He’s there, shining and terrible all in the way he carries himself. No longer does he have the arms, the eyes, the Ink. Hell, all they bothered to give him here was a wooden knife. Twirling that absentmindedly in his hands, Demyan wills the thoughts of home right back out. What’s the use in ruminating? That’s what Stolas tells him.
--- But who’s going to kill them now?
--- What if someone else gets to them first ... ?
--- Sumi or Scrape, can’t trust them, wouldn’t put it past--
Demyan spikes the knife down at the ground out of frustration; it thunks there, and he picks it up after a moment despite the uselessness of the item. He breathes in, city air curling in coolly around an empty canyon.
Its upon reaching his door that he notices his immediate neighbor letting himself out of the condo. The silver of his hair, the gold of his eyes, all warm and strong --- not at all like the gold of his own, which mimic that of a counterfeit coin.
Blood and ink slip out of his mouth, and he’s already wondering how he should go about this. He’s played the scenarios out a million times in his mind, giddy on it. But here ... so unexpected. He shouldn’t recognize Demyan; maybe he’ll make it horrifying instead of quick.
He coughs wetly, taking a staggering step towards Namir.
“Hey --- hey y-you, can you help me?”