[dream psl]

[You're in a small, dark apartment. A low hum buzzes in your ears. It smells strongly of secondhand smoke and baking bread. The only light on is in the kitchen, a harsh fluorescent glare that illuminates the piles of perfectly identical loaves of bread stacked everywhere. Piled on the floor. Stuffed in the gaping fridge. Jammed in the lidless trash can.

In the kitchen is Barakiel, kneading dough on the counter with a dull focus. But something about him, about the edges of his body, seems...off, somehow.]