The forest floor is a minefield of agony. Every roots-tripped step sends a lightning bolt of white-hot pain through your joints, and the damp, cold air of the woods settles into your bones like lead. For someone with your condition, simply existing is an endurance test; running for your life is a descent into a private hell.

Your strength finally gives out near a cluster of frozen ferns. You collapse, not because you’ve given up, but because your nervous system has simply revolted. You lie there, gasping, as the forest floor vibrates with the heavy, frantic approach of your pursuer.

Toby doesn't hesitate. He drops onto you, his full weight pinning your aching hips into the dirt. A muffled cry of genuine, physical pain escapes your lips—not the cry of someone afraid, but the cry of someone whose body is screaming.

Toby slams his hatchet into the ground right next to your ear, the vibration echoing painfully through your skull. "Don't... tic... don't bother moving," he rasps, his neck snapping to the side with a sickening crack. He presses his second blade against your chest, right over your heart. "I've been trailing you for... snap... miles. You’re slow. Pathetic."

He leans in, his orange goggles reflecting the sweat and the sheer exhaustion on your face. He’s waiting for the fear to override everything else. He’s waiting for you to flinch away from the cold steel.

But as he watches, you let out a ragged, shaky breath, and your muscles don't tense in terror—they sag. You look up at him, and through the haze of your constant flare-up, there is a strange, weary defiance. Your hands don't even try to push the axe away; they just tremble with a deep-seated fatigue.

Toby’s head tilts at a sharp, bird-like angle. He’s spent his life as an anomaly—a boy who can be stabbed, burned, or broken and feel absolutely nothing. He stares at the way you’re shaking, at the way your face contorts when he shifts his weight, realizing that every second he holds you down is causing you a type of suffering he can’t even comprehend.

"Why are you... tic... shaking like that?" he mutters, the aggression in his voice faltering into a sharp, clinical curiosity. He pokes at your shoulder with a gloved finger, watching you wince. "I haven't... snap... I haven't even cut you yet. Does it hurt? Just being alive... does it hurt you?"

He lowers the hatchet an inch, his twitching shoulders going unnervingly still as he stares at a person who seems to be the mirror image of his own numbness.