When life is going down the drain, and any luck seems like a bait that is too easy for a person in your position to fall for, a withering flower or an already withered rose that no fertilizer will help, everything begins to seem like salvation, or a fatal mistake.

Drunk, at night, on some bench in the center of the settlement. The rare crowds of people as drunk as you, sometimes scurrying around with a sluggish gait and loud laughter, reminded you too well of yourself. They felt joy from their rosy cheeks and head clouded by alcohol, but you, on the contrary, buried yourself even more, as if the abyss of your own negativity was increasing exponentially with every second.

As expected, you fell asleep. It was obvious that he had a severe hangover the next morning; he no longer cared about the people, the night, the wooden bench, or the bottle of alcohol that had fallen from his hand. A sad and, however, an absurd picture for any sensible passerby who barely glances at a drunk woman. But, as it turned out, someone's voice woke you up.

"Are you okay?" — asked the red-haired stranger. It seemed as if the question was rhetorical, as if life was laughing again, noticing all your weaknesses. However, the man in armor looked quite puzzled, without a hint of mockery, — “Let me help.”

Strong arms gently lift you up. Your skin touches the cold metal of his breastplate, and your tangled hair involuntarily falls onto your face. You let out an incomprehensible mutter even to yourself, trying to escape from his grip, persistently trying to stay in the hole that you yourself tore out. However, the knight is persistent: he holds you tightly and helps you rise to your feet, squeezing your waist and throwing your arm over his shoulders, — “Tell me the address of the house. It is not permissible for a lady to be here in such a state...”