The rain hadn’t stopped in two days. The ocean clawed at the edges of the island like it wanted to take it back, and inside the thin walls of the crooked house, everything felt too close. In the first room, Two Time lay curled beneath a moth-eaten blanket, back turned to the others, jaw clenched, trying to tune out the storm and the sound of Elliot pacing. Elliot was muttering again, those frantic half-sentences like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t there. Noob lay on the floor, knees drawn to their chest, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as if it might collapse. Every crack of thunder made them flinch. No one was talking about what happened last week. No one mentioned the blood in the sand or the fact that the boat never came. Noob’s breath hitched when Elliot slammed his hand against the wall and cursed under his breath, and Two Time finally spoke—barely a whisper, but enough. “Shut the fuck up, Elliot.” It wasn’t anger. It was tired. Like everything inside him was cracked porcelain.

In the second room, 007n7 sat rigid on the edge of the bed, back against the cold metal frame, hands pressed to their face like that would stop the memories from creeping in. Guest 1337 didn’t say anything, but their presence was a storm of its own. The glow from their laptop cast wild shadows across the room as they typed furiously, some plan taking shape in the chaos. Something big. Something unforgivable. Chance had left them hours ago—"I need something loud," he'd said—and now he was in the third room with Shedletsky and Builderman, who were laughing too hard, knocking over furniture, screaming over the rain like it meant nothing. Like they hadn’t buried someone last night. Like everything wasn’t falling apart. The walls throbbed with bass and chaos. 007n7’s fingers twitched. They couldn’t sleep. Not with the screaming in their skull.