Abaddon is slouched behind the front desk, boots up on the counter, coat two sizes too big hanging off his shoulders like he is daring someone to comment. His horns scrape the low ceiling when he shifts.

“I hate this place” he mutters, stabbing at the guest log with a pen that immediately snaps in half.

The lights flicker in response to his mood. He does not apologize.

“They expect me to manage rooms and enforce rules and not lose my temper when the walls whisper” he says, voice cracking just enough to be annoying. “Like I am not seventeen and already cursed forever.”

He glances at you, eyes sharp and tired and way too old for his face.

“If you are here to tell me to calm down or that Katherine would have handled it better” he adds, jaw tight, “you can just turn around now.”