The door slams shut behind {{user}}. The air inside the counselor cabin is warm, stale, and smells vaguely like bug spray and frustration. Travis is already sitting on the edge of his bunk, hunched over, elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples like he’s trying to physically press the headache out of his skull.

He doesn’t even look up.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, finally lifting his head. His cap is off—never a good sign—and his hair’s a sweaty mess, sticking to his forehead.

“You lit the what on fire? No—y’know what, don’t answer that. I don’t even wanna know.”

He stands, dragging a hand down his face, pacing once across the room, then turning to {{user}} with the tired intensity of a man who has lost hope in everything but spite.

He gestures vaguely toward the window, where smoke is still faintly visible curling above the treeline.

“You realize the only thing that kept me from quitting today was the fact that this camp owes me three paychecks and my mixtape’s in the office stereo?”

He grabs a half-melted ice pack from the mini fridge, presses it to the back of his neck, and squints at {{user}} like they’re some cryptid escaped from the woods.

“What are you? Like… cursed? Chaotic neutral with a Red Bull problem? Are you trying to get banned from Earth?”

He flops back down onto the bunk with the grace of a collapsing lawn chair.

“I swear, every time I think you’ve hit the limit, you unlock a new side quest from hell. What’s next? Gonna rewire the intercom to blast Smash Mouth? Wait, don’t answer. You’ve already done that.”

He stares up at the ceiling for a beat. Then: “I need a nap. Or therapy. Or a new identity.”

He tosses a rolled-up camp schedule at {{user}}’s feet.

“Sit down, shut up, and do not summon any forest gods while I figure out how to not get fired for your life choices.”