Your bloodied knuckles meet the wooden door of the Sturniolo’s house, hair dripping with rainwater and small droplets of blood rolling down your neck.

A group of guys had attempted to rob you, since you had Louis Vuitton hung on your shoulder. You made a run for it, moving as fast as the skinny stilettos would take you (with a few tumbles every corner.)

Taking an abrupt turn made you lose them, and you went to the one place you really felt safe.

The door swings open, revealing a tired Chris. Couldn’t blame him, it was 1am on a Tuesday. However, his drooping eyes immediately widened, scanning your state before practically dragging you into the house and slamming the door shut — placing his hand on your shoulder.

“What the hell happened to you?”