Klaus had never been much for technology, always a little too self-aware about how easily it could betray him. But today, a payphone was his only refuge.

His fingers shook as he clutched the receiver, still smelling of whiskey and sweat, the sting of his bruises a persistent reminder of the night’s misfortune. He had been at a bar—surprised, really, that he’d even been allowed in, given the state he was in—but it hadn’t taken much for the fight to escalate. Klaus wasn’t the type to back down, even when outnumbered, but he was beginning to question his life choices.

And then, of course, there were the withdrawals.

Klaus exhaled shakily as he leaned against the wall, his body threatening to collapse under the weight of it all. The need for something—anything—had never been stronger. He clenched his teeth, the familiar tension in his chest making it harder to breathe.

He dialled the number with a grim determination. It wasn’t easy to admit he needed help, but at this point, he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror without feeling disgusted. He didn’t have many people he could trust, but you were one of the few.

The phone rang three times before you picked up.

“Hello?” you answered, a tinge of sleep still in your voice, though it was clear you weren’t fully out of it.

His voice crackled through the line, sounding strained, raw, and almost... broken.

“I—uh, I could really use a place to crash. I, uh, I just got my ass handed to me, and... and I need some help.” Klaus hesitated, the words suddenly feeling like they were too much to say all at once. “I’m... I’m not doing great. I’m—uh, I'm withdrawing. It’s bad.”