Mask of Sanity; A New Survivor Enters The Realm, Thomas "Tommy-Boy" Dodson

So I thought I should make a survivor for the Mask of Sanity concept chapter so I made this character! Hope y'all enjoy this one, I didn't spend nearly as much time on him so not cosmetics this time, but I hope y'all enjoy. EDIT: Alright y'all, I made some cosmetics for Sebastian, just some eh little one's, thought it wasn't fair Sebastian got some and he didn't, here ya go!

A New Survivor Enters the Realm

Name : Thomas “Tommy-Boy” Dodson
Age : 28
Gender : Male
Lore :  

Thomas Dodson, born May 3rd, 1967, came into the world in a small Florida town just outside Tallahassee. To neighbors, the Dodsons were the image of the American Dream. A proud veteran father, a gentle, caring mother, and their  mutt, Badger, who never left Thomas’s side. Their house with its neat lawn, was the kind that looked as though it belonged on postcards. But beneath the surface of that picture-perfect family was a reality that would scar Thomas for the rest of his life.

His father, John “Jack” Dodson, returned from Vietnam a different man. When he left, he was a proud, clean-cut soldier with a smile. However, when he came home, he carried the war with him, in the sudden silences, in the nights he jolted awake screaming at enemies only he could see. PTSD was something not understood, in those days. His wife, Danielle, did her best to keep their home steady, to shield their son from the storms that overtook Jack.

For Thomas’s early years, life seemed ordinary enough. He was never the brightest student in class, but neither was he hopeless. He was just a regular boy who preferred playing baseball in the dirt lot behind the school to memorizing math tables. He had friends, scraped knees, and dreams like any other kid. Yet in the quiet moments, when his father stared too long into the distance or jumped at the crack of a car backfiring, Thomas felt something darker, more sinister clawing at the family.

That darkness revealed itself fully when Thomas was eleven years old.

It was a humid Florida night in August of 1978. The cicadas were in the trees, and Thomas lay restless in bed, half-asleep, half-listening to the creaks of the house. A sound shook him awake, a commotion. Loud banging, muffled thuds, the rattling of his bedroom wall. Confused, he sat up, hearing Badger growling low by his bedroom door. He waddled across the carpet, the hair on his arms rose as if warning him. He pushed the door open, heart thumping louder with each step toward his parents' room.

When he turned the knob and cracked the door open, the scene before him would engrave itself in his mind. His father was on top of his mother, his face, a mask of rage, stabbing and striking as if possessed. Blood splattered across the sheets, the walls, Danielle’s nightgown. She struggled, weakly, her hands shaking against Jack’s chest. Her eyes caught Thomas’s for the briefest second. They were awful wide, pleading, a silent cry he could never forget.

Thomas froze, paralyzed. His body turned cold, the sound of his own heartbeat drowned out everything else. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move. He could only watch in horror until Badger lunged at Jack, snapping and biting at his leg.

But even the loyal dog couldn’t stop him. Jack, lost in his flashback, grabbed the knife from his wife’s chest and plunged it into Badger’s throat. The yelp that followed broke Thomas from his trance. His breath caught. He tried to speak, but no words came. Jack’s head snapped toward him and in his father’s eyes, Thomas wasn’t a son. He was another enemy soldier, another target.

Jack lunged.

Thomas slammed the door shut just in time and bolted down the hall, flying through the living room, out the front door, across the lawn, and straight into the Johnsons’ house across the street. He pounded on their door until they let him in, until he collapsed in their hallway sobbing and choking on words. Mrs. Johnson clutched him close while Mr. Johnson grabbed his shotgun and locked the doors.

The police arrived minutes later, though to Thomas they felt like hours. Blue and red lights flooded the street as armed officers stormed into the Dodson house. Thomas watched from the Johnsons’ window, his small fists trembling against the glass. When the officers emerged, their faces were grim, and the ambulance that followed carried not one but two stretchers.

Jack Dodson had come down from his episode, realized what he had done, and turned the knife on himself. Danielle and Jack were declared dead at 3:41 a.m. The “perfect family” that neighbors admired was gone in a single night.

Thomas was taken to the police station, where officers gently asked him to explain what happened. He gave them what details he could. Afterward, he was placed with his Uncle Ron in Tallahassee, but child services deemed Ron’s cluttered, half-broken apartment unfit for raising a boy. Thomas was soon swept into Florida’s foster system, shuffled from home to home for the next seven years.

He never let anyone close again. He smiled when people expected him to, ate when told, followed rules when enforced  but deep down, he was numb. Every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw his mother’s face as she looked at him for the last time. He saw his father’s eyes filled with madness. He smelled the copper smell of  blood.

By his teenage years, he turned to drugs. At first, it was small things offered by other foster kids, just enough to take the edge off, to blur the nightmares. But soon, he became dependent on it. By the time he aged out of the system at 18, he was fully addicted. He drifted from couch to couch, eventually sleeping under overpasses, stealing what he needed to survive. Tallahassee’s streets became his home, his prison, and his escape all at once.

In 1986, at nineteen, Thomas overdosed. He was found by a jogger sprawled unconscious in an alley and rushed to a hospital. Doctors told him later that he had been minutes from death. For the first time, staring up at the harsh  lights, Thomas felt something he hadn’t in years: shame. Shame at what he had become, and a desperate need to change.

And so he did. Slowly, painfully. He worked odd jobs, anything that would hire him: sweeping at gas stations, unloading trucks, carrying boxes for a grocery store. He bought a beat-up jalopy of a car that coughed and sputtered but carried him to work. He bought clean clothes from thrift shops. He fought the cravings every single day.

Finally, after months of scraping by, he saved enough to leave Florida behind. With nothing but a duffel bag of clothes and a few hundred dollars in savings, he drove nineteen hours straight to New York, the city of opportunity, the city where people remade themselves.

The Bronx became his new home. He started living out of his car, showering at gyms, applying for jobs endlessly. Then came the docks. A dock-working position opened in the Bronx, and Thomas took it. He loved it more than anything he had done before. The work was honest, brutal, and tiring, but it gave him a rhythm. He made friends there, earned respect, paid rent on a shabby little apartment, and started to believe maybe, just maybe, he was building something real.

That was when he found therapy. At twenty-seven, Thomas began sessions with a young, highly intelligent psychologist named Sebastian Hawke. Sebastian was calm, collected, and professional, yet something about him unnerved Thomas. He brushed it off because, after all, wasn’t therapy supposed to dig into uncomfortable places?

But one night, his life unraveled again. He was restless, haunted by old nightmares, and decided to get a drink. He drove to a bar, already uneasy, feeling the unnerving sensation of eyes on him. Paranoia, he told himself. Just paranoia. He got blackout drunk, stumbled to his car in the far corner of the lot before feeling the sharp sting in his neck before darkness swallowed him.

When he woke, he was being dragged across a floor. His head throbbed. His wrists burned. And when his blurred vision sharpened, he saw the face of the one man he thought he could trust;  Sebastian Hawke.

A struggle erupted, violent and desperate. Thomas fought with everything he had, his strength and build giving him the upper hand, that was, until Sebastian’s revolver cracked against his skull. Dazed, bleeding, Thomas barely managed to knee him in the ribs and break free. He ran, bullets tearing through the night behind him, and didn’t stop until he crashed into the nearest police station, breathless and shaking.

The officers believed him. They sent cruisers to investigate the apartment, though by the time they arrived, Sebastian had vanished. Thomas gave his statement, his description, and was promised protection. But that night, as he lay in bed staring at his ceiling, the same old fear clawed at him, the same paralyzing terror he felt as a boy. Sebastian was still out there. And Thomas knew men like him didn’t stop.

He barely slept. And when he did, it wasn’t sleep that woke him, it was the rumble of his apartment walls, the choking mist filling his lungs, the world dissolving into an endless, suffocating fog.

When it cleared, he wasn’t in New York anymore. The sky was black, the air thick, and the mist never left. The world he knew was gone. And Thomas Dodson, a survivor of war’s aftermath, trauma, addiction, and betrayal, had been swallowed whole.

He hasn’t been seen since.

Perks : 

Tooth and Nail
You gotta fight with all you got. After being in a chase with the killer for 90/75/60 seconds, press the Active Ability Button while facing the Killer within 1 meter to stun them for 1 second. Activating Tooth and Nail causes a 120-second cooldown.

“You back a man into a corner, you’ll find out real quick he’s still got some fight left in him.” - Thomas Dodson

Scars
Your scars remind you that you’ve already survived worse. Each time you are unhooked, you gain 10%/12%/15% Haste for 6 seconds and your scratch marks are hidden during this time .

“You’re a sad man, Mr. Dodson.” - Sebastian Hawke

Whatever It Takes

You’ll do whatever it takes in order to survive. Whenever you blind the killer, break out into a sprint at 150% for 2/2/3 seconds. Once blinding the killer, you become the killer’s obsession. Whatever It Takes causes the “exhausted” status effect for 80/75/70 seconds. 

“I ain’t dyin’ here. Not to him, not to anyone.” - Thomas Dodson

Cosmetics

Uncommon

Night Scuffle

Head – Barroom Bruises: Messy, sweat-slicked hair with a fresh scrape above his brow. His beard’s uneven, jaw clenched in lingering frustration.

Torso – Wrinkled Button-Up: A rumpled shirt with one sleeve rolled halfway and a few buttons undone, stained faintly from the night’s fight.

Legs – Scuffed Jeans: Blue jeans torn at the knees, belt crooked, and mud stains along the cuffs from stumbling through the streets.
“The night that should’ve been forgotten left marks he couldn’t hide.”

Corner Store Clerk

Head – Store Shift Hair: Long tidy but slightly greasy hair from long shifts, sweat starting to dampen his hairline.

Torso – Faded Clerk Polo: A cheap red polo with a store logo on the chest, collar bent and name tag dangling loosely.

Legs – Breakroom Jeans: Worn blue jeans with a few coffee stains and sneakers bought second-hand.
“The uniform didn’t bring pride, but it brought him purpose.”

Road Tripper

Head – Windswept Mess: Hair tousled from hours in the wind, bags under his eyes from long nights on the road.

Torso – Old Band Tee: A faded concert shirt, collar stretched, layered under a plaid overshirt left unbuttoned.

Legs – Dusty Sneakers: Frayed sneakers and dusty jeans, marked by the journey and not yet the destination.
“Every mile further from Tallahassee felt like freedom, even if it was only on the surface.”

Rare

Street Survivor

Head – Hardened Look: Beard patchy but fuller, with tired eyes that dart constantly as if searching for threats.

Torso – Patched Hoodie: A gray hoodie riddled with stitched tears, sleeves pulled low to hide his trembling hands.

Legs – Alleyway Cargos: Dark cargo pants, knees ripped open, shoes taped at the soles to hold them together.
“The streets taught him resilience, but at a cost too heavy to measure.”

Therapy Sessions

Head – Hopeful Face: Hair combed neatly, beard trimmed as best as he could manage, showing effort if not skill.

Torso – Simple Shirt: A white dress shirt tucked into his pants, sleeves buttoned, clean but slightly wrinkled.

Legs – Slacks & Worn Belt: Dark trousers with a mismatched brown belt, the clothes of a man wanting to look put-together.
“Each appointment was a step toward something better — or at least, that’s what he told himself.”

Clean Slate

Head – Slicked-Back Hair: Hair combed and slicked back, face shaved clean, carrying an awkward sense of pride.

Torso – Fitted Shirt: A plain dark dress shirt, buttoned properly and tucked in, sleeves stiff with starch.

Legs – Dark Jeans & Belt: New jeans paired with an old belt that didn’t match, a detail only he really cared about.
“It wasn’t much, but it was the start of a man who refused to be broken.”

Very Rare

Forged in Steel

Head – Dockside Grease: Hair slicked with sweat and oil, smudges of grime across his face from a long day at the yard.

Torso – Sleeveless Work Shirt: A dirty, sleeveless undershirt drenched in sweat, chest pocket stained with grease and steel dust.

Legs – Heavy Work Pants: Thick brown work pants tucked into steel-toe boots, knees worn through from the hard work of lifting and hauling.
“The dockyards gave him strength, and with it, the illusion that he was finally building something permanent.”