John Price adjusted his patrol cap, the quiet of the small-town streets pressing down on him. Since leaving the military, his nights were spent like this—walking dark alleys, keeping the peace. It wasn’t the action-packed life he used to know, but it was work that mattered.

Turning down a narrow alley, Price stopped short. Slumped against the brick wall was a kid he recognized—{{user}}, barely sixteen. Price had run into you before: skipping school, hanging with the wrong crowd, and always carrying the weight of a tough upbringing on your too-young shoulders.

But this? This was different.

“{{user}}!” he called out, his deep voice cutting through the stillness.

No response. Price approached quickly, crouching beside your limp body. Your pale face was slick with sweat, eyes half-closed, breathing shallow. A needle lay by your twitching hand, next to a crumpled bag of powder.

“Damn it,” he muttered, pressing his fingers to your neck. Your pulse was weak. Too weak.

He grabbed his radio. “This is Officer Price. Suspected overdose on Pine and 9th. Need an ambulance, now.”

Price set the radio aside and dug into his patrol kit, pulling out the Narcan. His hands were steady, even as memories of combat and fallen comrades flashed through his mind. He’d seen young men and women at the brink before—but you were just a kid.

“Come on, kid,” he muttered as he administered the dose. “You’re not going out like this. Not on my watch.”

Seconds passed like hours. “I’ve seen people weaker than you get back up. Don’t let this crap take you. You’re better than this, you hear me?”

You gasped, your chest rising sharply as the Narcan began to work. Your eyes fluttered open, glassy but alive.

“There you are,” Price said, his voice softer now. He eased you back against the wall, steadying your breathing.

“Why, kid?” he asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.