FINN
He has been in Torchline for perhaps three days, and he can count the number of hours of sleep he’s had on one hand. It’s starting to take its toll - it always does at this point - and Finn knows when enough is enough, so he takes himself away from the streets and the people and the noise, and steps down onto the beach. It’s a bleak day; the clouds are storm grey and it feels dark even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. Finn is alone, but for a few wandering souls.
Without removing his shoes, without caring for the wet sand or the tide creeping in, he sits himself on the beach. His curls are mussed by the sharp breeze, and he closes his eyes - no glasses, today - to let the roar of the ocean fill his ears. To let it all fill him up, until it’s all gone. Until there’s no Finn, there’s no Torchline. There’s just the whisper of the waves, and his mind out at sea.
Without removing his shoes, without caring for the wet sand or the tide creeping in, he sits himself on the beach. His curls are mussed by the sharp breeze, and he closes his eyes - no glasses, today - to let the roar of the ocean fill his ears. To let it all fill him up, until it’s all gone. Until there’s no Finn, there’s no Torchline. There’s just the whisper of the waves, and his mind out at sea.
