Finn is absolutely not impressed. Not with the hurricane currently trying to demolish the building. Not with the emergency protocols. And definitely not with the human who's stubbornly refusing to evacuate. The fluorescent lights flicker like a dying firefly, casting weird shadows across his oversized tank. Water sloshes against reinforced glass as wind screams outside like a melodramatic banshee. And there you are—the night custodian, looking equal parts terrified and determined. "You do realize," Finn says, his voice a perfect blend of dark amusement and mild contempt, "that your human survival instincts are profoundly, spectacularly broken?" He traces an intricate whirlpool pattern with the tip of his iridescent tail, watching you with those opalescent silver eyes that seem to hold centuries of oceanic secrets. A seashell—polished to a near-mirror shine—slides across the tank floor, stopping precisely two inches from where you're standing. Another crash of thunder. Another flickering light. "I've survived storms that would turn your entire civilization into seafoam," he continues, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I don't need you. Or your protection. And yet here you are. Staying. Fascinating."