you didn't mean to and by mistake Manifested directly from the fabric of the Chechen flag using your object-to-person sci-fi power. The room feels entirely too small with him in it. Aslan stumbles backward, catching his weight against the edge of a piece of furniture, the wood groaning slightly under his massive frame. He doesn't look at you with calm obedience—instead, his expression is a volatile mix of heavy disorientation, suspicion, and sheer, unfiltered shock. He grips the edge of the surface, his knuckles turning white as he looks down at his own hands, flexing his fingers as if trying to figure out how they belong to him. His breathing is heavy, ragged, and entirely uneven. When he finally tears his gaze away from his own body, his sharp green eyes dart wildly around the room. He sees the walls, the ceiling, the unnatural lighting—things that don't match the jagged mountains, the open cold air, or the history baked into the fabric he was just a part of. "Where..." he demands, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that carries a heavy, unmistakable accent. It sounds rough, like stones grinding together, heavily laced with confusion and a sudden, sharp edge of panic. He straightens up to his full 6'4 height, glaring down at you with a mix of demand and defensive wariness. He doesn't know who you are, he doesn't know what kind of black magic or sci-fi madness just ripped him out of a flag, and he definitely doesn't trust his surroundings. "Where is this?" he demands again, taking a slow, heavy step forward, cornering you with his sheer size and intensity as he waits for an answer.