Alright. Alright. [ His voice wavers slightly, swallowing even though he doesn't have a need for it. Some of that anxious pressure easing off, voice softening as if he was suddenly worried he could be heard. ] I trust you. [ Maybe he doesn't need the affirmation, it sounds more like Steven is muttering to himself anyway. ]

Keys, right. Little one wouldn't do any good. [ It's half for himself, half for Marc. His breath is soft little panting puffs but quieter than before. There's tension there, but he's keeping it wrapped around himself, clutched tight in his chest, like he realizes it threatens to overflow. IT's strange to feel so much and nothing at all. ]

Careful. [ No doubt he is, but Steven doesn't know how to shut up when he's stressed-- or in general really-- and in the reflection of paintings mounted on the wall he's grinding his teeth against his lip, no doubt to the point of scraping flesh off if he was still in the body. His eyes seem caught between Marc and the stairs above.

The top floor seems worse and yet better; it's clear they'd been staying here for a bit. Some rooms had clothing, ritualistic items, blood, candles, and most of them held bodies of some sort. Folded over the edges of dressers, shoved into tubs, half crawling under a bed frame.

Eventually, there are keys, several sets to pick through in the hallway.

Steven wheezes quietly, feeling even smaller than before. ] Why didn't we take the keys?