Finn opened the door.
He thought things couldn't possibly get worse.
They did.
Oh, they really did.
What lay before him made him wish—no, pray—to be alone. And unfortunately for him… he wasn't.
'Why the hell did she give us this room…' Finn thought, defeated, staring inside like a war survivor returning to the battlefield.
There was only one bed.
A twin.
Not a queen. Not a king. Not even a glorified futon. Just a sad, scrawny little twin-size mattress—barely wide enough for a single person, let alone a hormonal disaster party of four.
The room itself wasn't much better. Small. Cramped. The kind of place where dreams go to die.
A coat hanger leaned beside the bed. A desk sat against the wall with a single melted candle, a dusty ink pot, a feather quill, and some brittle paper—like someone once tried to write their will in here.
Above the desk, a grimy window faced out toward Moistvile.
Because of course it did.
'Give me a funking break, man…' Finn sighed.
