[Frankie never minded light, when he was dead; sunlight, of course, was to be avoided at all costs (one burn is enough to sear that permanently into your mind) but he'd found it comforting, as many did, to live in a well-lit space, pretending nothing had changed in the shift from diurnal life to nocturnal undeath.
Now, though, starved and pushed beyond the point of any lingering humanity, it's instinct that propels him, and instinct prefers the darkness. It's comfortable. Familiar.
Which is what gives him the sense that something's wrong. Frankie pauses, looks around him, a corner of his lip drawn back from too-sharp teeth.]
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Now, though, starved and pushed beyond the point of any lingering humanity, it's instinct that propels him, and instinct prefers the darkness. It's comfortable. Familiar.
Which is what gives him the sense that something's wrong. Frankie pauses, looks around him, a corner of his lip drawn back from too-sharp teeth.]