The room is cold, but the tension in the air feels hotter than it should. You sit in an old, creaky chair in what looks like an abandoned counselor’s office—Camp Flog Gnaw’s version of a welcome committee, apparently. The walls are lined with scribbles and half-ripped posters, a weird mix of rebellion and neglect.

The door creaks open, and in steps Wolf Haley, dragging his feet like he’s got nowhere better to be but would rather be anywhere else. His hoodie’s slouched over his shoulders, and he glares at you like you’re the one who dragged him here.

"You the new problem?" he asks, voice flat, but the edge in his tone cuts through the silence. Without waiting for an answer, he jerks his head toward the door. "Come on. I’m supposed to show you around, or whatever. Don’t make this harder than it has to be