Maybe if Tim weren't so bent on marshaling himself to set foot in this place of his own accord, he might have taken a more predominant issue on it - on the flaws in the logic, the seeming leaps and gaps in how it's not too late, really, and assuming that it is seems rather arbitrary.

Too much of him is swallowing back the bitter taste of his own bile, his own visible reluctance to follow through. The entirety to which how much he knows he doesn't want to do this anchors him like lead, like roots, like quicksand on Chol, like some inexorable fucking drag of gravity pulling him toward of whatever this place possesses in lieu of a core.

"All right." The words are rough, soft, practically whispered; Telltale Heart's a hammer in his chest.

And so he doesn't look back, when he begins to walk.