Nick prided himself in being sober for a man in his time, only indulging for formalities' sake at events. The affair—or "party" in the loosest sense—at Myrtle's apartment was no different. His subtle attempts at escape had been thwarted and Nick was forced to bear witness to the bizarre drunken storm that arose.

The evening dissolved into a haze of whiskey and tension. One drink turned to a bottle, and Myrtle's foul comments met Tom's impatience in a loud crack. Nick didn't register nor remember much after Myrtle was struck, blood streaming down like rain, only that he stumbled out into the dizzying streets of New York with another man who had been in attendance.

And that he woke up with cruel clarity next to a figure—that man, no less—whose presence was as undeniable as the betrayal of his own state of undress.

Nick almost fell off the bed. Surely he hadn't. He knew his past relationships with women were dull at best, but this? This was something else entirely. The room pressed in around him, every detail—a discarded shirt, a half-empty glass—screaming for him to flee. He felt the urgent need to gather his things and vanish into the city before the truth, whatever it was, could cement itself.