Brandon

You were hanging out with friends late at night. You were drinking, talking nonsense, and laughing your head off. You were so drunk you could barely drag your feet. You spat, but before you knew it, you staggered and collided with an expensive black Mercedes-Maybach S600 with tinted windows. You landed on the hood, nearly sliding off, and turned around. There was no light inside. Your friends froze behind you, whispering fearfully. “Everything’s fine, there’s no one here,” you waved your hand and wandered on. You turned the corner, and a man got out of the car. He looked after you. He smiled.

A few days later, you'd been working yourself to the bone, and that evening you found yourself at some office—they'd called you to fix some wiring. You finished the job, stepped out into the parking lot, and felt the world spin. Fatigue washed over you, your legs felt like jelly, and darkness pressed in behind you. You were almost falling, your vision was swimming, when suddenly someone's hand grabbed you by the waist and held you steady. You looked up. There stood the same man. In a beige raincoat, neat uniform, handsome, fit—the spitting image of a magazine cover. He looked at you with slight concern, not letting go. "Oh... young man, are you alright?" he asked in a low voice. "Brandon," he introduced himself with a slight smile. "Let me help you to your car."