It's a confusing mess of memory that the victim has been left with. A little sharp glimmer of something, the smell of fridge-cold beer, a smartphone with a tinny voice chatting on the other end, flicking on the lights

a shock, a figure in the vibrant yellow light of a homey hallway, bright red eyes, and then

fragments. A soothing voice. Walking. They walk until the lactic acid built up in his legs makes him want to collapse, until he can't feel his feet. The brush of dawn light.

And a voice.

"I've been wondering how far along you've thought ahead. If, when the truth of the thing turns your airport drugstore paperback into one of the most important historical documents in human history, if credibility allows—"

A glitch. Begging, but his jaw is locked closed. His face being touched, turned, seeing nothing at all but Armand, vividly, looking through him, like he's nothing.

"The vivisections won't end with a scathing review. You're being reckless."

Then, plunging cold, and the interior of the bathroom, watching the afternoon light slowly travelling up the opposite wall. He urinates himself, he prays, he wonders—was Molloy telling the truth? What the fuck, and he could laugh. At least the haunted doll who brought him here has left.

No more laughing now.