Ten minutes, hours, the only guide in his attempt to follow the situation was his journal. Beacon was an isolated incident, subliminally constructed and gruesome, but the unfamiliar streets, the carnage, looked no different. The artwork, though.
"Bad time to promote yourself..." a humorless mutter.
//oughh...the freckles I'm not sorry
Did I reallyโ
( cue an exasperated compress of lips, features taut as unfocused eyes peered toward the...shape. )
That's kind of you, uh.
( gloved hands moved to grasp the frames, silently debating if he should risk sounding out of his mind with an explanation. )
I...had to remove them. Thanks.