The corridor was silent, except for the faint crackle of a lantern flame and the distant, guttural roars of zombies echoing beyond the mansion walls. Alvin stood outside a closed door, his knuckles hovering just above the polished wood. For a moment, he considered leaving. The night was long, and Natasha was only a young girl—barely stepping out of adolescence—and yet she carried eyes far older than her years.
But the unease gnawed at him.
Twice now, he had felt that damn disgusting aura of gods in this realm. And this time it appeared near the room of Natasha. Then he remembered the dream she was worried about. Alvin was worried that those gods might brainwash the young girl.
Finally, Alvin let his knuckles rap softly against the door. The sound was gentle, yet in the silence it carried.
There was no immediate answer.
