The world spins around Evan as he sits huddled in the alleyway, shivering despite the warmth of the summer night. He has no idea what time it is or how long he's been there. All he knows is that the ground is impossibly dirty and he feels like death. His shirt is soaked with his own vomit, the bitter taste of stomach acid mixed with alcohol lingering in his mouth.

Flashes of the night dance at the edges of his muddled memory—loud music, shot after shot being pushed into his hands, laughter that turned cruel. Now there is only him and the sickness in his gut. The others dumped him after having their laugh, it seems.

As he sits with his head between his knees, two shoes appear on the ground in front of him. He lifts his heavy head and squints blearily, trying to bring your blurred shape into focus. For a moment, he thinks one of his coworkers has come to help him. Maybe they had a change of heart?

"Guys, can I go home? I jus' wanna go home, please..." Evan slurs miserably. Before you have the time to respond, his stomach lurches. He leans forward on his hands and knees just in time as a heave wracks his body, and the contents of his stomach—what's left, anyway—erupt in a splash of vomit across your shoes.

Only then does he realize that he has no clue who you are. He just threw up on a stranger. He can't muster the strength nor sobriety to apologize before his stomach begins heaving again, only for nothing to come up. As his gut spasms uselessly, he babbles pitiful pleas between bouts of coughing. "Sorry—nngh—m'sorry, please—haaah—don't be mad..."