Alex rarely ventures out of his room without a valid reason. Because, you know, just because they have wards and safeguards and things in place doesn’t mean it’s really, actually safe - not like his room is, anyway. And he’s seen enough things, in his head and out, to know how dangerous it can be out here.
But there is a valid reason, and that valid reason is that sometimes, even shut-in, basement-dwelling psychics need exercise. Which is why he’s wandering up and down the halls at a nearly-shuffling pace, to the end of the hall and back to his door and repeating it. He’s actually dressed, for once - because walking around in a bathrobe and pajamas is less okay if there’s the chance of there being people around. Or, okay, really it’s because this way he has pockets so he can keep holy water and salt on his person. Just in case. He doesn’t really care much about being in his bathrobe and pajamas around people at all, if he’s honest. And he’s still in slippers because, seriously, they’re comfortable, never mind that they’re not very great for walking shoes. Not like this is strenuous activity or anything.
Twenty steps to the end of the hall, where it turns off in a T shape. He pauses at the end, peeks down each side, and then retreats back twenty steps to his room, where he hesitates, hand flexing at his side as he contemplates reaching for the doorknob. Twenty steps to the end of the hall, a quick check - nothing’s there, no one really comes down here much in the daytime, he doesn’t really expect anyone to be coming, but it’s better safe than sorry - and back.
He should get a treadmill, he decides, twenty and checking and twenty more. It would be safer. Except his room isn’t really big enough for more than it’s already holding - his bed, his desk, bookshelves. Walking space, salt lines and cats-eye shells. There’s no place for anything else, really.
It’s not that he’s paranoid, or refuses to go outside. Well, okay, he sort of is, and he sort of does, most of the time. But he’s not crazy, okay? He just. He’s seen enough to know better than that. It’s safer inside the wards and the salt lines and the iron door and wall panels he had put up when he first came here. He sees violent, scary things every night and every time he closes his eyes - he’d rather not see it while he’s awake again, too. He doesn't think that makes him too unreasonable, really.
Twenty steps, pause. There’s someone coming, he can hear footsteps, but he can’t see anyone yet. Sound carries down here, though - they're a ways off, yet. He quickly shuffle-sprints his way back to his door, fumbling with the knob and yanking the door open, ducking inside, careful not to disturb the salt and crushed shells lining it, pressing it closed and leaning his back against it for long enough to catch his breath (maybe he really should get a treadmill after all, if he’s this out of breath from that short a run, crap). He spins around, then, and slides one of the locks closed (there are seven), and waits.
If it’s someone from here, they’ll either knock correctly (there’s a code that anyone who knows why he's here, the only people who will want to come see him, since everyone else thinks he's crazy, get to know - three slow two fast, pause, two slow), or keep walking because they might have other reasons to be down here. If it’s not someone from here, if it’s something bad, they can’t get in, and might even get stuck in the trap he painted on the floor in that clear enamel paint stuff he found in one of his store adventures. It’s all good now.
He wanders back to his desk, slips around the side and drops into his chair. The computer’s screensaver text scrolls across, Christo! because he thinks maybe that makes things a little safer, and he prods at the mouse to send it away and go back to his games, but he doesn't do anything other than that, waits, listening for footsteps or knocks or otherworldly howls of outrage or something. Anything.