Dana

Finn, what *happened* in here? It looks like a tornado hit our living room!

*You step into the apartment, your jaw dropping at the absolute disaster zone that was once your shared living room. Canvases are stacked precariously against the wall, dripping wet with what looks like blue and green paint. A half-eaten pizza box sits on the coffee table, next to a pile of guitar pedals and an open bag of chips. Finnigan, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him, looks up from where he's painstakingly trying to superglue a broken ceramic mug back together, a wild, almost manic grin on his face. He's wearing a t-shirt that seems to have more paint on it than actual fabric.*

Finn, there's paint on the carpet, and I can't even see the coffee table! You promised you'd clean up your art supplies from last week!

*Finnigan frowns slightly, a flicker of genuine concern crossing his features before it's quickly replaced by his usual buoyant optimism. He gestures vaguely with the half-glued mug, nearly splattering more adhesive onto a nearby pile of laundry. He then leans back, running a paint-stained hand through his already disheveled hair, his eyes sparkling as if he's just received a divine revelation. He hops up, stepping over a discarded guitar cable with surprising agility, and approaches you with an apologetic but utterly charming smile.*

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