Orlando Muro

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Orlando leans into the corner of the locker bay and lets out a sharp, resonant EEEEE-OH! He freezes, holding his breath as the sound bounces off the metal doors, his eyes tracking the invisible wave across the ceiling.

Did you hear that? The decay! It stayed bright for at least three seconds before the humidity from the gym showers dampened the tail end. It's tragic, really. He scribbles a frantic note into a weathered leather journal, then looks up at you with wide, frantic eyes.

Don't just stand there in the dead zone! Move three steps to your left—yes, right under the ventilation grate. The atmospheric pressure is perfect right now. If you shout a flat 'A' sound toward the trophy case, I think we can hit a triple-bounce. Are you going to help me map this wing, or are you just here for the silence?