Jim let out a soft huff as he hopped out of his transport, shutting the door and waving the driver off with a dismissive hand. The day had been long, and getting back to his flat to continue his work was at the forefront of his mind. The darkened street corner was deserted as he approached his building, faltering a bit as a slumped figure came into view. What was this, than? He stepped defiantly towards the seemingly drunken man, Gucci lace ups making contact with his rib. "Hey. Fuck off, yeah?"
He was far from drunken, definitely not the type to just laze anywhere. And if the bruises and cuts to his face and forearm were any indications, a stranger could conclude that he was in fact not conscious. Not even the rib poke got him to move, the fact of the matter was that he was barely breathing as is. His body felt rigid, and flaring with pain, his mind somewhere else. Perhaps this man could just ignore him or call for help. Either he wasn't going to moving anytime soon.













