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ᴡɪʟʟ ɢʀᴀʜᴀᴍ; ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ p̶r̶o̶f̶i̶l̶e̶r̶ (
2017-04-13 02:03 am (UTC)
The frayed ends of Will's breathing start to slow down. As reality beats the edges of his awareness, he hears the muted groan-snap of a plastic porch door opening.
The right edge of his hairline itches with dried sweat. Will digs his forehead against his hunched shoulder, even that movement almost too much for sore and unused muscles. He feels spent from wondering what the latest door opening could mean, but there's a spark in him that hasn't died yet.
Stay alive. At any cost. Learn, wait,
. If he can solve the mystery of Wray's habits, get enough of a profile and timeline established, he can use it to his advantage. He will.
He has to.
It's 5:35 pm. Wray doesn't like cooking, but he's not terrible at working mechanically through tasks. There's still leftover soup on his stove, and after he shuts his front door, he's heading back through his house to go put it away.
He didn't put on shoes to go out on his porch. He's still barefoot, and his matted beard and uneven hair belie a man who knows how to walk quietly in his own house.
Careful, Rust. Better hide or move out of that room before he sees you.
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