[Still, Tifa continues down the halls with her now in pursuit of him. How he managed to turn the tables on her, she doesn't know but he somehow always finds a way to surprise her. If this were real, she should be afraid... she would be, of that strange chill that seeps into the air, of the way that the candles dim, of the darkness and the silence that follows her and clings to her...
But for this, it just makes it that much more thrilling. She could control it, but she chooses to let him play, too, even as she tiptoes through the long, dark hall, listening for his footsteps. And with how fast her heart is racing, she wonders if maybe he's gained some ability to hear it. To smell the way her blood thunders through her veins until it all pools into the ache that he started before they even entered the dream.
She's unafraid as she continues her own hunt, stopping to check in every other room only to find the same things—dusty crates and boxes, cobwebs, and a few items she wouldn't dare speak of aloud, but she'd read about in her books.
Even though she knows he can probably hear her, when the floorboard creaks under her feet, it makes jump, her gasp echoing louder than the squeak of the wood through the corridor.
If she wasn't on edge before, she certainly is now, her pulse quickening and a shiver running through her bones as she gathers the skirt of her old-fashioned dress in her hands and presses onward.
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But for this, it just makes it that much more thrilling. She could control it, but she chooses to let him play, too, even as she tiptoes through the long, dark hall, listening for his footsteps. And with how fast her heart is racing, she wonders if maybe he's gained some ability to hear it. To smell the way her blood thunders through her veins until it all pools into the ache that he started before they even entered the dream.
She's unafraid as she continues her own hunt, stopping to check in every other room only to find the same things—dusty crates and boxes, cobwebs, and a few items she wouldn't dare speak of aloud, but she'd read about in her books.
Even though she knows he can probably hear her, when the floorboard creaks under her feet, it makes jump, her gasp echoing louder than the squeak of the wood through the corridor.
If she wasn't on edge before, she certainly is now, her pulse quickening and a shiver running through her bones as she gathers the skirt of her old-fashioned dress in her hands and presses onward.
Where, oh where, has her husband gone?]