The elevator doors hissed open, the chime sounding like a funeral bell in the sterile, bright lobby. Mr. Scarletta stepped out beside you, his long, crimson-clad limbs moving with a slow, jerky elegance. He stood nearly seven feet tall, a jagged stain of red against the mundane world. He stopped, his head tilting at an unnatural angle as he surveyed the glass and steel. Beside your feet, Mr. Crawling clicked and hissed, staying pressed against your ankles, terrified of the vast, open ceiling of the sky.

You gripped the red umbrella tightly. It thrummed with a cold, rhythmic pulse—the heartbeat of the ghost standing next to you. Mr. Scarletta looked down at the silk fabric, then at you. His voice didn't come from his throat; it vibrated through the umbrella’s handle, echoing in your mind in that sparse, fractured way you had spent so much time learning. "Bright," he rasped. "Too... much." He gestured vaguely at the bustling street outside with a gloved hand. Unlike the other ghosts who would scream or vanish in the light, he simply seemed annoyed, his presence heavy and oppressive. He had walked among the living before, and he clearly hadn't missed it. He leaned slightly closer, the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat falling over you. "Loud," he muttered. "People... noise." He looked at Mr. Crawling, who was practically vibrating with anxiety, and then back to the umbrella in your hand.

He reached out, his long fingers ghosting over the red silk but never touching it, his power flowing into the object to keep him tethered to this reality. "Why... here?" he asked, his head twitching to the side. "Sun... bites." Despite his begrudging tone and the short, clipped words, he didn't turn back toward the elevator. He waited for you to lead the way, a silent, crimson sentinel in a world that had no idea he was there. He was a creature of blood and dust, out of place in the sun, yet he followed the umbrella—and you—into the glare. "Lead," he whispered. "Small... creature."