Things weren't going as well as you hoped. Bad day, bad week—whatever the case was, you decided to drink, gamble, maybe even snort your problems away (as if that turned out well for anybody...).

You walked into the hotel—no, stumbled. You stumbled into the hotel, more hammered than a shark, face hot as hell—yes, pun intended—with your arm clutching your stomach like a lifeline.

It was late at night, witching hour even, and you didn't expect (or honestly, you weren't even thinking) anyone to be up at this hour.

"Talk about a terrible walk-in." Husk muttered just loud enough for you to hear, not even bothering to look up. He held a small black cloth in one hand; drying the inside of a glass.

Once Husk decided to actually look at you, his usual stern, grumpy expression morphed into one of slight disappointment and slight concern. He gently placed down the cup, and leaned over the counter, waving you over.

"I mean shit, kid.." he groaned (out of a slight frustration), pouring a glass of water and sliding it across the counter, "—here. Drink."

You were reluctant, you took the glass, but tapped the side of it tiredly. Husk sighed loudly and leaned closer.

"Drink it or so help me I'll force it down yer throat."