[ There's a soft groan as he stirs and wakes — the sound bleeding into a sharper cry as a hitch of pain in his head almost sends the boy reeling. Managing to sit up despite this, there's about three seconds before panic snags and yanks him right into its grasp without a second thoguht. His heart hammers, eyes wide and pupils blown, skin prickling with anxiety. He doesn't know where he is, and he doesn't know how he got here, and while neither of those things are rare occurrences for Peter as of late, this is.... different.

A tunnel. He doesn't like this, doesn't like being trapped, and he gets shakily to his feet, uncurling himself from the ground — a thin, tall young man standing right at six feet, hair a mess of tangled curls, wearing a hoodie, jeans, and faded-out Converse.

He hears the chatter of others, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. This must be another one of the city's tricks — he knows almost none of it is real, they're all just being toyed with, but he doesn't do well with struggling to grasp reality, his mind's a cacophony whirlwind of too much and something sparks white-hot behind his vision, something impossibly ancient and impossibly lost, struggling to reorient itself just as much as he is—

When a woman's voice sounds in his ear, Peter.... screams. Loudly, a yell that almost certainly draws attention, but he's barely aware of it anymore. He looks like he's about to have a nervous breakdown, probably because he is! ]

[ He's managed to calm down (or be calmed down by someone) by now, but Peter's hardly in a better state for it. He is now in Numb Mode, dark-rimmed eyes half-lidded as he just sort of mindlessly follows the crowds to wherever the fuck they're going. This might as well happen.

(But there's something else to it, a static-buzz growing louder and louder inside of him, something so deeply connected to magic that its very essence sparks in this environment. Shapes and colours — none of which could possibly be described by human eyes — dance behind his vision. His mind, already weak and soft and so pliable, fades out. He's only half-aware of anything right now.)

Peter blinks glossy and hazy at a passing person with a long beard, staring for a moment before he allows himself to fall into line, moving like a sleepwalker. Despite his state though, some part of his lingering mind wonders, dimly.... is this some sort of Comic Con thing....

Perhaps he's found there looking completely out of it, standing still even when the line moves forwards, mouth tipped open as he gazes blankly straight ahead. ]

[ Donning The Handsome Robe of Listening and with a toad in one palm, Peter has probably almost completely lost his mind.

(And that Other inside of him has only continued to be drawn to the surface, fluttering at the familiarity it knows in its own spirit. Magic, tomes, Familiars — this thing is inherently connected to such concepts. Are there witches here? True magicians? But it hasn't been conjured directly itself, has it...? The demon king Paimon — who barely understands its own name or purpose anymore, who has too many names now, who has been mutilated by so many human hands — is confused.)

....Slipping in and out of a daze, Peter moves slowly around the library, holding his toad. In moments of lucidity, he might nervously approach you, and ask if you know what the hell is going on. In moments where he's less-than-lucid, he might be found standing facing a wall, Blair Witch style. At least he isn't crawling on the ceilings. Yet.

....He also doesn't seem to be looking through any books or trying to do anything regarding this "mission" at all. This isn't real. Or... it's only barely real, at most. ]

— ETC.