At some point in the seriously distant future, Rico might have looked back on what was going on here and figured it was a testament to his lung capacity that he could just scream back at Max while running. “THE FLYIN’ FUCK D’YA THINK I’M DOIN’? TAKIN’ A NAP?” He sounded decidedly more Italian-American when he yelled. Also when he was drunk or pissed off, but in this case only the latter could be added into the mix. It was a coping mechanism, the shouting. He knew that. He did it when he didn’t have anything else to fight with. There was nothing he could punch without breaking his fist on the wall -- or vice versa -- so vented on the wolf. The more ghosts crawled out of the woodwork, the more he actually kinda hoped Max’d yell right back. Especially if it distracted him from just how little he could do to help the girls between them. How the fuck were they supposed to stop ghosts from throwing them around?
Nearly bulldozing his way into the hallway, the were hauled the door shut behind them with an air of satisfaction that turned into resignation the moment he turned to look around. Where the hell were the things coming from? They couldn’t have all just been waiting there for them, but the idea of them all joining forces to ambush them unsettled him more. “Say what?” Rico looked at Charlotte, then stared at the door and the ghost emerging from it. “In there. You sure?” After turning a full 360 degrees and noting the numbers of the angry and the dead, he raised his glasses to see what Lily and the other girls saw. “Well, we’re gonna have to move soon anyway -- before the Silent Hill psychiatric ward get too friendly.” Or even before the rest of the horde reached the top of the stairs and came through that door. “Everyone holding up?” Strangely enough, that question actually extended to Max. But it was mostly for the ladies.