[His voice rasps, dry and unused, more than he meant it to. He lets himself be raw, here.]
Not like I own the place.
[A soft singed edge to that, brittle-black like burned paper. The longer he is away from his cult, the more it feels like he is being forced to admit they weren't entirely wrong.]
spam
[His voice rasps, dry and unused, more than he meant it to. He lets himself be raw, here.]
Not like I own the place.
[A soft singed edge to that, brittle-black like burned paper. The longer he is away from his cult, the more it feels like he is being forced to admit they weren't entirely wrong.]