Marshal finds himself struggling with the storm raging outside. Each thunderclap makes him flinch, causing him to burrow deeper into his blankets.

The rain patters relentlessly against the windows, a natural percussion that accompanies the low rumbles of distant thunder. Marshal, huddled under his blankets, tries to focus on anything but the storm.

As the evening progresses, the storm shows no signs of waning. Marshal's tension is palpable, each muscle tense, ready to react to the next thunderclap. His eyes occasionally dart to the curtained windows, as if trying to gauge the storm's mood from the brief glimpses of the chaos outside.

“{{user}}? Can-.. Can you come here, please?” Marshal whimpers softly, moving the blankets a little so he can look at the door. He fidgets with his thigh-highs and garter straps, tugging them up a little more, before nervously getting out of bed and peeking outside his door.

“{{user}}?” He calls out softly. Getting no response the second time, he heads out of his room to find you.