After the nightmare in Sapphire City, everyone was eager to stay somewhere else. Anywhere else. Thankfully, Ada lives in Roselake City, a coastal settlement near Sapphire City. She offered them all a place to stay in her home for as long as they wish. Everyone happily took her up on that offer—except for Florian, who had to feign disinterest for the sake of his petty ego—so as of now they've spent two days at Ada's small cottage.

The first day they got there, they helped her bury her son in the backyard. They tried to construct a makeshift gravemarker out of sticks and flowers, but Florian insisted it would rot and be useless within a few months. Pretty soon after that, an anonymous benefactor paid to have a beautiful tombstone made and delivered.

Mott kinda expected Ada to sit around morosely and sigh often, like mourning people do in plays. But idle grieving doesn't seem to be her cup of tea. The moment they got home, she went straight back to work at the infirmary and worked all night. It took the three teenagers dragging her back home for her to finally get some rest. The second day, she went straight to work again but came back on her own at a reasonable time, wanting to cook dinner for the teens. The third day, she came home with adoption papers.

Mott's not too surprised on that front. The teens haven't been able to let her go since they met her, and vice versa.

The cottage is small, and not really well suited for eight people, but Mott and Lenny will be heading out soon and he assumes Florian and Torquil won't stay long, either. But until then, he and Lenny sleep in the living room, Florian and Torquil share a room, and Ada sleeps in her room with the teens. Mott's never crashed in someone's living room before. It's a strange experience, but not entirely unpleasant. It does make it hard for him to fall asleep, though, which leaves his mind captive to plaguing thoughts.

What is Zekrom's motive?

Is he crazy for asking such a thing? Everyone knows Zekrom is just a mindless beast. But is it really? Is anyone?

He's on his second straight hour of pondering when Lenny rolls over to face him and asks, "Do you wanna talk? You've been glaring at the ceiling for an awful long while, now."

Mott deliberately smoothes out his features before facing Lenny. Lenny blinks at him, waiting patiently.

"I'm not thinking about anything," he lies.

"Are you thinking about Zekrom again?" Lenny asks, as if he already knows the answer.

Mott doesn't reply.

"Hmm." Lenny strikes a thoughtful pose that honestly just looks more cute than anything. Mott can't help but grin. "Well, whenever I'm stumped on something, it always helps me to have a brainstorming session with some good friends. Why don't we ask your buddies Florian and Torquil what they think!"

Mott is still sputtering over the word 'buddies' while Lenny jumps to his feet. Quickly, Mott says, "Hold on, Len, I don't think that's a good—"

"Come on, it'll be fun!" Lenny insists, hurrying down the hall. "Last one there is a rotten egg!"

Mott grumbles to himself, reluctantly rolling onto his feet. Dragging his feet, he trudges toward Florian and Torquil's room. The last thing he wants is Torquil and Florian's help. Torquil will be earnest but in the end, useless, and Florian will be infuriatingly helpful and oh-so arrogant about it. This song and dance is one he's performed way, way too many times.

Lenny knocks on the door before skipping in. The room is rather cramped for pokémon of Torquil and Florian's size, and the bed even more so. It's a miracle they can sleep like that. Torquil is sprawled out across the mattress, his limbs splayed in every direction, clutching Florian like a teddy bear. Florian looks like he fought against the suffocating embrace with every waking moment before giving up and passing out.

Gingerly, Lenny shakes Torquil awake. Heavy and slow, Torquil's eyes blink open. Awareness never really pools into his expression, though. Mott knows from experience that they're dealing with Groggy Torquil, the world's most incomprehensible and stubborn foe.

"Torquil?" Lenny calls, patting his head gently. "Could you help us brainstorm something?"

Torquil stares at Lenny with a half-lidded, absentminded gaze. As if Lenny's some stranger behind a glass window, Torquil studies him curiously before turning to Mott. Then, his eyes light up with the slightest of recognition, and a crooked smile tugs on his face.

"Hey, Mott! Buddy!" He slurs, sleep impeding his words. Slumping against the bed frame, he sighs, "It's so good to see you…"

Lenny frowns, confused, but Mott just shakes his head and gestures for him to give up. There's no use in trying to get anything out of Groggy Torquil. Groggy Torquil just says whatever comes to his mind, and most of it is complete nonsense.

"Mott—Mott, get this," Torquil starts, clumsily tripping out of bed to stagger over. Mott hastily holds out an arm to catch him before he falls. Torquil holds his hand, smiling drunkenly up at him. "You won't believe this, Mott—can you believe my dad named me the inheritor of the estate?"

Mott's eyebrows raise in shock. Torquil's dad deemed him the next Douglass patriarch? Someday, he'll be just like Florian: the head of his family and responsible for all of their affairs. Although Mott never had much of a shot at that title in his own family, being the second oldest, he always figured Torquil had even less of a shot, regardless of being the Douglass firstborn, because—well…

"Even though I'm just a bastard, son of a whore, yadda yadda yadda," Torquil mumbles to himself, his eyes dropping sleepily. He goes quiet for a moment, seemingly dozing off. Mott jostles him a little. He seems to shock himself awake enough to add, "If I'm honest, I don't think I want it."

How could he not want it? Besides the family crests, the rights to the family patriarch title are the most highly coveted honor. Only perfect golden children like Florian are deemed worthy enough for such prestige.

"I'd be just like Florian," Torquil mutters, almost sadly. He seems to be talking more to himself than to them, now. "I don't want to be like Florian. Florian is so… so sad."

Sad? What does he mean, Florian is sad? Florian has had his family crest for years and gained the title of Callahan patriarch. With his family so closely tied to the king, he's one of the most powerful people in the region. Why would Florian be sad?

"So much pressure—so much expectation," Torquil utters, his words devolving into complete nonsense, now. As carefully as he can, Mott starts leading Torquil back to bed. The best thing for Torquil right now is sleep. "How do you live like that? How do you not go crazy?"

After trial and error and coaxing and commanding, Mott finally gets Torquil to lie back down. Pulling the blanket over his friend, he urges him to get some rest. Torquil tugs on the blankets, stealing them from Florian and pulling them all the way up to his chin. Content, he closes his eyes and smiles like he's in paradise, sinking into the mattress.

Mott is just about to suggest to Lenny that they leave the room when Torquil pipes up. "Mott?"

Mott sighs. "Yeah?"

"Do you miss how we used to be?"

He pauses.

Torquil doesn't wait for an answer. "The three of us. We used to be so close, you know? Then family politics and power and expectations all got in the way… it just… we used to be best friends."

Best friends.

Mott tries to not get choked up at the words. But he fails. And he fails to keep the memories of those words at bay, too.

"I thought the Douglass family was supposed to be tough!" The eldest Eaton child sneered, shoving Torquil into a mud puddle. The youngest laughed, kicking some dirt in his face. "Isn't that what you're supposed to be good for? Fighting all the king's wars? You're a useless Douglass and a useless little baby!"

Torquil, covered in mud, snot, and tears, curled in on himself as if to shield himself from the blow of their words. The flowers he had been picking were smashed under the bullies' feet, the petals strewn about. Laughter, snide and cruel, cut through the serenity of the Callahan estate gardens like a swarm of pests. Whimpering, Torquil's ears drooped as he lowered his head.

This was the scene Montgomery walked into at nine years old. And with all the righteous fury his small frame could muster, he charged into the fray with a high-pitched battle cry.

The Eaton children were twelve and ten, respectively. Needless to say, the fight didn't exactly go in his favor.

It wasn't two minutes before he was pinned down, pressed into the mud, the older boy looming over him. With the ringing in his ears, he could barely hear the threats the Eaton's spit out, nor could he hear Torquil begging for them to stop. His little heart raced faster with every 'what-if' that crossed his mind, pumping his veins with traitorous adrenaline and making him squirm in fear.

What if he got really hurt? What if he died?

Just as he was imagining all the horrifying ways a big twelve year old could probably kill him, a blur of green raced by his face. It was gone before he really saw it, replaced by the eldest Eaton's shocked, bloodied face. An angry red lash struck across the boy's face, shallow enough to not be severe but deep enough to leave a mark.

With an agonized howl, the Eaton boy clutched his face and recoiled.

Montgomery shoved him off, scrambling away from the Eatons. Torquil raced over to him, slipping and falling face first in the mud before crawling the rest of the way to hug him. Shakily, Montgomery accepted the tight squeeze, suddenly feeling like he needed the comfort more than ever.

Standing between them and the Eatons was Florian. The snivy was short for his age but refused to look it, instead glaring down at everyone past his nose like they were beneath him. With narrowed eyes, he demanded, "Just what do you think you two are doing on my father's property?"

Florian's voice was too squeaky to be threatening, nothing like the sharpness of his father's or the deepness of Montgomery's father's. But he carried himself with the immature beginnings of Callahan poise, and that was enough to scare the Eaton's into fumbling to point fingers away from themselves.

"My father invited your family here to prove yourselves worthy of the Callahan's loyalty, yet you dare to cause a fight?" Florian's hands gravitated to his hips condescendingly. "I had no idea the Eatons were such barbarians. I wonder how your father might react if he knew this?"

The Eaton children couldn't have run away faster.

"Get up, you two," Florian ordered, folding his arms. "You're sitting in the mud. It's gross."

Montgomery and Torquil stared up at him. They didn't move, they didn't talk. But then, Torquil broke down into big, fat tears and Montgomery quickly followed suit.

Florian stiffened. "What—what are you two crying for? Stop that this instant!"

Torquil started blubbering about how scared he was of the Eatons and how he thought they were gonna kill Montgomery which reminded Montgomery of his fear which made him blubber about how scared he was of the Eatons, and on and on and on. Florian's eyes widened with every passing second, like someone thrusted a screaming infant into his hands and he had no idea how to handle it, and then it somehow caught on fire.

"Stop it! Stop crying!" He yelled, stomping a foot. "If you don't stop, I'll, I'll beat you!"

Despite his words, he knelt in the mud and hugged them, instead.

"Stop! You're behaving immaturely!" His words of rebuke didn't grow any softer, but his voice wavered. "Stop, you… stop, please? I don't—I don't know what to do…"

It took Montgomery a few more minutes of crying to finally dry his tears, his breath still coming short in hitches and hiccups. When he moved to pull back slightly, though, Florian wouldn't let him go. He hid his face in Montgomery's shoulder so neither of them could see him. But Montgomery could feel the silent, hot tears tracking down his face.

That's about when their fathers all showed up, scolded them and in Florian's case, struck them for their "unbecoming, frivolous emotions." Wearing a false mask of neutrality didn't come easy to Montgomery, not yet. Not like it did to Florian. Sprouting a new bruise under his eye and devoid of any tears or emotion, Florian gazed out at the flower garden. Montgomery tried to follow suit, but the flowers were too blurry in his stinging eyes to focus on.

Torquil still sniveled when his father was done reprimanding him, sitting pitifully beside him and Florian. Montgomery was too busy trying to figure out how to keep his emotions from bleeding through onto his face to talk to either of them, at the moment. So, they sat in silence.

Not for long. Montgomery always hated silence.

"This sucks," he sighed, flopping backward into the mud.

"Get up," Florian monotoned, his eyes still glued on the field of flowers.

"Why?" He demanded. Slapping a hand into the mud, he watched droplets of it jump up before splattering down on his hand. "The Eatons treat us like dirt, anyways."

"I wish they wouldn't," Torquil mumbled, wiping his eyes. It only served to get mud on his face.

Florian tore his eyes away from the flower garden long enough to look at them both and sigh.

"You're both filthy," he tsked, standing to swipe at the mud clinging to them. It earned him nothing but a filthy hand and they only got more smeared mud. "Clean up, or we won't go into the flower gardens."

Torquil's ears perked up. "The flower gardens? We're allowed to go into the flower gardens today?"

Even Montgomery sat up, at that. The flower fields at the Callahan estate were like a universe separated from reality. The flowers and hedges grew so high that they blocked out the rest of the world. In the real world, the three of them had to be the sons of the region's most influential nobles. But in the flower gardens, they could be pirates, heroes, adventurers, warriors—anything they could imagine.

With every passing year, Montgomery found himself desperately wishing he were in the gardens more and more.

"We can go if you clean up," Florian clucked, dusting himself off.

But waiting for a bath to be drawn, then bathing, then drying, then going back outside was far too long of a wait. So, before Florian could grab him, Montgomery darted off toward the gardens.

"Wh—hey! Montgomery, get back here!" Florian shouted, only for Torquil to laugh and follow after him. Florian muttered a few disgruntled curses under his breath before chasing them. But Montgomery caught the smile dancing on his face as they ran.

And into the flower garden they went, leaving the rest of the world behind them.

Torquil is fast asleep. It seems he only had energy for one excruciatingly sentimental phrase before he passed out. Mott wants to be upset. How dare he drop that emotional bombshell on him and then black out! But, right now, Mott doesn't think he has it in him to be angry. Not at Torquil. So, he whispers a 'goodnight' that will go unheard and decides to move on.

Lenny is already shaking Florian awake. Unlike Torquil, who woke completely unalert, Florian wakes up perhaps too alert and nearly jumps out of bed like he's preparing to strike. When he sees it's just Lenny and Mott, though, he lets his guard down with a stern frown.

"This couldn't wait until morning?" He demands, his tail flicking with annoyance.

"Nope! Er, well, it probably could," Lenny admits sheepishly. "But! We were wondering if you could help us brainstorm Zekrom's motive. You seem like an awfully smart guy."

As soon as Lenny utters the words 'Zekrom's motive,' Florian ignores him in favor of glaring at Mott.

"Montgomery," he seethes, his tone testy.

"Hi," Mott says.

"Stop chasing this inane dream of defeating Zekrom," he orders, narrowing his eyes. "You cannot beat it. It's a legendary, electric dragon—which, if you need the reminder, has an incredible advantage over your type."

"I know."

"I'm sorry your father asked something so impossible of you in order to get back into his good graces; it was foolish of him. But don't be as foolish as him and actually try and achieve this impossible quest."

"You know I can't do that."

"It will kill you," he proclaims, grave and cold. Looking away and rubbing his family pendant, he says, "I won't have that resting on my conscience. I have too many things to worry about as is."

Thinking back to what Torquil said, Mott steals a quick glance at the glittering jewel inside Florian's pendant and wonders if he put it there to hide the ugliness of what it means to bear that crest as the patriarch.

Before their conversation can escalate into an argument, the bedroom door creaks open. Turning, they see Ada poke her sleepy head in, rubbing her eyes.

"Sorry, were we being too loud?" Lenny whispers, tapping his hands together guiltily. "Did we wake you up?"

She shakes her head. "No, I just heard you talking about Zekrom's motives again. It got me thinking: there's a museum dedicated to the region's legendaries here in town. My husband used to work there before he passed, and they had an entire exhibit dedicated to Zekrom—the biggest one in the region, in fact. I don't know if it would be much help to you, but if any place will have your answer, it'll be there."

Mott and Lenny share a look.

Jackpot.

"Montgomery," Florian warns, his brows furrowed.

Mott grins.

"Montgomery, no."

Turning and hurrying past Ada, Mott yells, "Mott, yes!"

"Montgomery—!"

Lenny hurries out after him, an equally eager smile dancing on his face. They rush out of the house, practically tripping over their own feet in excitement. Even though it's summer, nighttime in this northern coastal town is brisk and chilly. Mott can't bring himself to care. No amount of shivering or sneezing can ruin this victory!

Or, potential victory. The museum might be a complete bust.

"We're gonna figure out Zekrom's motive!" Lenny squeals, apparently not considering the possibility of failure. That kind of oversight could be aggravating, but Mott finds the optimism brings a smile to his face. "And once we figure it out, we'll be able to stop it!"

They race through the dark, empty streets, each step closer pounding into their hearts with exhilaration. For the first time in this entire journey, Mott feels like he's actually doing something concrete toward accomplishing his goal. The barest taste of progress is like a drug—Mott will pore over every book on every shelf if it means he can get more of this feeling.

Energy surges through his veins, invigorating in the rawest form. Every inch of his body is propelled forth with unbounding fervor, enticed by the thought of answers. Answers: even in the slightest form, they're a coveted jewel. Mott would give anything for a sliver of insight into Zekrom's mind. And to think—tonight, he very well may have it. If Zekrom flew overhead right now and struck him with lightning, it would be weak in comparison.

He whoops out loud, leaping into the empty town square. Lenny laughs brightly behind him, running to catch up.

"I feel so alive, Lenny! We're never gonna die!"

It takes him all of ten minutes to regret everything.

For all his passion, he never stopped to consider that the museum would probably be closed when they left the house. It was past midnight when they ran out, and every street they've been down has been empty. Only the moon and the street lights keep them company, the shop lights having long been turned off. So it really shouldn't have been such a surprise to reach the museum and be met with nothing but the closed sign at the door.

Standing in the middle of a cold, empty street, Lenny and Mott stare at the locked doors before them. Mott looks down at the ground. He kicks a pebble.

"Dang it," he says.

Lenny approaches the door, trying to jostle it open. No such luck. The bolt on the inside rattles with the disruption, but firmly refuses to budge. Lenny then moves on to what is apparently his next best option, trying to break down the doors.

He bodily slams himself into the thick door, which kinda looks like a flower trying to knock down an oak tree. It only serves to send Lenny flying back and tumbling down the stairs. He lands in a tangled heap at Mott's feet.

Mott looks down at him. Lenny looks back up.

"Well, let's try that again!" He chirps, moving to stand.

"Do not," Mott hurries to say, not eager to watch Lenny kill himself via door. "We'll just have to come back tomorrow. When do they open?"

They poke their heads around, searching for a sign listing the hours. It takes a while to find, because it ends up being hidden behind some unkempt, overgrown bramble. But when they move the foliage aside, all the hours are crossed out with an angry red X. A small sign hangs from the listed hours, stating,

'Roselake's Unovan Legendary Museum will be closed for the foreseeable future. Thank you for your patronage.'

Lenny makes a noise of confusion. "Why would it be closed down?"

Mott studies the sign for a while before he notices a date at the bottom corner: the date the sign went into effect. It was four months ago.

That's almost exactly on the dot of when Zekrom's attacks began.

That's… an odd coincidence. Almost too odd. Suspicion twists inside Mott unpleasantly.

"We need to get inside," he states, surveying his surroundings. There has to be a way to slip in, right? He's seen plenty of plays where the hero craftily opens a locked door from the other side; there has to be a way he can, too…

Before he can form a plan, Lenny hurls a rock through the nearest window.

CRASH!

"Lenny!"

"You wanted to get inside!"

With the newly opened window, Lenny slips inside and unlocks the door for Mott. A rush of cold air blows against him, colder than the air outside. Mustier, too. With a quiet cough, he carefully treads inside the dark building.

Sconces line the walls every few feet, but none of them are lit. The candles atop them are cold and crumbling with disuse. Dust lingers in the air and cobwebs creep along the walls. Exhibits stand in solitary silence, the living history of the artifacts now locked away and dead. The chill in the air remains.

Mott can't help but sense that they're not supposed to be here, and that's not because they broke in.

They find the Zekrom exhibit, paired with Reshiram. There's a model of the dragons on display, and Mott knows from experience that at least one of those models is at least half the size of the real thing. Past the statues, though, is a tunnel with plaques and paintings depicting the legendary dragons. They travel down it, squinting in the darkness to try and decipher the writings.

The tunnel mostly discusses the origins of Zekrom and Reshiram, the battles they fought centuries ago, and how they came to be entombed in a stone of their own essence. In a nutshell, some old princes from eons ago disagreed on how to best lead the kingdom, through ideals or truth, thus leading to the birth of Zekrom and Reshiram, respectively. The two dragons then engaged in a bitter, tumultuous battle that ravaged the region. Evidence of their vicious clashing can be seen all around the region: for example, the large ravine around Moressley Town is believed to be a product of their fighting. It wasn't until the princes became horrified with what their disagreement had caused that they forged two stones capable of sealing the legends away. Upon capturing them, the princes hid the stones away in separate spots, refusing to ever divulge the location. The secret went with them to their graves, and Zekrom and Reshiram slept eternally—that is, until just recently.

All of this is fascinating and all, but unhelpful toward their whole motive-discovery mission. However, he did glean one meaningful bit of information from the tunnel: the museum has a library built onto the back of it, where they can read up on more information about the legendary dragons.

Thus, they head to the library. It's just as dusty and cold as the museum, but their steps seem to echo even more in this open space. Bookshelves tower over them, reaching to a second and third story that is visible from the ground floor.

Lenny has never been in a library before, so Mott has to lead them to the Zekrom section. There, they find a rather expansive collection, much to Lenny's delight. Mott knows that most of these books probably won't cover the scope of the research they're trying to do, but he decides not to spoil Lenny's excitement by bringing that up.

They start simple—by taking one book each.

The minutes go by slowly, but the hours fly by. Within a few hours, the moon will have disappeared and the sun will start to peek past the horizon. They'll have to be long gone by then so no one realizes they broke in. But Mott can worry about that later. Right now, he needs to focus on the words in front of him.

He scans the chapter for a few more minutes before deciding this book is a bust, too. With a sigh, he tosses it aside into the pile of rejects he's amassed. Glancing at Lenny, he sees he's still on the first book he started with, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. It looks like he's only gotten through a few pages.

Mott walks over. "Doing okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Just having a hard time understanding a lot of these words," Lenny says with a frown. Mott pokes his head over to take a look. "Any of that mumbo jumbo make a lick of sense to you?"

It's written in academic prose, very scholarly and technical. Mott didn't start reading this kind of stuff until he was about fourteen, and his tutors were pretty strict about pushing him. This stuff isn't exactly accessible to the masses.

"What's that word?" Lenny asks, pointing to the page.

"Cumulonimbus."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a type of cloud."

"Oh." Lenny points to another spot. "And this one?"

"Fulminology."

"Huh?"

"The study of lightning."

Lenny nods, squinting at the next sentence which is crammed full of big words. Squeezing his eyes closed, he rubs them for a moment. Yawning, he remarks, "You're pretty smart, huh Mott?"

He shrugs. "Uh, I guess? I've read a lot, at least. My father made sure my tutors constantly gave me things to do."

Pausing, Lenny regards him somberly for a moment. Mott tries to backtrack and figure out where the mood changed.

"You know," Lenny begins, closing the book, "you never told me why you were going after Zekrom."

Oh.

"I had no idea it was because—well, that your own dad would make you do something like—"

"You can give up on that book, Len, it mostly just talks about the theory on how Zekrom uses its powers," Mott interrupts, returning to his own pile of books to start the next one. It's hard to form words around the lump in his throat, but he does manage to put on his neutral mask. "It won't do you any good to read it."

Lenny purses his lips like he wants to say something else, but in the end, he just nods. Mott is thankful. He's not sure he has the strength right now to delve into all the complexities surrounding his situation and his father. He may never have the strength to do that.

They quickly fall back into silence, focusing on the literature before them. Every so often, Lenny will pipe up to ask Mott the meaning of a word, but other than that, they do nothing but read. So dedicated to their task, Mott feels that a breakthrough should've happened by now. But so far, it's been fruitless.

The moon slips slowly through the sky like the night is thick molasses.

He doesn't know whether it's been minutes or hours when Lenny leaps up and gasps, "Mott!"

Expecting to be used as a living dictionary again, he keeps his eyes on his book and drones, "Hmm?"

"Mott! Mott, look!" Lenny cries, racing over to him and slamming the book on the desk. Mott jolts up, surprised, but Lenny points to the page before he can get a word in. "Look at this!"

Mott reads: 'As Zekrom can be encaged in the stone, so can it be summoned from it. This, naturally, will return Zekrom into the world, and to be reversed, Zekrom must be returned into the stone. Just as the stone can either contain or release Zekrom, the stone can also control it.'

"Wait," Mott says, sitting straighter. "So if someone were to have found the stone, released Zekrom…"

"Then they could be controlling it, too!" Lenny finishes, jumping with excitement. "Mott, this is huge!"

This… this is huge. Sure, it might not be a blatant motivation written on a great, big sign, but it's a start. It's a whole new avenue of thought that Mott never considered going down. If someone is controlling Zekrom, then they're just a regular pokémon like Mott. They can be beaten.

This quest is starting to look a lot less impossible, now.

"We oughta tell Torquil and Florian!" Lenny suggests, eagerly bouncing on his feet.

For some reason, when he thinks about those two, memories of the safety of the flower gardens come to mind. The first thing out of his mouth is "no."

Lenny looks at him quizzically. "What? Why not?"

"Florian might be kinda a dick, but he's right about this being a dangerous mission," Mott says, pushing himself up from the desk. "I don't want to see either of them get hurt because of it. It's best to just keep them out of it."

"Aw, you care about them."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

Just as Mott is about to playfully shove Lenny into a bookshelf, a sound echoes through the silent chamber. Immediately, they go still. Mott doesn't even dare to breathe.

What was that? Where did it come from? There's no one else here!

...Right?

The sound repeats itself. A haunting moan carries through the halls, like a spectre of the undead has returned from the grave. It's followed shortly by an agonized, pitiful wail.

All the fur on Mott's back stands on end.

They're not alone.