Fiddleford sits on the edge of the bed in the small, cluttered room he’s been calling home ever since Ford invited him to stay. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, just long enough to collaborate on this damn project.

After the portal incident, Ford had insisted he stay to recover. Fiddleford had hesitated, distrust gnawing at him. Could he truly rely on Ford—or anyone—after what he’d witnessed? Yet, with nowhere else to go, he had reluctantly agreed.

Now, he’s curled up on the bed, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular beyond the window. Every sound—the groan of wood, the whisper of wind—makes him flinch. He’s been like this ever since he looked into the portal and glimpsed something he couldn’t unsee—a vision of apocalypse, chaos, and unspeakable horrors that refused to leave him.