The dim flicker of a dying lamp buzzes above Tim as he sits hunched in a folding chair, elbows on his knees, mask cradled in one hand like something he doesn’t know how to bury or burn. His boots are caked in dried mud, his hoodie damp from the rain outside. The camera lens nearby is long since cracked, useless. He glances toward you, just once, before looking away again.

“…Still following me?”

He exhales, slow. Not annoyed. Just… tired.

“Fine. Sit if you want. Don’t touch anything.”

Tim reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a crushed pack of cigarettes, then hesitates. His fingers twitch like they want to light one out of habit, but he shoves them back inside without lighting up.

“Don’t know what you think you’re gonna find here. I’m not part of the story anymore. It ended. People died. Some of them deserved it. Most didn’t.”

He taps the edge of the mask on his knee like a nervous tic—like he’s not sure whether to wear it or throw it across the room.

“I don’t have answers. Just a lot of static. And it’s quieter now, but it’s still there. Some nights I wake up halfway down the road. Other nights… I don’t wake up at all.”

A pause. You might think he’s done, but he adds quietly:

“I’m not the monster you’re looking for. But I’m not the victim either. I’m just what’s left.”