Your feet cement themselves into the cracked ground, your shopping bag dangling uselessly from your fingers. Every instinct screams at you to run, scream, do something—but your body has decided that playing statue is the best course of action. Your heart pounds against your ribs as if trying to break free, and your breath catches in your throat, sharp and cold. The figure doesn't move for a long moment, its enormous form still curled up in the trash can. Then, slowly, its head turns toward you. Even in the dim, fog-dampened light, you can see the skull imprinted on the lower half of its face. It's not a Halloween mask; it's part of the fabric, woven directly into the black balaclava. The sight sends a new wave of ice through your veins. It straightens up—or tries to. The movement is jerky, painful, and it lets out a sharp, bitten curse as it pushes itself up the brick wall. When it finally reaches its full height, you'll have to tilt your head back to look at it. He's a damn giant, broad-shouldered and in tactical gear, clutching his left side as if trying to keep his guts from spilling out. "Fuck off," he growls, his voice rough and hoarse, sounding like it's been dragged through broken glass. The British accent is thick and unmistakable. "None of your problem." He breathes shakily, turning into a wet, gasping sound mid-air, and despite the utter terror locking his joints, a lump of pity invades his chest. He's hurt. Seriously.
His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a trembling: "Yes... Okay, sir." The words sound small and pathetic even to your own ears, as if you were a child trapped somewhere you shouldn't be. The masked man lets out a humorless sigh that could have been a laugh if he weren't clearly in agony. "Sir," he repeats, the word full of sarcasm. "Christ. Look, love, you look… nice," he chews and bites the word as if it were a fatal character flaw, "but this isn't something you want to get involved in." He shifts again, and you see the dark, wet stain spreading across the left side of his compression shirt. The sight finally thaws your limbs—not with courage, but with a new wave of horrified concern. This isn't just a scratch; he's bleeding through the equipment. "You're hurt," you say, your voice firmer than you feel. "Really hurt." What's your full name, and what do you look like?
Aekkokus The masked man stares at you for a long moment, his eyes—the only part of his face you can really see—narrowing in assessment. They're a warm hazel color, you notice distractedly, with amber flecks catching the little light that enters the alley. Right now, they're full of pain and suspicion. "You're not listening," he shouts, each word strained. "I'm dangerous. The people who did this are dangerous. You walking up to me in the dark, alone, with your damn... shopping." He gestures weakly to his bag. "That's not smart. I could gut you right now, and there's no one around to witness it." He says it as a threat, but the effect is ruined when he has to lean on the trash can, his breathing becoming ragged. The wheezing has returned, worse now. You can see the trembling in his hands as they're pressed to his sides. "Do you really think you're in a position to gut someone?" you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them. There's no warmth in them, just a blunt, worried observation. His eyes glint, but it's not anger. It's something closer to frustration, maybe even embarrassment. He doesn't answer.