His face was grotesque in the kindest of ways, if "kind" could ever describe such a horror. His hair, matted brown and greasy, clung to his forehead with sweat or oil. His pupils weren't even facing them; they rolled wildly, showing more white than iris, as though sight itself had abandoned him. And yet somehow, Serica and Aria could feel his gaze pressing on them. His breath hit them like a wave of rot, sour with alcohol and stomach acid. Words spilt out of his mouth in a slurred, broken torrent, syllables twisted into nonsense that scraped across their ears.
Serica's hand instinctively reached back, pressing against Aria's stomach to push her a step behind. Her voice was steady, but her stomach coiled tight.
"Aria… listen. I know you're scared, but I think we'll have to fight this guy, this monster, whatever he is. He's fast, and he's not normal."
She didn't say that she was terrified, too.
