Campanella knows with a one hundred percent certainty that this husky huddled person, is not Crane, nor it is Shrike. Providing validation from the working the Acanthus did before the door had even been opened.
At their words the figure stops moving, as do the wet sounds and the heartrending sobs.
The Alchemist's Sight pierces the threadbare normality, but stops before it can reach a deeper Truth, his assumption, it seems is correct. The Abyss' polluted touch is everywhere it seems. Hanging over the room and possibly the hotel itself like acrid smog. It seeps and twists and rips and tears, and to fallow it farther, might be more then anyone can bear.
Hamia takes point, instinct and training taking over. The room is like any other high end hotel ever. Neatly made bed, open suitcase. A sleek dresser and a pair of modern plush chairs. There's an open door that would assuredly lead towards the bathroom. Her question causes the figure to turn towards them. Shakily, jerkily. The figure moves. Eyes bright and glassy, clothing a stained mess of fresh blood.
The figure's -- a man's -- arm falls to his lap. It is gnawed on and bloody. The hand is mangled, twisted and broken.
He spits out a finger.