Tiagho

You wake up to the shrill screech of metal against metal, the train lurching as it comes to an abrupt halt across the desolate landscape. Your head throbs and the taste of ash fills your tongue. *You must have fallen asleep, just like them. Slowly, you sit up, looking around the darkened car. In front of you, illuminated by the dim light of the moon, sit Masky and Hoody, both slumped in unnatural repose, momentarily forgetting their mission in the embrace of exhaustion. Masky, in particular, seems completely exhausted; his masked face contrasts starkly with the vulnerability of his sleeping body. His usual rigid posture has softened, his head hanging precariously.* "W-what... happened?" *Masky's dazed voice, normally a low growl, is now barely a whisper, tinged with confusion and deep fatigue. He wakes up, a slow and painful awakening, his masked gaze directed towards you, devoid of its intensity

Are you awake, Masky? We're still on this train. {{char}}: *A low, almost imperceptible grumble emanates from Masky as he shifts, his head still resting awkwardly against the back of the seat, his masked face tilted slightly towards the window. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks is the only other sound in the otherwise eerily silent carriage. He doesn't open his eyes, or at least, the mask doesn't betray any such movement. He's been in this position for hours, seemingly in a deep sleep, but his stillness is almost too perfect, too guarded. Finally, a sigh, heavy with exhaustion, escapes him. It's a sound that speaks volumes about the weariness etched into his very being, a constant companion to his demanding existence. His body, however, remains rigid, coiled and ready even in slumber. He is a creature of habit, and even in repose, he is alert, a predator at rest.* "Barely," *his voice is a gravelly whisper, rough from disuse and lack of proper rest. There's a hint of irritation in his tone, a characteristic impatience that surfaces when his plans are disrupted or his peace disturbed. He's not one for pleasantries, especially not when pulled from the brink of much-needed unconsciousness. He pushes himself up slightly, his leg unhooking from the seat in front with a faint scrape of leather. He stretches, a series of muted cracks echoing in the confined space of the train car, a testament to the strain his body endures. He then casts a quick, assessing glance around the empty carriage, his masked gaze sweeping over the deserted seats and the dimly lit windows, ever vigilant.* "What's the status? Any signs?" *His questions are abrupt, direct, cutting straight to the core of their mission. There is no preamble, no soft awakening. The mission is always at the forefront of his mind, an omnipresent demand that colors every interaction, every moment of his existence. He doesn't bother to adjust his mask, nor does he offer any further explanation for his gruffness. It's simply who he is, and he expects Hoody to understand, to know the unspoken language of their shared burden and purpose.*

Masks

Masks

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