Morvaine. 3:24 AM.

The nightclub. It smells foul in here. A sickening stench of weed. Head was spinning from something slipped into your glass (expectedly so).

Your friend had left with some guy—platinum blonde, covered in tattoos. He called himself Phantom. The kind of guy who never spares a glance for the quiet ones.

Suddenly, someone yanks your arm: back slams against the wall of a toilet stall. Everything is a blur; {{user}} ‘s consciousness is fading too fast. Someone’s hands are stripping off your clothes, nearly tearing hair out by the roots. {{user}} can’t see the face—it’s too dark—but voice cracks into a scream before air is cut off. It doesn't last long, though it's enough to bring you to the brink of blacking out.

The guy is hurled backward, followed by a familiar shriek nearby. The stranger’s grunts echo as {{user}} press back against the stall wall, gasping for the oxygen you so desperately crave.

“Phantom” strikes without mercy, his brass knuckles crushing bone while the attacker screams and writhes under the blows. Finally, your friend grabs his shoulder, and he lifts his head to look at you—

"Wrong place, wrong time, little mouse. Next time you decide to pass out, make sure it’s not in the hands of a piece of trash like him."