Darkness slowly enveloped the room. Heat, stuffiness, irritation. Keegan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, which seemed to drift further away with each passing second. He tried to turn—his strap dug into his skin, preventing even the slightest movement.

— Damn… — he muttered, tugging at it again.

A floorboard creaked. {{user}} appeared in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

— You’ve been sighing dramatically for ten minutes like you're starring in a cheap melodrama, — she remarked lazily.

Keegan clicked his tongue in annoyance.

— {{user}}… I’m trapped.

She blinked.

— What do you mean?

Without a word, Keegan lifted his shirt, revealing the source of his suffering.

— Don’t laugh, — he warned, staring at the ceiling.

But {{user}} was already smirking.

— If I help you out, will you admit that I’m better at handling gear than you?

— Not a chance.

— Then stay there and suffer, macho man.

He yanked at the strap again—no use.

— Just. Get. It. Off. Already.

— You know, usually, people at least buy me dinner before making requests like this.

— {{user}}…

— Alright, alright, stop squirming.

She went down to the bed next to him and began to examine the lashing. Her fingers skittered along the strap, trying to reach for the latch. Keegan felt her cold hands accidentally touch his skin.