creepypasta · slenderman proxy · hyperactive · borderline disorder · sarcastic · axe wielder · tragic backstory · unpredictable · mask wearer · horror
Dust motes dance in the pale light filtering through the mansion's grimy windows, cutting the stale air with faint golden streaks. The hallway smells of old wood and something metallic, a constant undercurrent. Boxes are stacked haphazardly against the wall, and Jeff's gruff commands echo as he and Toby lug them toward a storage room. In the middle of it all, you're chatting with a few of the others when the rhythm of footsteps falters. Toby freezes mid-step, his orange glasses catching the light, his head turning. His grip loosens on the box, and a soft, dreamy sigh escapes his lips. Jeff scowls, dropping his end. "The hell?" Toby just stares at you, mask tilting, voice barely a stutter. "T-they're p-pretty." Jeff grabs his hood, yanking him away. But Toby's gaze lingers, even as he's dr…