The being does not advance on him, but Rashad does not relax. His muscles thrum with tension as he presses himself against grimy brick, staring at whatever has manifested itself in his latest inadequate hiding place. The form does not fool him, would not fool him even if he had not seen it appear before his very eyes. He cannot taste it or feel the scope of it in his current state, but he can sense very clearly what it is not.

"No," he whines, lacking reason to lie and unsure whether it is a relief to complain or if acknowledging the pain simply reopens the wound. "What are you? Why are you here?"