It's not, actually. But there's usually not a child wearing a rut into the floor.

[ A bit harsh. It's been an exceedingly long day.

Still: he spent the night somewhere very much like here, when he was the boy's age or a bit older. Scrapes on his knuckles, a well-earned bloody nose, possibly still coming down off something the police never could have recognized. It was after everything went to hell and his coven dissolved, before he returned to Daybreak, back when he still kept his guitar on his back because it'd be stolen if he ever set it down.

He had sulked and radiated an air of don't even try until morning, and then a bandmate had come to bail him out, and he didn't hear the end of it for weeks. Not long before he left that scene, actually.

Now he sits, rolls back his sleeves to check a scratch on his wrist-- he likes this shirt, the less blood the better-- and looks only lightly irritated at the world. ]

I was attempting to lessen the chaos. Look how that went.