[He frowns, a touch of anxiety slipping itself between one small breath and the next. The gloom inside's comparably thick against the daylight behind them; sunlit dust and floating debris mixed within deepening blacks; the sharp-eyed boy their candle in front, his palm alight; pale eyes sweeping along the walls and cobweb strings and dimmed hallways. Their cautious steps described in sounds and where their echoed drops indicate; and, while Shoto isn't cowering back, he isn't rushing to push through doors or lifting his voice or moving up stairs just yet. The wavering gold in palm flickers, the tall boy mindful to drop his tone, whisper back and with his already-quiet demeanor:]

It's not— [He stops, takes some pains to maneuver in front when easing through doors to swing opened; his left palm lit in a shimmering haze, shadows stretched and thinned too long when poking his round face to peek through.

He'll act as shield if nothing else.]

It isn't about your being useful or not...

[He thinks to mention how he'd know, but all his ice in rapid response spills as glaze in a Flashfreeze; his last thoughts hanging in air unsaid when frost and force extend crystal; a monster's limb encased in glass in paused attempt to swing downwards. His right hand's glassed, and iced palm raises refreezing his hold, ice like spears and up and through with only a well-timed stalagmite. He doesn't shout, but his voice does lift in hopes it pulls the other's eyes upwards.]

Just think about yourself right now!

[He won't ignite; Flashfreeze Heatwave seems the poorest idea.]

If I use flames, I'll bring everything down...

[Though what he's saying, the way he can, is that this thing could use a bullet or six.]