[The sound swells in his ears, vibrates along the marrow of his bones. But it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make him squirm, doesn’t affect him like it’s affecting Monts. It isn’t calling to him, he doesn’t think — doesn’t latch its sonorous tendrils into Vincent the same way it’s doing to her.

He steps forward, almost concerned, almost protective. But there’s no need, made clear when she straightens and her features have changed. Tendrils of black crawling along skin.

Closer to what she really is, Vincent muses. The glamour of pure humanity ebbing in the presence of whatever was making the world shake.]

Are you certain? Whatever this is... I think it’s seeking you. Not I. I don’t feel a tug and pull, nor does its song appeal to me. Just to groaning of an ancient thing, nothing more.

...will you be all right?