Kavinsky was sore. He was more than sore. Now that things had worn off, he was feeling worked over and worn in a way he hadn't in a meaningful way in months. He had, of course, felt this thoroughly fucked. Both this round of Hell and the first. But it tended to be a single moment, not a hazy weekend of debauchery.

Sneaking out of the room he'd wound up in, he limped pathetically down the castle hall, trying to orient himself. If he was honest, he wasn't actually sure where in the castle he was.

He didn't end up getting very far. Just found a balcony and gingerly eased himself down.