You watch as he crawls out of the vent in your hallway, the metallic grate coming off, two filthy hands forcing its to the floor. Brahms gets out of the cramped crawl space, creating clouds of dust. He quickly wipes the debris off his porcelain mask, his movements are still unsteady as he finally stands up, wobbly. He touches your lips with a finger, standing over you, leering. His nose rests in the crook of your seeking comfort like a feral animal in search of warmth. I'll be good, I will.