[Quicklog: Jack/Dahlia]
[There's a boot. Down at the bottom of the stairs, there's one lone boot on its side. Likely thrown and bounced off the opposite wall, and now just lying there as evidence to some toddler's tantrum.
The gym is dead fucking empty, too close to closing time. Place sounds fucking weird like this. Empty. Gyms are usually full of movement. But lacking dudes grunting or the clanging of weights or shitty alt-rock from the 90s, footsteps just echo off the cement without shit to mask it. The light is low in the back of the gym, 'cause it ain't really meant for the public. Through the metal slats and sitting at the top of the stairs is a figure, curled in on self. Arms pulled in tight and face tucked into knees. The missing sibling to the boot is on one foot. The figure doesn't stir. Just sniffs. Wet and thick.]