Rhys already hated this place.

He hated the too-bright lights, the antiseptic smell, and especially the irritatingly cheerful and condescending nurse Kerry with her brittle smile. "C'mon, Rhys, be a brave boy!" she said coaxingly, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. If he could could speak, he'd have blurted out something like "Jesus, woman, I'm seventeen years old!" But as it was he had to settle for rolling his eyes when her back was turned. "There's a good boy," Kerry said as she led him into his room.

He looked the place over, running a hand through his fine blond hair. A bed, a shower. Not much else. Like a prison cell.

Rhys would have sighed if he was able, but as it was he just flopped into the egg-like bed and stared at the ceiling. He hated his life, and it wasn't looking like this place would change that.