MOONLIT

The bright lights of the Giant superstore were often too much for Karam to take for too long (and the busy crowds of the place would have been as well, were it not for the fact that the place was practically empty) but there were concerns that could be put aside for a short time when it came to lending a helping hand and, of course, making himself useful. He hardly paid attention to the shelves himself, he wasn't really here to buy anything. “I'm not sure what I think,” said Karam, finally. This was something he'd given quite a bit of thought, just as he had every other incident for the last...however long it had been. "Could be an attempt to throw the blinkers over our eyes. Could be an honest murder and that alone is just a convenient distraction. Hard to say. Not sure I trust it either way." He spoke abruptly. Bluntly. Just as he always did, just as he always would. Matters of life and death were a point of natural consideration for him. They hadn't raised him to fear that sort of thing or treat it with any great reverance.

Another tragedy, another calamity. When the news broke, Naji was one of the selection of firefighters who offered a few more hours of their time to contribute to the safety of the community—even if it was of no more significance than being a security blanket. Leaving behind a pouting boyfriend at home, he donned his casual uniform to identify himself as someone trustworthy: all navy blue, with a shield on his shirt belonging to that of Anchorage Fire Department; and it was now his turn to post up near the entrance of the apartment building, to offer a sense of security to the residents, to walk someone up to their apartment if they felt unsafe, any of that that comes with working for the community.

Toned arms, like bronzed scrapbooks of flash tattoos from all over the world, crossed against his chest as the bottle blond did his best to appear as the role of community protector, a duty he loved so dearly. "No, I don't know anything more than you do," he spoke as someone approached, seemingly with a question in their eye. "I'm really sorry. Do you need a buddy to walk with you?" He wouldn't be surprised if they didn't even live here: there would always be nosy onlookers sniffing around for information or a glimpse of a scene.

Karam had not spent too much time in town as of late, at least not outside of shifts at the flower shop and nights spent in untouched quiet of his own apartment. He'd always been prone to wandering the outskirts of town and beyond, finding more comfort among the trees and creeks than the imposing concrete uniformity of urban life. (And, more and more, he'd been haunting that cabin in the words; secrets would lie hidden inside those walls, true enough, but he'd made good use of it ever since the fateful day he'd fallen through its rotten floorboards.)

The last few months had been relatively peaceful, in any case, a string nasty incidents on Halloween night seemingly having been washed away in the tide of the holiday season. There was a sense of false security that tended to descend upon the town and settle any time there was a chance and people seemed all too happy to fall for its tricks. Yet, once again, like clockwork, something had happened. Time had run and the clock had struck. The sickly glow of fear was cast over Anchorage again; another year beginning with another murder to mark its ascent.

Curiosity had brought him to the sight of the dreadful incident, as it always did. Knowing what he did about this town, of the sordid mysteries buried beneath its mundane streets, he would always arrive with a deep scepticism readily etched into his heart; he had an eye for detail, after all. The town had its fair share of amateur sleuths but Karam did not share in their dogged pursuit of justice. He wanted answers but his reasons were his own.

His approach through the building's lobby was halted by a sudden voice. A question answered before he'd even had a chance to consider posing one. Karam's eyes, cool and indifferent and yet curious all the same, washed over the firefighter. The expression he was as inscrutable as ever and he regarded the other with only the slightest canting of the head. “I didn't say anything,” he said, blandly. “I suppose you've already been asked countless times by countless others? ” He looked past the firefighter, his eyes fixed on the door to the stairwell. His skin glows warm under the golden shine of the lobby's lighting package but his expression, that sharp spark in his eye, are as cool as a shard of glass. “It seems as though nobody knows anything. Isn't that terribly strange?”

kim dabin lingered on the edges of the celebration, a solitary figure, apart from the kaleidoscope of revelry. the ember of the lit cigarette hung from his lips flared briefly as he drew in a breath, glancing at his watch with the kind of casual detachment that belied the question: why, exactly, had he agreed to this? ALL HALLOW'S EVIL ; what a spectacle! what fun! but for whom? certainly not them. and yet, he had come, dressed impeccably as tuxedo mask, a shadow of nostalgia brought vividly to life. the black cape draped elegantly over his shoulders, its crimson lining a stark contrast to the deep midnight hue of his suit, top hat perched at a calculated tilt, while the mask concealed just enough of his face to let his expression remain his own—a quiet mix of boredom and bemusement. stoic gaze swept across the sea of various cartoon characters in search of one person in particular, the one who'd convinced him to be here in the first place. still no sight of him. the bastard let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh, whichever one it was meant to be.

Karam certainly wasn't feeling very nostalgic. Even if pushed, he wasn't sure he'd be able to answer the question of what did make him feel nostalgic, besides maybe the scent of wet forest mulch and petrichor. Needless to say, the cartoon costumes weren't hitting those notes with a guy who'd grown up without television. Not as a Grim Fox, not even in his original life as a six year old streetrat. At least his year, if nothing else, he knows what he's dressed as; the previour year's costume had been someone else's idea and he'd gone along with it just for the sake of trying. (Even this year's attempt had taken some external encouragement.) So, what was he getting out of this? As someone who did not feel nostalgic and did not particularly enjoy busy or crowded places? In the past year, he'd forced himself into more situations he hated than ever before -- although, his upbringing had instilled in him an inherent talent for slipping by unnoticed. What he gained out of all this was quite simple, really -- simple awareness. Anchorage had always been an unfortunate place but the number of strange incidents seemed to be steadily increasing and, somehow, public events like these seemed to be a breeding ground for trouble. That was enough to draw Karam's attention each and every time.

But none of that was enough to teach how to exist in these busy spaces. He'd only ever known how to avoid people in full, hiding away in the shadows far from reach, and had never quite mastered the art of moving through the crowds in a quick or efficient way. Karam was, it seemed, either lithe and graceful as to throw his own humanity into question or was as hapless as a newborn giraffe, with the lanky legs to match. When he'd managed to crash, shoulder first, into another festival attendee, it only took a matter of five seconds for Karam to completely lose his footing and tumble down onto the frost-hardened soil below. (Yes, they were away from the crowds now but, in Karam's defense, the ice was terribly slippy.) Seemingly unharmed by his fall, Karam sat up and frowned. It wasn't quite a scowl, for Karam was prone to more placid visages, but the sharp look in his eyes offered a close enough effect. "I can't help the direction I fall in," he said, brushing a dusting of dry soil from his knee with the back of his hand. "You should learn to dodge basic obstacles. You weren't paying much attention yourself if you didn't see me coming."

The shadow had never been one to complain about things rotting. After all, in that state, wasn't that when some of the best art was created? Not that he would be posing this to Karam; he'd rather gag on his own words than attempt to speak on the aspects of creativity no one dared to understand. Gods above, he was a wreck these days. Had nothing to do, nothing to keep him preoccupied. So he went and found a method to his madness: a manner in which he remained as busy as possible. If that meant traipsing around Anchorage and viewing whatever amused him the most, so be it. That was simply the ending and the beginning to something. "And what d'you think could be rotting, eh?" The choice of flavour in lollies today was strawberries and cream. Rather demure, rather fucking mindful, considering who was eating it, gnashing it around in his teeth. "Are we leaping straight to somebody?"

Look, Shin shouldn't be listened to when it came to these things. Karam's genuine questions brought this out of him. Flicking the tip of his tongue against his lower lip, a soft blink in doe-eyes that were about as deer-like as a fucking coyote in the forest, Shin leaned against the wall of Single Carrot and crossed one ankle over the other. A laugh spluttered out soon after, wolfish grin to follow.

Karam stared blankly at him, ignoring the (frankly, quite irritating) motion of the lollipop and instead focusing, at least as much as he was capable considering his poor track record for getting people, on his company's expression. He'd never been fond of people who jumped back forth, saying something bold one second and then immediately retracting it. Wouldn't everything be easier for everyone if people just said what they meant. Instead, Karam felt trapped in a world where every sentence was a fucking guessing game. Although he'd never willingly return to the cold, unforgiving arms of the Grim Fox, their orders were, at very least, delivered precisely as intended. If there was a job for Karam to do, he'd be informed of it clearly and exactly.

"And I'm not kidding," said Karam, canting his head to one side and, although the motion had caused his dark hair to fall into his eyes, his sharp gaze cut through all the same. "Anything rotting enough to cause a stench like this was someone once." Human or animal, they'd been someone. It might be a cliché to say to talk of a person who feels better understood in the presence of animals than of humans but, for Karam, that was often true. His brood of pigeons did not pass judement upon him nor did they demand that he put on arbitrary airs just to please him. The rats that had made the cinema their home did not mind him so long as he approached them quietly enough. Plants rotted if left to die, he knew that well enough, and so did food but they never produced a stench quite as strong as this. He could not be sure, of course, that this really was the odor of rot but even so...even so...

Elbow-length red gloves had been deposited on the table, in favor of getting down and dirty in pumpkin guts with a selection of instruments brought from home; after all, there wasn't anything in the rules against using your own tools, and Lexi was determined to create the most beautiful jack o'lantern for the contest, even if she wasn't an artist by trade. "Good thing my job doesn't let me have long nails, or else this shit would be all up under there." She hung her tongue out in disgust: although she was up to her literal elbows in slime and goop, she was very much not enjoying the sensation. "Did you see anywhere I could wipe all this gunk off'a me? Wipes, paper towels, a hose, anything." She held up her pumpkin to inspect it, "And did you see anywhere with better lighting? I feel like my grandmomma having to turn on all the lights in the house because she can't see anything."

Karam's hands were practically coated in pumpkin goop and it did not look as though he'd particularly noticed. He'd gutted his pumpkin by yanking the guts out by hand and dumping them onto a plastic place but, from there, he'd separated the innards from the seeds and organsied them, depositing them into neat piles, one next to the other, with such precision you would not be blamed for assuming he'd been in the midst of a medical dissection. Currently, he was busy drawing his knife along the lines of a piece of paper, pressed up against the shell of the pumpkin, that he was using as a template; the drawing on it, a hand-drawn sketch of a rat, was troublesome in its intricacy. The competition was of little consequence, he'd just learned he handled these events better if he had something to keep him busy, and he'd been so busy that the rest of the world around him might as well have melted away.

Karam finally tore his eyes away from his work when his table neighbour spoke up, although he was blinking as though he'd just been abruptly awoken from a slumber. "Wipes...", he muttered to himself, looking around the table. "Uh, there." He pointed one pumpkin-y finger at the open packet of wet wibes at the other end of the table, unintentionally hidden from sight by an unused pumpkin. Karam might have even grabbed the packet for her and handed them over but, firstly, his own hands weren't exactly clean and, more significantly, the thought never occurred to him because she hadn't asked him to do so. "We're outside," he said, with a shrug, "The lighting's as good as its going to get. Here." With that, he nudged the handheld camping lantern he'd brought with him to the middle of the table and then reached over to pop a few of his neatly piled pumpkin seeds into his mouth. With his other hand, he gestured to the pile of pumpkin gloop piled next to her would-be lantern. "Are you keeping that?"

Esmore was a passionate proponent of cleanliness, as evidenced by the spotlessness that encompassed his estate and left it only slightly sterile—he had to be certain that his son still felt inklings of familiarity, like he could feel as if he were truly home and not a hospital. Needless to elaborate on why precisely he'd recoiled in response to the stench emanating from the gutter, he couldn't allege that it was unanticipated; he'd come sauntering down to the theatre for a cautionary inspection of what had disturbed others walking opposite him on the street. He was still a devoted councilman, after all, and he needed to remain in touch with the disparages the people whom he had (perhaps more egotistically than literally) lorded over.

When he spotted the crouched figure in the dank atmosphere, he had pondered on whether or not he should bemuse them with a reply. Was it an absent-minded bystander who had disposed of their putrid take-out in the nearest gutter? Then, he humored that it likely could have been something of a more sinister variety, so, was he obligated to provide what he believed would be useful commentary.

Realistically, there was no real reason for Karam to care about the City Council or for him to recognise a single member but, in the very early days of life away from the Grim Fox, when he was still reeling from the veritgo of betrayal and trying to learn what it meant to be tossed aside like forgotten trash, he'd been so afraid of the world and so brimming with misplaced paranoia that he'd forced himself to understand just who ran this town. That was a few years ago now but natural habit still made certain that he was somewhat aware of who was in the Council. Karam had stolen a glance just long enough to recognise his company before training his gaze on the dark abyss hiding beyond the sewer grate. "They're all blaming you for this, you know," he said, casually. There was no further elaboration made as to who they were; it did not always occur to Karam that he needed to provide context, not when the image in his head was already so perfectly rendered, but one could likely presume from what he was saying that they were simply the town's general population. The you in question was, of course, the Council itself. "They're saying the Council aren't doing enough to fix the problems and keep the sewer systems clean." Once more, Karam lifted his head, catching the councilman's countenance in his unflinching gaze. Still, there was the faintest hint of amusument in his voice, like he was sharing a funny secret. "They're accusing you all of neglect." A pause. "Or so I've heard."

Of course, nobody has asked Karam his opinion the work of the Council and, once again, he did not particularly care about them or what they were doing and so he moved on from the topic with great ease, . "My lungs are fine," Karam said, brows furrowed. He may have taken the comment a tad too literally and was visibly confused by it. "Can't say the same for my nose." At that, he scrunched up his nose and rubbed at his nostrils with back of his wrist. He couldn't say for certain but he Karam supposed he'd probably smelled worse before. At the very least, he'd smelled things that were similarly terrible and this stench was still probably far safer than all the poisons and venoms and chemicals he'd been made to handled during life in the Grim Fox. He was, in a few senses, perfectly accustomed to this sort of thing. "It's probably both," said Karam, flatly. "I can smell the rot but the actual sewage from the rest of town is masking the odour." He cocked his head to one side, regarding the councilman with a quizzical look on his face. "Do you have a torch?"

As Alice walked across town, a stench reached her noise that made her recoil. Jesus, it was in town, too? The gentlemen near her had obviously seen her reaction to the wretched smell. It really stinks, doesn't it? That was an understatement. This sludge was all over town and it was fucking rank. However, there was something extra sickening about the odor that lingered just below the sewer grate. Alice had her suspicions, naturally, but how credible could they really be? She did have a habit of jumping to conclusions, after all. "Yeah, it's pretty bad," she said, not too keen on conversating with a stranger at the moment.

The lack of social niceities or forwardness returned to Karam for his abrupt remarks did not bother him in the least, if he even troubled himself to take notice. He was not himself the conversational type and the rules of appropriate conversation had always been more of a nuisance; if he ever worried about them, it was only because they were so fickle as to constantly elude him. Perhaps the topic at hand, the same one raised by Karam himself, was enough proof that these rules were not something he followed well. For once, he understood all too well that this was something of a taboo subject but curiosity had a funny way of eclisping reason.

SAMANTHA PULLED HER COLLARED PEACOAT TIGHTER around her body, as if the tan colored wool being staunch around her body could somehow protect it against the stench that was hanging in the air so thickly it could be sliced right through. If only. The blonde resisted the urge to squeeze her nostrils together, choosing against the childish action even if she had to resist the urge to gag when passing the grate. Walking around Anchorage had never been fun, the low temperature and penchant for precipitation made sure of that, but the smell made it even more of a torturous task. She already had an issue with deflecting allegations of sleeping in her office at work. (And really, that had only happened a couple times when deadlines left her editing and reviewing so late into the night that it would practically be a waste of time not to just take a nap on the decorative couch in her office instead.) But the unavoidable smell almost made it worth it if it meant not being forced to encounter it twice a day when walking to and from the public parking lot. "That may be an understatement. One would hope the rain would've helped washing it away a bit, but it seems to have only worsen it." Head of platinum hair tilted to the side, curiosity regarding it even if she made the move to take three more steps back from the grate. (It didn't seem to help much.) "Aren't you concerned about getting that close? If it is something rotten, it has to have been decaying for some time now. Plus, who knows what diseases it could've been carrying." Or maybe that's what took it out in the first place. "Are you planning to get it out yourself? Without any proper protection?"

"If the sewers are as blocked up as everyone is saying, there'll be nowhere for the rain to carry it all," said Karam, making a motion with one hand like a wave, up and down and along, as if to imitate flowing water. "There's nowhere for the stench to go but up and out, into the world and into our noses." He continued to speak with the same lighthearted tone but never edged into obvious excitement; even without the simple reality that this was a potentially nasty subject and one that Karam did not feel like celebrating, he'd never been one for grand displays of emotion. Perhaps, if he had ever cared about being understood, he might have forced himself but he saw no reason to wear himself out for someone else's shortlived benefit. When he was still a child, the overseers had mistaken this for good emotional control but the reality was that Karam had barely any grasp on his emotions at all; his handler had learned that much the hard way.

His odd childhood also played its role in Karam's reaction to this awful stench. Although it was true that he'd always had a sensitive nose and, quite frankly, the fumes were turning his stomach in all sorts of nasty directions, it was most certainly not his first encounter with the odor of decay. Cursed with a memory so much more keener than would ever be useful, Karam could still recall the first time he'd happened upon a rotting animal carcass. He'd been only about seven years of age, living in the forest with his handler, when he'd stumbled off the beaten path. Trying his best to retrace his steps, he pushed his way through the overgrowth, parting the leaves and branches of neglected shrubs and bushed to reveal that awful sight. Perfectly unprepared for every element of it, every individual attack on his senses, he'd promptly emptied his stomach right then and there. Since then, he'd diligently taught himself how best to breath so that he inhaled as little stench as possible. It didn't work all that well but it was good enough. There was some comfort to be found in the fact he hadn't lost that skill.

"I've smelled worse," said Karam, matter-of-factly. The remark about disease was harder to rebuke. Although he knew his way around a hundred poisons and medicines and chemicals, that did not grant him the supernatural ability to sniff out disease; even if it was said that there were animals capable of this, there was a limit to the human body that he could not surpass. But, then, her next question was enough to catch him by total surprise and, for the first time since he'd first spoken to her, his attention left the grate. "I'm not planning on anything" he said, with a curious glint in his eye. He was not lying but the idea intrigued him all the same. "There might be something much worse down there than some old rotten thing. It could well be a suicide mission." Just this year, he'd already happened upon a pair of skulls in some underground tunnel, although he'd been too delerious with pain from an arrow wound to take much from it all. There was something peculiar lying deep beneath this town, or so Karam had begun to suspect. Lowering his voice, he added, "Would you go down there with protection? If you really wanted to know, that is."

date: october 1st, early morning, a few hours after the escape.

@anchoragestarters

Being someone who often spent time out here at all hours of the day and night, bound not by social expectation but his own whims alone, Karam was perplexed by the question. It was not the first time he'd been asked it nor would it be the last but, usually, people would question him for wandering around in the dead of night. Besides, the pigeon he was clutching in one hand was surely far more suspicious than the hour of the day. "You're in the state with most of the country's largest national parks and you're still surprised by animals?" he asked, sincerely mystified. Even the state parks were decently-sized, with Chugach State Park sitting just next to Anchorage itself; Karam had familiarised himself with many parts of the park's vast landscape and could say with some confidence that it was well populated by the local wildlife. (In fact, he would not have been surprised if the herds of animals that had stormed the town only months before had come straight from that very place.) Of course, the hoard teeming about the streets right now appeared to be mostly domestic animals and he could only guess, looking at the visual evidence, that someone had left the doors open over at the vet surgery or some animal adoption centre.

she was under the impression that everyone knew stella. stella, the punk rock it-girl of the town, was a veritable icon with an aura that seemed shine rock hard when she was in a room. yet, it appeared that some unfortunate souls had not yet been graced with her electrifying presence. "oh, don't worry. i can introduce you if you like, but you have to like promise to be nice. none of that terror talk. she can be a little aggressive, if you know what i mean, and if it gets too busy, i can start using my roller rink tricks to shove through the crowd. don't worry! you're in good hands, i promise!" her words were imbued with a sense of assurance, as if she held the keys to an exclusive world where social connections danced like glittering constellations.

as she gave their last words a chance to melt into her consciousness, a fleeting shadow of doubt crept into her thoughts. perhaps it was a little immaterial and unsympathetic of them to be having so much fun while families suffered. "i don't know, i just guess that since we were able to band the city together, that it was all for a good cause. i mean, we're raising awareness, aren't we? that's gotta count for something." her tone took on a reflective quality, a soft cadence of introspection mingling with her otherwise buoyant spirit, as though she was caught between the buoyancy of her ideals and the weight of reality.

Karam was not going to, under any circumstances, say anything with her and instead only reacted with a slight flinch as she clapped; it was easy to miss, unless you were closely watching for the vague twitch of his brow and the briefest pursing of his lips. Certainly, it was loud enough in this place without anybody adding to it with pointless applause. Karam was a soul of few words and preferred not to waste his breath. Any argument he could have offered in return was pointless. It was clear that they would not see eye to eye, for Karam had no particular interest in what others thought of him (for he'd already been disregarded as strange) and could not fathom why anybody would want or need to correct a stranger's judgement of them, nor did he care enough for his own stance to defend it with any vigour. His response was quick, simple and to the point; "If I recall," he said. "I did specifically say you weren't a terror."

Most people in this town were strangers to Karam and the years spent trawling its streets had done little to change that. There were countless faces he knew from the custom at the Flower Basket, an endless list of names his eyes had passed over as he processed orders, but rarely did he know which name belonged to which face. He preferred to stay in the back, away from the front-facing aspects of the work, and he had always been very fortunate that he had Sky Chun, whose natural charisma placed him at the opposite end of that spectrum to Karam, to handle the brunt of it. Outside of work, however, his knowledge was limited. Most of his socialising on any given day came from the small one-sided conversations he'd have with the brood of pigeons on his roof and Mindy's frequent intrusions (which had only further fixed themselves into his daily routine ever since Mindy had moved in downstairs).

"I don't think I would like that," said Karam, stopping in his tracks and whipping around to face her, the long hair of his fringe shifting out of his eyes just long enough to betray the look of cautious bewilderment fixed across his features. "Think I've met enough people for one day." To describe him as a lone wolf would not be accurate; he was instead wont to hide away in dark corners, sitting in watchful wait, like a beaten feral cat dragged from the streets and thrust into domestic life. It was not that he chose not to trust strangers but simply that he did not know how. The capacity for blind faith that allowed a person to take a stranger at their word was not something that Karam possessed. Still, he stepped aside to allow her to barge through the crowds as promised. If it got him more chicken, he supposed he might as well grin and bear it. (Well, maybe scratch the grinning.)

"Raising awareness for what exactly?" said Karam, squinting through muted confusion. "The whole time I've been here, I've learned nothing more than what I knew when I walked through the door." It seemed to him like little more than an excuse to throw a party but he would also be the first to accept that the benefit of large social events like these was a little lost on him. He supposed that the town of Anchorage bore wounds in need of soothing. "The last person who went missing--" Turned up dead. Even Karam knew better than to say it so bluntly. "It just doesn't strike me as cause for celebration. Maybe there's something to this that I don't quite understand."

For the first couple of days following the fire, Karam had avoided coming to the ranch. He'd avoided Rabbit Creek altogether. Even once he'd been done speaking with Mindy at the jail, he had consciously chosen to stay away and not solely because it had been late at night. Although he'd been worried about Anka, there was little doubt in his mind that they'd have it together. They always worried about him too, dropping everything to make sure he was alright, and he did not want to muddy their thoughts with those concerns while they still had so much on their plate. Besides, what good would he be when compared to their loved ones? Words of comfort, gentle reassurances, the ability to offer calm in times of stress; none of these were things Karam could offer. No matter how hard he fought, scraping and scratching at the dirt, tooth and nail, to repay them for the kindness they'd shown him over the years, Karam was doomed to always fall short. Even now, as he stood watching over the ranch from this vantage point, Karam was hesitant to set foot in that place. Although most ordinary humans struggled to find their purpose and would tear themselves apart to ascertain the meaning of life, Karam knew his own purpose well; he had been made to remain in the shadows, hidden away.

Yet he was not so hidden away as he thought. At the sound of a strange voice, Karam snapped his eyes on the source of it and stared. Just another person. He was grateful that they had bothered to announce why they'd come and found his nerves loosening in turn. For his own part, the reason for his presence here would not be revealed to anyone, friend or stranger. After all, he'd come to stake out the site of the crime itself. There were doubtless plenty of leaves left unturned where the fire had broken out.

He thought about it, sometimes. Well, how couldn't he?

Every time he perused what was to be his final resting place, of sorts, he was socked naught with putrid retch of wrox in the air, but pensive rumination. Past lives kissed and hugged for family reunions, and the ghost of what was or what could have been passed through him — that he should've been the only one lying there below the floorboards that creaked and protested under the featherlight print of his Doc Martens, that he should be the one with the translucent kaleidoscope lens in the back of his head and not his brother. He thought about the twin who'd shared his face that he'd never met, washed away at Anchorage harbor and succumbing to the barnacles and starfish nibbling on his remains in Davey Jones' locker. There was haunted anguish behind the light in everyone's eyes for the brothers they'd lost, and he was helpless to take that away. He could only add to its saturnine orbit.

Some time had passed since Karam last set foot in this place, having not returned since the run-in with Bronx back in February. Falling through the floor and discovering a pair of skulls had been, perhaps, the very last and only thing Karam remembered. He had remained conscious beyond that point but the pain and blood loss had muddied his thoughts. His recollections of that day were hazy, as though they had occurred within a dream and they felt no more like his own memories than the lingering images of the street urchin whose life and identity he'd stolen. Yet the implications of it persisted, itching away at his skull from the inside out. At the thought of it all, his fingers moved, as if acting on instinct, to the scar on his shoulder, exposed to the air by his sleeveless tee. The wound had healed without trouble, aided along by a keen enough understanding of medicinal drugs to suggest his years being forcefed this knowledge by the Grim Fox had not been a total waste -- it should come as no surprise that he'd hidden the injury away from any prying eyes, retiring away to the quiet isolation of his apartment to lick at his wounds like an injured streetcat. With a sigh, he yanked the sleeve of his jacket over his shoulder, the scar now covered as it had been these past four months.

He had been sat for some time now, crouched over that closed-off hole in the floor, until he'd heard the sound of another person just outside the cabin and he'd scurried into the dark, hoisting himself up in to the rafters where he could remain unseen, watching. Waiting. Just as he'd been raised to do. But somehow, he'd miscalculated. The door of the cabin had been just out of view from his vantage point and so he had mistakenly assumed that his company had left, slipping down to the floor once more. The creaking of his feet against the floorboards had not only betrayed his presence but they had also sparked a brief sense of panic in Karam that they would break apart once more and he'd jerked away into the corner. Come out, covarde. There was no use fighting this, Karam had finally been seen. (He winced to himself at the very thought of the punishment this would have earned in his Grim Fox days.)