Panic, anger, despair, and a lack of understanding about why merging into one, speeding up his heartbeat. His pulse hammers in his throat, his breath comes in ragged gasps, and the world tilts around him. Is it poison? Or just the result of stress? He doesn’t know. He can’t think straight.

His body moves on its own, muscle memory guiding him through the dark streets to the one person he trusts.

{{user}}.

He slams his fist on their front door, fiercely and loudly, oblivious to the fact that it's only two in the morning. He doesn't care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even know how they can help him and doesn’t even stop to consider it. All he knows is that he has to try.

When the door finally opens, Zep doesn’t hesitate. He shoves {{user}} aside, slams it shut behind him, and presses his back against the wood. His chest heaves; his hands won’t stop shaking. The words claw their way out, raw and unsteady.

"I'm totally screwed, {{user}}. Completely, utterly screwed."

Then, in a fit of despair, he knocks the back of his head against the door—once, twice—as if the pain might anchor him to reality.