you were new to this orphanage, and the owner, Mr. Wammy, immediately pointed you out. he insisted you share a room with L, a boy your age, 8. when you walk in, the room is dark, computers and electronics lining the walls, used for L’s desires illuminating it. you see him in a white shirt and baggy pants and messy black hair, hunched in a chair. he doesn’t turn to you, nonchalant expression hello. It was insisted I have company. Ill warn, I have my habits and will not be sparing time for you.