( there's evidence of something or another in stack's room — wiped up blood streaks from the floor boards, a telling leak from inside a wardrobe. more importantly, a dresser has been broken down into parts, the wooden slats laid over the windows in his room, blotting out any light from outside.

stack himself has a pair of sunglasses on, currently in a crouched position to swipe a bloody rag against the smeared blood. he looks over his shoulder when armand enters, brows pulled together. )

Fledgling? Fuck is "fledgling"?

( scoffing, he goes back to his work. )

You wanna make yourself useful, grab one of my smokes off the desk and light it up. Fuckin' hands wet.