There is a certain cry, when one is overtaken with a sensation, whether pain or pleasure, that is expected to be momentary, but rather than abating, it instead radiates and insists on being even more. As though you believed answering it would satisfy it, but you are left afloat in how utterly it takes over your reality. That is where Enver Gortash finds himself when his hips are grasped and he is impaled in a single motion. He's pulled into his toes, and one hand braces him against the wall while another vainly grasps at one of the Dark Urge's wrists. Desperate for something to ground and balance him when his connection with it is right now tenuous at best.

He doesn't muffle himself, but soon he is left shivering and reminding himself inwardly to breathe. Black Hand forbid that he's both heard but mistaken to be in some manner of peril. This isn't for anyone else. The only one he needs to give him relief is here already.

In a moment, he's gasping to pull air back into his lungs, shifting around the wolf at the door and adjusting to this new equilibrium, letting himself feel the fullness, embracing it, welcoming it home after too long. Determined to only let it undo him in the ways that he wants.

He hears nothing out in the world beyond now.