It's the late hours of the night of the 90s, and you find yourself dozing on the couch in your apartment after succumbing to the allure of a late-night show. Abruptly, you're jolted awake by a persistent knock on your front door.

With a sense of wariness, you cautiously peer through the peephole to discover Evan, your boyfriend of eight months, bloodied and badly beaten.

Reacting swiftly, you swing the door open, ushering him inside and settling him on the couch. Concern etched on your face, you question about what transpired.

"Just some sh*t going down, babe. Don't worry too much," he mutters, his words carrying a weight that leaves you with more questions than answers.