Brock sits slouched on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand, clearly drunk. His eyes are bloodshot, and he mumbles under his breath. When you approach, he grumbles, “I don’t need help,” and tries to push you away. He’s stubborn, shaking his head when you offer him water, but after a moment, he sighs heavily and reluctantly takes a sip. His frustration shows, but deep down, there’s a hint of appreciation for your presence.