Re: The stairwell to the eighth floor, 12:03 AM.
Emery watched the girl stumble by, but it was the least of his problems now. Though, wait, was she -- nevermind, it wasn't important to him. He had to make it inside of his home. His apartment. He lived here now. Look, Emery darling, a poor, defenseless young girl. Are you going to kill her like you killed the other one? Are you going to enjoy it again?
By the time he made it up the stairs, he wanted noting more than to scream at the top of his lungs. He could feel his heart pounding its way out of his chest. His head was spinning with ideas, with thoughts. The potion. Piece by piece it clicked inside of his mind; the ingredients to something familiar, yet something he had never quite encountered before, slowly coming together.
As he approached his door, he pulled his key, fingers white and shaking like twigs caught in a hurricane, from his pocket. Then he heard the girl screaming. Emery looked up, his eyes wide. She was beating on his door. His door. No, this couldn't be happening. He needed to get to work. He needed to -- God, his head.
"You there! Child, what- what are you doing here?" He asked, his voice just as trembling as his fingers. He massaged the side of his head with the heel of his palm and looked at her and her partner through squinted eyes.