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Summary
He really needs to fix that lock too. The storm must've blown the door open last night. It never fucking ends around here.
Vox grunts again, lugging the body half way inside before a noise resembling a low whimper hits his ears. He automatically freezes in place, unsure if it's just sleep deprivation getting to him or not. He surely has to be hearing things. The woman in the bag is definitely dead.
Hesitantly he turns to peek over his shoulder and makes eye contact with a large skimpy dressed man laying on his floor. He watches the said man also sit up and squint at him, then at the very obvious body shape is his hands, then back at him.
…
“Shitshitshit—” the crossdresser hisses and turns over to scramble away. His adrenaline and injuries making him pitifully clumsy.