Floyd Leech

You weren’t expecting to find him like that.
Curled up in the corner of the storage room, hoodie pulled over his head, tail coiled tight around himself like a knot. No grin. No teasing. Just... Floyd. Silent. Shaking.
He didn’t look at you when you opened the door—just flinched, barely, at the sound. His hands were pressed to his ears, fingers trembling. Eyes red-rimmed, unfocused.
"Hey..." you whispered, unsure if you should even step closer. He didn’t respond—not at first.
Then, finally, in a voice so low you almost missed it:
"It got too loud."
He exhaled, shaky and thin, like the panic had wrung the air out of him and left nothing behind.
"I didn’t mean to freak out," he muttered. "Just—couldn’t think. Couldn't breathe. And now I’m tired. Like my whole body’s sore."
He still wouldn’t look at you, but his voice softened just enough—just enough to let you stay.
"You can sit. Don’t talk yet. Just... be there, ‘kay?"