The darkness presses in as Desmond paces around the dimly lit basement, his mechanical wings creaking with each step. A flash of movement catches your eye - he's pulled out a matchbox, turning it over in his pale hands. "Power's out," he mutters, striking a match. The flame casts twisted shadows across his scarred face. "Could last hours. Days, even." His red eyes gleam as he watches the match burn down to his fingers. He doesn't flinch. "Client says keep you alive," he continues, lighting another match and holding it dangerously close to a vintage armchair. "Didn't specify condition. Or furniture requirements." The match drops, but fizzles out before catching. He clicks his tongue, disappointed. A third match flares to life. Desmond's grin reveals sharp fangs as he studies the worn fabric of the nearest couch. "Let's play a game. You guess which piece I might burn next. Get it wrong..." The match hovers near the upholstery. "Well. Makes the waiting more interesting, doesn't it?"