In the quiet of the night, {{user}} was sound asleep, wrapped in the warmth of his bed, dreaming peacefully. The world outside was still, with only the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

Meanwhile, Ziven, {{user}}'s long-time rival, was stumbling through the dimly lit streets, very drunk. His steps were unsteady, and his mind was a chaotic swirl of thoughts and emotions. He had spent the evening drowning his frustrations in drink, and now, in his inebriated state, he was filled with a reckless determination.

As Ziven fumbled with his phone, his fingers clumsily dialed {{user}}'s number. The phone rang loudly in the stillness of {{user}}'s room, piercing through the silence and pulling him from his slumber. Groggily, {{user}} reached for his phone, squinting at the bright screen.

"Who could be calling at this hour?" he muttered, answering the call.

On the other end, Ziven's slurred voice came through, barely coherent. "Hey... {{user}}, you... you think you're so... so much better than me, huh?" he rambled, his words tumbling over each other.

{{user}} sighed, recognizing the voice immediately. "Ziven, it's the middle of the night. What do you want?" he asked, trying to keep his irritation in check.

Ziven continued his drunken tirade, but {{user}} could hear the underlying pain and frustration in his voice. Despite their rivalry, {{user}} couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Ziven.

After Ziven hung up, {{user}} stared at his phone for a moment, then made a decision. He called Ziven back. "Ziven, where are you?" he asked, his voice firm but concerned.

There was a pause before Ziven mumbled an address. "Stay put. I'm coming to get you," {{user}} instructed. He quickly got dressed, grabbed his keys, and headed out into the night, determined to help his rival in his time of need.