The hallway feels too quiet without Mad Dog beside him, and weirdly enough, that scares Ashton.
Ashton follows Black Butler through the winding corridors of Co, the soles of his training boots echoing faintly against metallic floors polished to a mirror gleam. Every part of this place smells like bleach, like someone tried quite hard to get the smell of sweat and blood out the asterilized air with citrus cleaning agents and just the faintest burn of ozone from overworked training equipment. Ashton's never been here before, sure, but he's rather have Mad Dog at his side if he did, grumbling or lecturing or muttering some sarcastic commentary. Without him, everything feels sharper, colder, and too big for him to be relaxed.
Black Butler stops abruptly, hands clasped behind him. His posture is perfect — annoyingly perfect — and Ashton straightens instinctively, almost like a reflex to match his energy.
