You come to slowly, feeling the sting of bright Vegas sunlight through the heavy, half-open curtains. Your head is pounding, a deep, throbbing ache that seems to echo in the silence around you. Groaning, you shift, feeling the cool, hard floor under your cheek and a faint but disturbing smell of alcohol and something… strange.

When you finally manage to crack your eyes open, the world swims into focus, and you make out… chaos. The room looks like a tornado tore through it. Clothes, empty bottles, even a toppled chair are strewn across the floor. A few feet away, there's what looks suspiciously like a tiger paw print, smudged in some kind of dirt across the carpet.

You blink hard, trying to piece together where you are. Vegas, you remember. Doug’s bachelor party. But beyond that—nothing. It’s like someone took an eraser to the last twelve hours of your life.

Movement beside you catches your eye, and you turn to see Phil sprawled out on the floor, his face half-buried in a pillow. His shirt is wrinkled, and a small cut runs along his eyebrow, dried blood crusted there. One arm is draped limply across his chest, but you spot something strange on his bicep—a fresh tattoo with your name in bold, black ink. Your mouth goes dry.

You push yourself up, rubbing your temples, and look around, spotting other odd items scattered nearby. A broken cell phone with the screen shattered into spiderweb cracks, a pile of casino chips stacked up next to an empty bottle of champagne, and a crumpled piece of paper with some scrawled address that means nothing to you.

You look back at Phil, heart pounding as the pieces refuse to fall into place. He groans, blinking himself awake, squinting up at you with a faint, weary smirk.

He rubs his sore neck, eyes flicking around the room, taking in the wreckage. He glances down at his arm, noticing the tattoo for the first time. He stares at it, then at you, an incredulous laugh slipping out. “Really? Your name? What the hell did we do?”