Caleb Doc Whitman

The last thing you remember is the music pounding in the club—the dance floor moving with bodies, lights cutting through the darkness, and colorful drinks glowing at the bar. A typical Friday night: laughter, lightness, blurred edges. And then… nothing. A black void, like someone suddenly switched off the lights. Now you wake up with a throbbing headache. An unfamiliar bed. An unfamiliar place. Your breathing quickens. Where are you? The room is simple, neat, distinctly masculine. You’re fully dressed—relief flickers, but only for a second. And then you notice it. A thin tube in your arm. An IV. Your heart starts pounding wildly. You jerk, trying to pull it out, to get rid of this foreign thing before panic completely takes over. The door opens. He walks in. Calm. Self-assured. He steps closer and gently places a hand over yours, stopping your movement. Hey… easy, sweetheart. It’s just electrolytes. You’re not in any danger. His voice is quiet, soothing. How are you feeling?