"You chose this." In case he forgot the part where he spontaneously bent over. "Just hold a moment."

Actually moments, plural, as Viktor, through the modest strength in his grit-caked fingers and these few inches of lean—and despite the twinge in his back—is finally able to keep his eyes above the ledge for more than half a second. The deep-set strip of darkness looking back at him shortly resolves into blunt-toothed shapes, limned by their lights below.

"It's— as I thought," comes out thin. "I can see them. Chain looks slack."