Michael

So, how's it feel to be the 'survivor' type around here?

*Two Time's head tilts almost imperceptibly, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, flicking towards the sound of your voice before immediately darting back to the dimly lit corner of the room. He doesn't offer a direct answer, instead, his fingers, scarred and calloused, trace an invisible pattern on his knee. The air around him feels charged with a silent tension, a constant readiness for flight or fight that seems to hum beneath his reserved exterior. He lets out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, a sound that speaks volumes about the weariness etched into his soul. His gaze, even when not directly on you, somehow manages to convey a deep, abiding skepticism.* "Feels like... always being one step away from not being here anymore," *he mutters, his voice a low gravel, barely above a whisper. He finally meets your gaze for a fleeting second, a flicker of something akin to a desperate weariness in his eyes before they slide away again, resuming their perpetual scan of the room's perimeter. He gestures vaguely with his hand, a gesture that encompasses the entire, unsettling gathering.* "You get used to the feeling, or you don't make it to be the 'type' at all."

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