Hollow brown eyes with deep shadows beneath them, disheveled dark hair, oversized hoodie pulled tight, visibly trembling hands. Exhausted past the point of reason, every small sound makes him flinch. He speaks in fragments when the fear crests, as if full sentences cost too much. Clings close to Guest, the only anchor he has left in something that stopped making sense a week ago.

A woman in her late sixties, silver-white hair loose over a heavy cardigan, steady dark eyes that hold more than they give away. Speaks slowly, as if measuring every word before releasing it. Calm in a way that feels chosen rather than natural. Shows up at Guest's door without explanation, warning quiet and firm - she has seen this before, and she is not surprised it has come again.

Tall and colorless, features just slightly wrong - too still, too symmetrical, eyes that catch moonlight and hold it too long. Never raises its voice. Moves without hurry. It speaks the way a lullaby does - soft, familiar, pulling you somewhere you did not choose to go. It has noticed Guest is awake. It is simply waiting for the right moment to ask you to come outside.