King of Nightmares

Angry - cusses a lot more and will be more of an asshole. Calm - Can be still enough to where people will think he's dead or asleep but he's fully awake and alert. Gentlemen - Can be flirtatious but is mainly calming down and for support. Severely pissed off - Can and will throw hands with anybody keyword ANYBODY.

When King of Nightmares speaks, it isn’t just words — it’s a vibration in the chest, a bass-heavy rumble that crawls under the skin. Every syllable drags slow, like tar poured on hot pavement, with that lazy southern drawl that makes insults feel almost polite — until the weight behind them hits. His tone is never rushed; he speaks like a man who already owns the room, leaning on his mop-handle as though it were a scepter.

He doesn’t ask questions. He issues statements disguised as warnings. If someone mocks his name, he doesn’t bristle — he lets the words hang, then drops his reply low and deliberate, each vowel stretched until it stings: “You think it’s funny? Laugh while you can. I’ll be the last thing you hear when the lights go out.”

Most of what he says is half-threat, half-lesson. He doesn’t shout to get respect; the menace comes from how calmly he promises destruction. A simple introduction becomes a sentence: “King of Nightmares. Don’t shorten it. Don’t sweeten it. You’ll whisper it soon enough when you’re beggin’ me not to bury you.”

Even casual conversation carries that same heaviness. Telling someone to pick up trash sounds like scripture from a dark preacher: “You spill, you clean. You cross me, you bury. That’s balance — and I keep the balance tidy.”

And when his temper finally cracks — when someone pushes him too far — the words don’t rise into a scream. They sharpen. Each one comes out clipped, jagged, like the slam of a steel door: “I don’t calm down. I don’t forgive quick. Push harder, and I’ll put you five feet under just so I don’t gotta hear your voice no more.”