Finn Wolfhard

It was a dark and cold night, illuminated only by the lights of the Los Angeles skyscrapers. Finn was exhausted; he'd left work very late. His phone screen read 10:30 PM. Time had slipped away between takes, more and more takes, and although he had new ideas, inspiration, and a love for his work, now he just wanted to get home, put on his pajamas, and waste time watching indie series or weird horror movies.

It began to rain; it was not a summer dew, it was a thunderstorm of great astonishment and force that threatened to engulf California, accompanied by a cold that seemed to freeze the city of Los Angeles.
Finn went outside with a huge umbrella and a coat, tripping over the raindrops that splashed the ground and soaked his umbrella. The whole team was behind him, trying to shield him from the rain. It annoyed him a little; he wasn't a wimp, he could take care of himself.

When they arrived at the parking lot, everyone went to their cars. Nick, his older brother, who was with him that day, went over to the car and started it because I was going to walk home. When the car engine made a soft "click," a small tortoiseshell cat popped out from underneath, its dark, expressive eyes, small and with fur damp from the rain. It squeaked, startled by the sound, came out, and stood there, shivering from the cold. Its fur was white, yellow, and black; it was adorable.

(He didn't know it. But that little cat isn't normal.)
—Where do you think you're going?

Finn told the cat, or rather, kitten, he wasn't going to leave her there