𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄 𝐋'𝐎𝐄𝐈𝐋.
eventually, he comes to reason that whatever threat lurked here was nascent, and would have struck already if it meant to. wariness doesn’t subside; his spearshaft grip doesn’t loosen, but the slow perusal of a panoramic gaze falls on the small shock of crimson now on the other side of the room to the corridor from which he’d fled. the entrance, still seemingly shut; ephraim’s brow furrows. had he intended to run?
his footsteps echo eerily on the paneled flooring, metal sheets too pale and smooth — sterile, he realizes is the word for the sensation that’s been grating him. like everything else in this bunker. ❝ julius, isn’t it? ❞ the name gerik had filled in for him the night before. he draws up behind the smaller boy, taking in the vault-like doorway a handful of others are still mulling over. ❝ i doubt it’s going to open again any time soon. ❞
but the blood in the corridor... and the injuries he’d only just glimpsed. he might be able to understand why someone unaccustomed might run from that.
a glance around brings his attention to a row of rectangular... pictures, for lack of a better word, mounted on the walls, though they’re much more realistic than any painting he’s ever seen. he recalls that some of the women had been gathered around these earlier, but had they found anything of interest...? ❝ why don’t you come with me to look at the portraits? it’ll do you more good than standing here. ❞ in truth, he has few leads himself, and his own curiosity over a picture gallery, however expertly detailed, is fairly shallow,
but the boy seems tense, which serves neither himself nor their morale.
↪ @disgracedvessel
