* // @impuritae called. -- starter call.
it was far from a welcoming sight.
the establishment looked as though it was ready to crumble at a moment’s notice with it’s very foundation visble within the walls, the soot present in the corridors and the scent of smoke immortalized in it’s walls. one wrong step, and a weak foundation crumbles on top of you. tiny, feral life scurries along the torn carpeted floors, scavenging for any sort of food whether rotting or breathing -- they have no regard. past indictations of human life would’ve appeared absent if it wasn’t for the years old furniture still present in the apartments’ rooms, if it weren’t for the shards of reflective glass sprawled amongst the ash and waste. if not for the scorched belongings of former individuals. a haunting sight once you realize that people lived here, once. laughed here, cried here, lived here with their families. where are they now ?, one would wonder. are they far away from these grounds ? or are they gone ? the answer: gone. they were no more. for those who knew, no one escaped His domain breathing. he saved them from a worse fate. he saved them. you saved them, sal. you know that.
a silent sense of nostalgia is rushing in now, memories of his former life. on the fourth floor, there would’ve been the place he titled ‘home’. in the basement, there was larry’s room. ( god, how much of your time there did you spend just listening to metal music ? ) mrs. rosenberg’s apartment. the so called “haunted” fifth floor. and beneath the rubble, the temple was there. he knows better than to venture down there again. besides -- the place gave him the fucking creeps, and rightfully so. it was no place to take solace in. not there.
nockfell law enforcement labeled it as a disaster -- but that was an attempt to conceal what truly happened. they couldn’t be trusted. some preferred ` arson ` as a better term, a theory that someone was behind the demise of all of the inhabitants. but sometimes, lies were better than the truth.
and despite the decay, he still thinks of this place home. his own sort of sanctuary away from the world -- to be alone. to think. and when that loneliness is disrupted by the presence of another visitor, a person he doesn’t quite know -- ?
he draws nearer to the room, foot steps careful and quiet, glass crunching underneath his weight. he slips through the door way, quiet, without a sound before finally deciding to ask --
` hey. what are you doing here ? `
