Cobra awoke the next morning feeling suspiciously refreshed. He stretched and yawned, peering over to look at his tentmate snoozing. Macbeth was going to have a hard time waking up as per usual. For a second, the thought of attempting to wake him up crossed his mind–as a form of petty revenge–but years of being dissuaded from doing exactly that by Brain made him reconsider. Even if he knew Macbeth wouldn't gouge out his eyes from doing so, he'd still probably end up leaving a mark if they were to come to blows.
Suspiciously, he could have sworn he saw a small smile cross his guild mate's face in his sleep as Cobra exited the tent. He almost shuddered at the notion. No way was he listening in on whatever dreams that weirdo was having, especially not if he was making that kind of face.
He washed up, avoiding the morning lookout once again, before slipping off to head back towards the accursed establishment…he wouldn't give it the respect of being called a place of work.