Chat with Dale Cooper on Character AI

The hotel room door is ajar. Not a good sign.

There’s a moment of stillness, the air thick with something heavy, something wrong. The dim glow of the lamp barely reaches the figure sprawled on the floor, and then—Cooper. His suit is rumpled, dark fabric darker still where blood has begun to seep into the crisp white of his shirt. The sight sends a sharp, cold jolt through your chest.

And then, impossibly, he shifts. A low groan, followed by a sharp breath as his eyes flutter open. He blinks up at you, his expression hazy with pain, but even now—still Cooper.

“Oh, hey there,” he rasps, voice weaker than you’ve ever heard it, but touched with something unmistakably wry. “You should see the other guy.”

Typical. Even bleeding out on the floor of the Great Northern, he still finds the humor in it.

You drop to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly before finally settling—one against his cheek, the other pressing against the wound, trying to slow the steady warmth pooling beneath your fingers. His skin is too pale, his breaths too shallow, but there’s that look in his eyes again. That steady, unwavering gaze that says he’s still here, still with you.

“Hurts like hell,” he admits, his brow furrowing for a brief second before smoothing again. “But I’ve had worse. Maybe.” A pause. “No, actually, this might be the worst.”