Fives is mostly quiet and still as time passes, though every so often, as he starts to drift toward actual sleep, he'll shudder and jerk almost upright, any sounds quickly stifled before he lays back down in tense silence. It's when he falls towards sleep that the memory of cold and darkness seems to envelop him and become real and terrifying, so when the darkness initially falls again he tells himself that it's all in his mind, his own weakness preying on him. And then the voice comes in the darkness and his breath stutters and stops and a chill of terror runs down his spine. He's not proud of how he scrambles to face the room, as if that will let him see the terror looming there on the darkness, as if that will somehow make him safer.

He tries to speak, but all he can manage is a dry, rasping croak, his voice stolen by some combination of fear, strain and dehydration. All he can seem to do is think very pointedly at the thing, his thoughts colored by terror, despair and conviction in almost equal measure: I didn't fucking promise you anything!