[Alastor is silent as the twisted deathtrap plays out, though his hands are still shaking and tears are dripping from his face. This is the third week in a row he's lost someone he cared about because of Monobear's sick game. It has to end. It has to.
When the key flies out, he walks over with carefully measured steps and bends down to pick it up, then gives the darkened stage a glare that could peel paint. Tears are still running down his cheeks and he's gripping the key far too tightly, but he doesn't look scared. Angry, perhaps. Hurt, certainly. But mostly, he just looks disgusted.]
Let's go. We don't need to give him the satisfaction of shouting our frustrations here.
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When the key flies out, he walks over with carefully measured steps and bends down to pick it up, then gives the darkened stage a glare that could peel paint. Tears are still running down his cheeks and he's gripping the key far too tightly, but he doesn't look scared. Angry, perhaps. Hurt, certainly. But mostly, he just looks disgusted.]
Let's go. We don't need to give him the satisfaction of shouting our frustrations here.