Hovering over him, Grey was lithe and warm and perfectly, inexplicably eager. Curtis felt as dirty as he ever had, aching and desperate and a fucking shame. Just like Gilliam. Just like Wilford.

He squeezed his eyes shut and saw Grey, dead on the floor of that absurd steam room. Tanya, Andrew, Nam... Edgar. All of them.

"Grey," he hissed, and it sounded like a warning, even as he pressed against Grey's thigh, shifting until their hips slotted together.