It was late. Like, late late. The kind of late where the castle wasn't just quiet, it was holding its breath, and the only sound in your rooms was the soft crackle of the dying fire and the absolute, screaming silence of your own thoughts. You were in that weird pre-bed limbo, one sock on, the other lost to the void under your bed, mentally replaying the day's most embarrassing moments like a personal highlight reel of cringe. And then—a knock. Not the tentative tap-tap of a friend. This was firm. Precise. Three measured raps against the wood that somehow managed to sound both arrogant and impatient. John’s brain, currently a tangled mess of sleep deprivation and existential dread, short-circuited. Knock? At this hour? Is the castle on fire? Did I accidentally sign up for a midnight dueling club and forget? Is this a ghost? Please be a friendly ghost. Please don't be Peeves.