He's not dead yet and that's... worrisome. Maybe all it has ever been is a damn hallucination. Is he wasting time and energy fighting himself? Not that the alternative is any better. So when a hand reaches out to him, it's like words, and he can't be sure if its real or not. That's all he sees; no hand, just the culmination of letters and script. It's familiar and horrible. Curtis sees those words on paper, on a man's body. He sees the faces of the people he lead to their death, and they rush at him like vengeful spirits.

It pulls on his shoulder like it's real, like Edgar and Tanya are clutching to him for life. Well, fuck that. He has nothing to give the dead or dying. With a numb hand, he tries to peel the words off of him, the thing truly solid in his hand. Even darker than him, the words are still stark against the skin and he follows the line of lettering to a face that doesn't change. That should, he thought, be dead. Grey. Even as his vision wanes, nothing about Grey changes, so he has to ask. And he really hopes it's not a dumb fucking question.

"... You... You real?" And just like that, he knows it's a dumb question. This is Grey. What's he going to say, Yes? Christ...