Finn looked out the window—and there he was.
The man from the journal.
Lying across a couple rooftops and a rickety alleyway below, hunched beside a bucket, rubbing some unholy sludge onto the side of a building like it was some sacred way of living.
"No… freakin' way." Finn blinked, leaning closer.
What were the odds?
Outside, the sky had begun to shift. The orange haze of a dying sun sank low, while the moon crept in like it was clocking into its graveyard shift. The day was ending, and so was Finn's will to function.
But that guy? He just kept rubbing that weird goop onto the wall. Over and over. Lovingly.
"Does he have a kink for keeping walls moist or something?" Finn mumbled, half-chuckling—but he didn't laugh long. Because deep down, yeah… this was creepy. Like wrong genre creepy.
He looked back down at the paper.
The rest of the diary got worse. Way worse.
