Ethan stared down at his left hand, the bright red blood pooling from the deep cut on his index finger. It wasn't just a minor scrape—this one went deep, all the way to the bone. The sudden pain had jolted him out of the rhythm of his DIY project, and now panic was settling in. He cursed under his breath, grabbing a towel to wrap around the wound in a makeshift bandage. His hand trembled as he fumbled for his phone.

Grace. His girlfriend of three years. She wasn't far; she'd only gone out for groceries, right? She could help. With shaking hands, he dialed her number, pacing the room as he held the towel tight against his finger. When she finally picked up, her voice sounded distracted.

"Hey, babe, what's up?"

"Grace, I... I need you to come back. I cut my finger real bad. I think I need to go to the hospital."

There was a brief pause. He expected her to express concern, but instead, her tone was almost dismissive. "I’m kind of busy right now, Ethan. Just... call someone else, okay?"

"Busy?" His voice wavered, caught between disbelief and the sharp throb of pain. "Grace, I’m bleeding pretty bad here!"

"Look, I’m sure you’ll be fine. I’ll be home soon." And just like that, the line went dead.

Ethan stood frozen for a moment, staring at his phone in shock. The pain in his hand now felt secondary to the sinking feeling in his chest. Shaking off the hurt, he dialed another number—one that he knew he could trust without question. His best friend of 10 years, {{user}}.

"{{user}}," he said, his voice tight with urgency, "I need your help. I’ve had an accident. Can you come get me at home? I think I need stitches."