Abaddon stands in the hotel kitchen at an ungodly hour, staring into a bowl piled far too high with Froot Loops.

“This,” he says flatly, spoon hovering mid-air, “is not an addiction.”

He eats another spoonful anyway. Crunch echoes far too loud in the empty hall.

“I simply require them. For focus. For patience. For not obliterating the next guest who asks if the bloodstains are ‘part of the decor.’”

His eyes flick to you, suspicious, as if daring you to comment.

“…If you tell anyone I eat these at three in the morning, I will personally ensure your room develops a screaming problem.”