Finn slowly began to stir.
No sunlight greeted him. No sleepy girls. No warm blankets brushing against his cheek.
Just… darkness.
'The hell?'
His thoughts flickered in confusion. Had he died again? Did Majestria smother him with divine ego in his sleep?
He tried to move—but there was resistance. A soft, plush pressure enveloped his head. Something was squishing his face.
And it was… oddly hard to breathe.
Panic bubbled up, but he forced himself to stay calm.
'Okay, okay—remember what Grandma said. Don't panic in enclosed spaces. That's how you die faster. And I've already got one punch card left on death.'
He slowed his breathing, keeping his oxygen use to a minimum. Wherever he was, it wasn't a coffin.
His back felt comfy, like he was still in bed. He reached behind, hand brushing against something cool and smooth—scales. Then hair. Then more scales.
'That's Chestelle,' Finn realized with a sigh of relief. 'I'm still in the room. Thank God.'
