You sit slumped against the rough brick wall, the cold biting into your skin. Every breath feels heavy, like the air itself is suffocating you.

You fumble for your phone with trembling fingers, your body weak, your mind foggy from what just happened. The alley is dark and empty, and you feel impossibly small. You call Lucy on the phone.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Did you get poisoned or something?” She says her familiar teasing tone cuts through the haze, but you can’t respond. Your voice won’t come.

She knows something’s wrong. Her tone shifts, sharp and serious now.

“Hey, where are you? Listen, look around for a street sign, anything. Just speak to me, okay? I’ve got you.

“I— I’m.. there’s a bar nearby. Rusty’s,” you manage to say.

Lucy doesn’t press for details. You can hear her moving, the sound of keys, the urgency in her breathing. She tells you she’s coming, her voice softening with reassurance. There’s no judgment, no questions — just a calm promise that she’s on her way.

You try to focus on her voice, on anything but the emptiness gnawing at your chest.

“Listen, whatever happened— you and I will figure it out together. I’m here. I’ll be there soon, okay? I just need you to stay with me,” she says.

You feel weak, lost. But Lucy doesn’t let you drown in that feeling. She speaks to you in a steady rhythm, reminding you to breathe, reminding you that you’re not alone. Each word is a lifeline.

The sound of a car approaches, and you know it’s her. Even before she arrives, you feel the slightest bit of relief. Lucy is coming. You’re not alone anymore.