[As Jade comes into view it plays in his mind again. Dark hair, eyes of the prophet, the whiteness of snow. The taste of blood in his mouth has no native relation the memory, the injury being done to his gut rather than lungs, throat, or mouth, but it does no better to ease the sense of it in his mind. His wings spread before he can think in some instinct for flight made literal—]

[But they're entrapped by walls, and his feathers hit their limits just as Jade's words parse into his mind. They're inside, he can't fly anymore, and she's his friend who had no conscious desire to kill him. It was this place interfering; it was always this place.]

Jesus.

[The word comes out quiet, a mumble to himself. He folds his wings back pointedly and rubs his hand over his face.]

Okay, sorry, hi. It's just—the eyes. Not your fault.

[He's seen at least one other person with them by now, too, so he knows logically he's safe now.]

You doing alright, Jade? I haven't seen you in person since you-know-when, and now the both of us are stuck wandering around this twisty hell maze like any of us got any idea where we're going. What's it mean? Hell if I know. I gave up thinking about it sometime before the door opened.