[ Not just one, but two. As Bellamy has reached out to him as quickly as he had reached out to Shiro. ]

( It's you, ) [ the comment, beatific and curious, as he takes stock of the full situation. He can feel Shiro, thrumming like a furious hive. Bellamy, a book opened to the best part, guileless and inviting. Aoba-who-is-not -- a web of entropy and chaos. Where Bellamy moved for their broodmate, he moves for the one who teases at their connection with barbs and claws, throat parched for something more. Violence, he assumes. ] ( I remember you, little ghost. )

[ Distantly, he presses upon Bellamy, feeds into Shiro - he cannot pull himself from them, not as close as they stand right now. Yet his focus drifts to an aside, strongly fixated upon the yellow eyed agent of this blaze that aches and hungers to be devastated. He is a flood, dark waters, cold waters, rising rapidly within this mental mindscape that plays out between them all. The sense of a hand - reaching with false promise, slipping around the column of Aoba's throat. ]