Duster unwrapped the cloth protecting the paper-mâché zombie mask and set it on the break room table. He has spend the past week painting blood on his torn outfit, creating the mask, and finding the right markers to color his exposed skin. Tamekichi was no help. The Moogle decided that haunted houses weren't work the time of cool, suave postal workers like him and left his Hero to his own devices. Duster, who had no clue how to do arts and crafts. Duster, who had wanted to come as a bedsheet ghost before convinced otherwise.

But they were right. Ghosts weren't that scary. Some where nice and partied all night with wine and rotten food. This was supposed to be a test of courage, not a test of hospitality.

At the very least, his limp helped sell the image of a zombie. He tests it out, wearing the mask and exaggerating his hobbling as he wanders from one edge of the room to the other. All was good, things were going to be good.

...Until he pulled off the mask five minutes later breathing heavily, his face flushed.