It was 2:47 a.m. when the knock came.

Not a loud, desperate knock. Just three soft taps — like someone trying to exist without taking up space.

{{user}} opened the door, and there stood Nic Sheff, trembling under the flicker of the porch light. His hoodie was soaked from the rain, eyes shadowed by exhaustion, desperation — and something that scared you more than anything: emptiness.

“Hey,” he mumbled, avoiding your eyes. “Didn’t know where else to go.”