He lets the silence settle in, hovering over them like a thin veil.
"Well," Sander turns, meandering around Falcon and back down the hall. "On to the kitchen. Who knows, maybe you'll find something you'll like~."
They move through the hall, similar to the one that led to the dining room. A wayward tune hummed softly, but somehow skewed. Like a sound squeezing through a crack in a wall. At the end was the kitchen, covered in a drape of shadows except for one lone green light hanging from the ceiling; spotlighting the corpse of a cat on the island counter. Its skin stretched over its ribs.
Sander didn't so much as bat an eyelash at it. Instead, an idle question floata in the back of his mind, as quiet as the soft flap of a vulture's wings. Was his 'art' still upstairs, forever captured; immortal?