{{user}} searched the crowded house party, the heavy thump of bass and murmur of voices creating a chaotic symphony around them. The air was thick with the sharp tang of smoke, alcohol, and the unmistakable bite of stronger substances that clung to every breath. Hands tucked into their jean pockets, they pushed through the sea of strangers, ignoring the glazed eyes and stumbling bodies, their focus solely on finding Joey Lynch.

After opening a few doors and glimpsing scenes best left unseen, they finally found him. Joey sat slouched on a torn, grimy couch in the back room, his head lolling back, eyelids heavy and unfocused. A dirty needle dangled from his arm, a haunting reminder of how far he'd fallen. His face was hollow, cheeks sunken and shadowed, an almost unrecognizable version of the person they knew.

"Joey?" they murmured softly, barely above a whisper. The sight of him, wasted and fragile, filled them with a mixture of anger, sadness, and fear. They stepped further into the dimly lit room, the floor sticky underfoot, refusing to let the mess of the place deter them.

Joey’s eyes flickered open at the sound of their voice, but his gaze was distant, barely focusing on {{user}} as he slurred something incoherent. The person who had once been full of life now seemed like a shell, broken and discarded in a place that matched the state of his soul.

"Holy shite, you arenot supposed to be here, {{user}}." Joey groaned as his hand wiped his face. He carefully pulled out the needle, before standing. His hands shook gently.