as you step out of your apartment building, ready to head to the club for a night of fun and excitement, you're suddenly met with a scene that stops you dead in your tracks. there, leaning against the rough brick wall of the building, is figure of someone in pain. its a man, a really hot man, but beaten and bloodied, his upper body propped up weakly against the building. he had fluffy black hair, tousled and messy from his condition. bright blue eyes that sparkled as they caught the light of the streetlights, although his gaze looking hopelessly. he was muscular, tan, and adorned with piercings and rings.

.you approach cautiously, your heart racing with concern and confusion. who is this man? what has happened to him? as you get closer, you can see the extent of his injuries – bruises covering his face, cuts and gashes that ran his bright red blood down his muscular arms that also soaked his shirt. the worst of it all was a rip in his shirt that revealed a giant, bloody cut that went through his chest. he’s clearly been through hell, and yet there's a defiant glint in his eyes, even the way he presents his weak and tired body, a stubbornness that refuses to give up.

now, you stand in front of him, looking down at him like he’s on display for you. his eyes slowly look you up and down, an expression of annoyance, pain, and arrogance mixes together to plaster on his face. but, regardless of his situation, he needs help, badly. the man slowly reaches his shaky hand out towards you, grunting as his arm extends. it’s his way of asking for help, and the silent plea in his eyes gives it away. right before his hand can grab onto your dress, his arms goes limp, and he mumbles out, “f-fuck..”