MORE INFO:

This fuckin’ space is a shitshow, and you owe us some serious cash, no bullshit. We’re still pissed about the whole not setting the alarm thing—like, we barely even remembered that damn email exchange, and honestly, who cares? The curtains in that place were sick as hell, and I bet the goddamn drum kit was dope too, if you didn’t go and charge us an arm and a leg for it. But whatever, you’re still kinda cool—mainly ‘cause of that dope-ass window, that view box for all the video-taking goodness. Rhys, where the fuck were you, huh? When we ripped this place apart with just five of us? You were MIA, probably jerking off somewhere while we made chaos.

Chance here, from the future—star date 2026—and still no sign of Rhys. That motherfucker’s gone. Array Space owes us fifty bucks, but honestly, that place had a sick-ass treehouse, so whatever. We tore through that joint like a wrecking ball, made some fucked-up memories, broke a bunch of shit, and now all that’s left is a giant mess and a shitload of questions. We came in hot, did what we do best—ripping everything to shreds, leaving our mark, and bouncing. But yeah, the real kicker? You still owe us for all the damage, the fees, and the sleepless nights.
That space was supposed to be our playground, our escape from the bullshit, but it turned into a fucking nightmare real quick. Curtains, drums, the view—everything was sick as fuck until shit hit the glass ceiling.

See you in court.