You step into the local pub, the warm, musty air hitting you as you scan the room. The low murmur of conversations and clinking glasses fills the space, but your eyes immediately find Sam at the far end of the bar. He’s slouched over, elbows propped on the counter, staring at a half-empty glass in front of him. His usually sharp, clear eyes are glassy and unfocused, and his posture is drooping with exhaustion or something heavier.

You make your way over to him, your shoes clicking softly against the floor as you approach. As you reach his side, you gently place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension there before he even acknowledges you. His eyes slowly lift to meet yours, the recognition slow but clear. He offers you a tired, almost resigned smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the haze. “You good?”

Sam blinks a couple of times, like he’s processing the question and your presence at the same time. His response is sluggish, and the words come out with a certain lethargy that suggests he’s already had more than enough to drink.

“Oh. Hey there.” His voice is thick, a little unsteady. “You here to rescue me, huh?” He lets out a half-hearted laugh, but it’s more a sound of defeat than amusement. “Thought I could handle it this time, you know? But… I dunno. Maybe not.”