Tyler's POV
My head throbbed like a thousand bricks were being dropped on it, one after the other, merciless and rhythmic. Every pulse felt like a punishment, a cruel reminder that I was still alive—unfortunately. I groaned, slowly turning on the bed, and instantly regretted it. My body ached everywhere. Even my ribs felt bruised.
What the hell happened?
I blinked at the ceiling, struggling to focus. The room was dim, quiet, sterile. Not mine. Definitely not mine. Panic twisted in my chest.
Then it came back. In blurry, flashing fragments.
The party.
The drink.
The heat.
The way my legs wouldn't listen to me.
The hallway.
The bathroom.
The sack over my head.
My chest tightened. I remembered hands—grabbing me. I remembered Wayne. His breath. His touch. The weight of him pressing down on me, pinning me like I was nothing more than a game to win.
My stomach turned.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
And then…
Han.
