Maybe one day they'll find that they're not all that different, that damaged goods either stay lonesome islands and drown their own sorrows until they can't hurt themselves and the people around them anymore, or they find each other and begrudgingly communicate over grunts and glares until they start to accept that these inflicted pains don't have to define them anymore. Maybe something more authentic over a glass of whiskey, and only what they're willing to share, instead of whatever it is that place is forcing out of them.

But. That day's not going to be today. John is trying his best not to look too excited even though his heart is pounding in his ears. Mostly he's just relieved. He's going to hang around and smoke another cigarette before heading back to the hotel. Hide away for a few hours. Grab a drink, or two. Just a beer, for now. Maybe seek out some familiar company before showing his face where he's expected for a few minutes of the evening. Who knows, he might even be able to muster up the courage to cast a hex on the door, discourage other people from going in there.

Or turn everyone who happens to still be inside into walruses. Such is the volatility of his magic, for now.

"Yeah. That's the scenic route to the hotel," John gestures with a jerk of his head. Unless she wants to walk through the carnival construction site and incite the ire of the guards and slavedrivers there. He's been hanging around for a year or so; he knows his way around.