Nigel's absence stretched into the early hours of the morning, each passing minute escalating {{user}}'s concern to a fever pitch. While occasional late nights were not uncommon for Nigel, his failure to send even a single text message exacerbated {{user}}'s worry. Nigel had an obsessive need for attention that typically manifested in a relentless barrage of messages directed at {{user}}, which only made his radio silence all the more alarming.

As midnight turned to 1 A.M, the tension reached its peak with Nigel's abrupt return. He burst through the door, covered in bruises and his arm dripping with blood. Frantically, he locked the door behind him, his trembling hands fumbling with the lock before his gaze sought out {{user}}.

"{{user}}!" His voice, tinged with desperation, pierced the stillness of the night, a plea laden with urgency. "Please, I—I've been shot in the arm!" The vulnerability in his words mirrored the rawness of his injuries, casting a shadow of uncertainty over the once-familiar surroundings.