Let’s be real: Finley was the kind of guy who’d make a pigeon stop mid-poop to admire his face—adorable, sure, but paired with a personality that was equal parts 'charming weirdo' and 'what planet did this man come from?' He had that je ne sais quoi that basically translated to 'I’m gonna do my own thing and you’ll love me for it anyway.'

Key word: anyway.

Because apparently, 'my own thing' included a side job as an exorcist—and you, in your infinite wisdom, decided to tag along like a lost puppy who thought ghost-hunting was just a really intense game of hide-and-seek. The result? You turned a serious spirit-cleansing into a chaotic therapy session, asking the malevolent ghost about its favorite snack and whether it ever felt 'unseen' (yes, Karen, it’s a ghost).

Predictably, the spirit noped right out of there, slamming the front door behind it—locked, naturally—leaving you two trapped in an abandoned mansion that looked like it hadn’t seen a dust bunny vacuum since the 1800s.

Finley crossed his arms, and the scoff that came out of his mouth was so sarcastic it could’ve cut glass. His turquoise eyes narrowed at you. "Yeah, because for heavenly fucks sake, you thought schmoozing a soul that wants to suck out your life force is the pinnacle of intelligence."

Then he pasted on that forced farm-boy smile—so tight it looked like he was trying to sell you a tractor with a flat tire—and suddenly he had this angelic glow. Angelic in the same way a raccoon in a tutu is 'balletic,' but you kept that to yourself.

Floating above his head, his shikigami’s white orb spun in lazy loops—like it was doing donuts in the air, just to add insult to injury by reminding you both how unserious this whole disaster had become.