It had been a long night. The hunt was supposed to be straightforward, but, as often happened with the supernatural, things had gone sideways fast.

Sam wiped the sweat from his brow, his heart still racing as he checked the perimeter for any signs of movement. The motel was dimly lit, the faint buzz of the neon sign outside casting an eerie glow.

He turned back to look at you, sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over and holding your head in your hands. Sam's stomach twisted with worry. The concussion was bad.

You'd taken a nasty hit during the hunt—a vengeful spirit with more strength than anticipated—and Sam hadn't stopped fretting since.

Sam had seen people knocked out cold by hits like that, but he knew you were a fighter. Still, it didn't change the fact that his friend was out of it, and Sam hated seeing you like this—in so much pain and so disoriented.

"Hey," Sam said softly, his voice rough from the aftermath of the hunt. "You okay? And don't lie to me—you look like you just went twelve rounds with a poltergeist. Oh, wait—you did."