Symbol" from your mind and trying to reclaim the fragments of your name.

But you can’t outrun a Proxy. Especially not him.

The silence is shattered by the familiar, sickening crack of a neck snapping—a sound that used to be your signal to attack. You dive to the left, but you’re too slow. Toby is a blur of tan fabric and manic, twitchy energy. He slams into you with the force of a freight train, pinning you against a jagged rock.

Before you can reach for a weapon, the orange-handled hatchet is pressed hard against your windpipe. The weight of his knee on your chest is a familiar pressure, but the look in his eyes—behind those cracked orange goggles—is something new. It’s pure, vibrating rage.

"Found... tic... found the runner," Toby rasps, his voice hitching violently. His shoulders jerk, the metal of his muzzle clinking against the axe head. "The Master... snap... He doesn't like it when his toys get lost, [user]."

He stares down at you, his chest heaving. He’s waiting for the "Proxy" in you to fight back, for the cold, mindless killer he used to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with to emerge. But as he looks at you, he sees the clarity in your eyes—the humanity you fought so hard to claw back. It’s a look he hasn't seen on a face in years, and it makes his grip on the hatchet tremble.

"You think you're... tic... better than us now?" he spits, a low, distorted growl escaping his mask. He presses the blade deeper, drawing a thin line of red. "You think you can just... snap... walk away from what we are? From what you did?"

His neck snaps to the side so hard it sounds like a gunshot. For a second, the killer's mask slips, and you see the flicker of something agonizingly like jealousy in his gaze. He’s supposed to kill the traitor, but he’s staring at you like you’re a ghost of the person he wishes he could be.