Bakura's reaction was expected. The spirits' reaction, not so much. Solomon inhaled sharply at the boil, and flattened his hands against the rough seat under him his jaw clenching to brace himself against it. More and more, the ghosts were reminding him of Vile's death-aura--except, in some fashion, stuck in-between. Vile collected souls like this, but he had used them like tools. Bakura collected them to protect them.

They made Solomon's head ring. He felt as though he could have reached out and touched them if he wanted--without needing his hands this time. With just his soul. That would have been dangerous. Extremely dangerous, with his cane. Catastrophic without it. And he wanted to do it anyway.

"That's what insanity feels like. There's something freeing about it, isn't there?"

"Something, yes."

"Cease." The word ground out hard. Solomon sat still but tense, as if he was in the presence of a wild beast whose attention he was afraid to draw. He couldn't be certain if that beast was in Bakura, or himself. Without much of his conscious will, shadows clustered around him and rose over his shoulders as streamers, almost like little snapping dragons.