Now that he’s among life again, maybe he can make attempts at seeming alive himself. Or so Demyan thinks --- he’s been going back and forth on this one. He’s not like them, not like any of them. Never will be.

It’s been a weird couple of days.

Deep in thought, he’s got one hand busied with the twirling of that damned wooden knife; it’s only been good for busying his need to keep moving.

He stops in his tracks, however, seeing there’s someone under a streetlight, nearly horrifying in her stillness. Statuesque. He draws closer, notably slower now than with his quick stride just moments earlier.

Lord.

He doesn’t wave a hand in her face or anything like that, but instead cocks his head to the side. Keeps his distance.