Fidgeting a little, Patrice looks between Des and Presley again. Some of the discomfort has worn off the longer they've been here, at least, but it's hard to let the stress from the birds, and the glass, and general concern about his roommates go entirely.

"Nothing seems off other than the obvious, and how sharp those cards are. They aren't like that; I have this deck. It must mean something." He shakes his head and, after a moment, reaches for the envelope with his name on it. He turns it over in his hands, and suddenly he too is bleeding, cut surprisingly deep by too-sharp paper.

"What the fuck?"