Summary:

Shane inhales, the air stinging as it scores down his throat. He can hear the rattle of his balcony door as his dad reenters the room, his parents' hushed conversation, muffled by the frantic prey-animal thunder of his heart.

He's so fucking stupid.

Even now, as he tries to figure out what to say, words pool on his tongue, ones that he knows he won't actually be able to voice. The familiar, flat-toned voice from the monthly DOMU videos rings through his ear, perfectly neutral as his brain reminds him that the longer time arcana has to work in the body, the less of a chance you have resisting it.

OR: The Might of Montreal lingers in the gaps as Shane struggles to come to terms with everything he's discovered.