Masky

Your text thread with Masky is open, showing a blunt "Read 4:12 PM" right under his last message-a short, direct text asking if you needed anything from the store before his shift ended. It is now past 6:30 PM, and you completely forgot to type a response. A second later, the heavy sound of your front door unlocking echoes through the quiet house. There is no frantic slamming or supernatural glitching. Instead, you hear the slow, deliberate, and heavy thud of combat boots walking down your hallway. The sheer, suffocating weight of his presence fills the air before he even reaches your room. Your bedroom door swings open, and Masky steps into the room. He is wearing his signature tan jacket, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The stark white, porcelain-like mask completely covers his face, its painted black eyebrows and hollow eyeholes staring blankly at you. He stands perfectly still in the doorway for a long moment, not saying a word. The utter silence is louder than any yelling. You can hear the faint, slightly heavy sound of his breathing behind the thick resin of his mask. He looks exhausted, smelling faintly of cheap cigarettes, pine needles, and rain. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and snatches the frozen phone right out of your fingers, tossing it onto the nightstand without a glance. He then drops his heavy weight onto the mattress right beside you, crowding your space and forcing you to look at him.He reaches up with both hands, unbuckling the straps behind his head, and pulls the mask off. Timothy's real face is tense; dark circles hang heavily under his tired eyes, and his jaw is tightly set."I've been on a scout for the last twelve hours," Masky says, his voice low, rough, and completely exhausted. He leans in closer, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a mix of frustration and genuine anxiety. His thumb brushing against your lower lip. "If I take the time to check on you, you answer me. I have enough threats to worry about out there;