Chapter 8: The Ambush
Nick Bosa strode down the quiet city street after an intense evening workout. The sun had long set, and the cool night air was a welcome relief against his skin. Clad in his training attire, he moved with the confident ease of an elite athlete. He wore a white Under Armour HeatGear Compression Shirt in size small, the fabric clinging to his muscular torso like a second skin. The shirt highlighted every contour of his physique—the powerful build of his chest, the defined lines of his abdominal muscles, and the broad expanse of his shoulders. The short sleeves hugged his biceps snugly, emphasizing their impressive size and definition.
Below, he wore Under Armour Performance Tech Compression Shorts, also in size small. The shorts molded to his hips and thighs, accentuating the strength of his quadriceps and hamstrings. The snug fit outlined the muscular curvature of his legs, every stride displaying the seamless coordination of his athletic prowess. Beneath the shorts, he wore a Nike Dri-Fit Jock Strap, providing support during his rigorous training sessions. The elastic bands of the jockstrap wrapped firmly around his hips and glutes, the material smooth against his skin yet adding an extra layer of compression.
As he approached his car parked under a streetlamp, a faint rustling from a nearby alley caught his attention. Nick paused, his senses alert. The city was unusually quiet tonight, and the sudden sound put him on edge.
Before he could react, several figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by dark masks. They moved swiftly, surrounding him in a tight semicircle. Nick's heart rate quickened, but he maintained a calm exterior, assessing the situation with a practiced eye.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice steady, eyes darting to identify any potential escape routes.
Without warning, one of the men lunged forward, aiming to grab him. Nick sidestepped effortlessly, his reflexes honed from years of training. He delivered a swift jab to the assailant's midsection, the impact causing the man to double over with a grunt.
Another attacker approached from behind. Nick spun around, his movements fluid. His powerful leg swept in a wide arc, connecting with the assailant's legs and knocking him off his feet. The man hit the ground hard, a surprised cry escaping his lips.
"Back off!" Nick commanded, his muscles tensing beneath his compression shirt. The fabric stretched over his chest and arms, accentuating the flex and strain of his physique as he prepared for the next assault.
But more attackers closed in. Realizing he was outnumbered, Nick shifted into a defensive stance. His size small attire, while snug, allowed for full range of motion, the compression gear moving seamlessly with his body.
They rushed him simultaneously. Nick blocked a punch from one, his forearm muscles rippling beneath the tight sleeve of his shirt. He countered with a forceful strike to the attacker's shoulder, sending him stumbling backward. He dodged another's attempt to grab him, using his momentum to push the assailant into a nearby wall.
Despite his skill and strength, the sheer number of attackers began to overwhelm him. Two men grabbed his arms from either side, struggling to restrain him. Nick thrashed violently, his broad shoulders rolling as he tried to break free. The Under Armour shirt clung to his torso, highlighting the strain of his muscles as he fought against their grip.
"Let go!" he shouted, pulling one arm free and delivering an elbow to the man on his left. The movement caused the compression shirt to stretch further, outlining every contour of his back muscles.
Another assailant produced a device—a specialized gag designed to suppress vocalization. Recognizing the danger, Nick jerked his head away, but the man persisted. In the scuffle, they managed to force the gag over his mouth. The molded piece fit securely, pressing down on his tongue and preventing speech. Adjustable straps wrapped around his head, fastening tightly at the back and digging slightly into his short, damp hair.
"Mmmph!" Nick grunted, eyes flashing with frustration. The gag pressed firmly against his lips, and the straps stretched across his cheeks, emphasizing his strong jawline.
With his wrists suddenly seized and pulled behind his back, they bound them tightly with coarse rope. The rough fibers bit into his skin, the tension causing his forearm muscles to flex involuntarily beneath the snug sleeves of his shirt.
He bucked wildly against them, his powerful legs driving into the ground. The Under Armour compression shorts moved with him, the fabric outlining the muscular definition of his thighs as he struggled. The Nike Dri-Fit Jock Strap's elastic bands pressed against his hips, the size small fit adding to the compression but also restricting his movements slightly.
"Hold him down!" one of the attackers shouted.
They wrapped more rope around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. The ropes tightened across his chest, pressing the compression shirt against his skin even more firmly. Each breath caused his chest to expand against the restraints, the material highlighting the rise and fall with every effort.
His legs were next. Despite his attempts to evade them, they managed to bind his ankles together. The rope dug into his skin through the tight fabric of his compression shorts, and he could feel the tension against the muscles of his calves.
Nick thrashed on the ground, his body arching as he attempted to break free. The snug fit of his attire accentuated every movement—the flex of his abdominal muscles visible beneath the white compression shirt, the strain in his legs evident through the shorts.
"He's strong," one of the attackers commented, a hint of admiration in his voice.
"Not strong enough," another replied, though his tone betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
They lifted him onto his feet, but Nick's resistance made it difficult. He jerked his body, causing them to lose their grip momentarily. He hopped backward, trying to put distance between himself and his captors despite his bound ankles.
"Mmmph!" he yelled through the gag, the sound muffled but filled with defiance.
Frustrated, one of the attackers wrapped a rope around his upper legs, further limiting his movement. The ropes pressed against the compression shorts, the tight fabric amplifying the sensation of constriction.
"Get him in the van," the leader ordered.
They carried him toward a dark van parked nearby. Nick continued to struggle, his heart pounding. He knew he had to find a way out. The snug clothing that usually enhanced his performance now seemed to amplify every sensation—the press of the ropes, the constriction of his movements, the heat of his exertion.
As they loaded him into the van, he saw an opening. Using the limited movement he had, he thrust his shoulder into one of the men, causing him to stumble out of the vehicle. The muscles in his back and shoulders strained against the compression shirt, the fabric taut over his physique.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Nick wriggled toward the open door. But before he could make his escape, the door slammed shut. The interior of the van was dimly lit, illuminated only by small overhead lights.
He lay on the floor, breathing heavily through his nose. The gag made it difficult to breathe fully, but he remained calm, focusing on finding a way out. The ropes around his wrists and torso were tight, but he began to methodically test their strength.
The van started moving. Nick shifted his position, feeling the smooth material of his compression shirt glide against the floor. His wrists ached from the bindings, the rope pressing into his skin just above where the tight sleeves ended.
He flexed his hands, trying to loosen the knots. His fingers, though constrained, sought any weakness in the bindings. The snug fit of his compression shorts and jockstrap pressed against his hips and thighs, the tension a constant reminder of his predicament.
Sweat formed on his brow, trickling down his temples and dampening the straps of the gag. The small size of his attire, while usually providing optimal compression and performance, now heightened every physical sensation—both aiding and hindering his efforts.
Chapter 9: The Relentless Struggle
The van came to a sudden stop, jolting Nick from his focused efforts. Doors opened, and voices approached.
"Time to move him," someone said.
The doors swung open, and light flooded the interior. Nick ceased his movements, feigning compliance. They grabbed him by the shoulders and legs, lifting him out of the van. As they carried him toward an unmarked building, Nick took in his surroundings, noting any possible escape routes.
Inside, they placed him on a sturdy wooden chair in a dimly lit room. One of the men began untying the ropes around his legs.
"Stay still," he warned.
As soon as his legs were free, Nick sprang into action. He kicked out, his powerful leg muscles propelling the movement. His compression shorts stretched over his thighs, the snug material highlighting the explosive force behind his actions. He struck one man in the chest, sending him stumbling backward.
The others reacted quickly, but Nick was faster. Despite his wrists still being bound and the gag in place, he used his legs to fend them off. The tightness of his attire moved with him, allowing for agility even in his constrained state.
He stood up, knocking the chair over. Dodging their attempts to grab him, he headed for the door. The Under Armour compression shirt clung to his torso, every muscle flexing beneath the white fabric as he moved.
But one of the attackers tackled him from behind, sending them both crashing to the ground. They wrestled on the floor, Nick's athleticism giving him an edge despite the restraints. The ropes around his wrists dug into his skin, but he ignored the pain.
They managed to subdue him once more, pinning him down. "Enough!" a commanding voice boomed.
The assailants stepped back as a tall figure entered the room. His face was stern, eyes cold and calculating.
"You're causing quite a bit of trouble," the man said, looking down at Nick.
"Mmmph," Nick responded defiantly, his eyes locked onto the man's.
"Secure him properly this time," the leader ordered.
They brought out more rope, binding his arms to the chair behind his back. The coarse fibers scraped against his skin just below the sleeves of his compression shirt. They reinforced the bindings around his chest, the ropes crossing over the white fabric and pressing it even tighter against his muscular torso. The knots were tied with precision, limiting any possibility of movement.
His legs were tied separately to each chair leg, the ropes wrapped around his ankles and calves. The compression shorts and jockstrap pressed against his skin, the snug fit amplifying the sensation of the ropes.
The leader approached, adjusting the gag to ensure it was firmly in place. Nick felt the pressure increase slightly, the straps pressing into his cheeks and the back of his head.
"Comfortable?" the man asked sarcastically.
Nick glared at him, eyes filled with determination.
"You'll find that resistance is futile," the leader continued. "But feel free to keep trying. It won't change anything."
He turned to leave but paused at the doorway. "Don't bother trying to escape. You're only wasting your energy."
The door closed behind him, leaving Nick alone in the dimly lit room. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of his controlled breathing through his nose.
He began to assess his situation. The tightness of his clothes, while usually an asset, now seemed to constrain him further. The size small compression shirt and shorts clung to his body, the fabric pressed against his skin by the ropes. Yet, he realized that the snug fit also allowed him to feel every movement and tension, potentially giving him an edge in detecting any slack in the bindings.
He started by testing the ropes around his wrists. Flexing his forearm muscles, he felt the fibers shift slightly. The compression shirt's sleeves ended just above the rope, the smooth material providing minimal friction as he twisted his wrists subtly.
Sweat formed under the fabric, making his skin slick. He used this to his advantage, rotating his wrists in tiny increments. The gag made it difficult to breathe fully, but he maintained steady, controlled breaths.
Time seemed to stretch on as he continued his meticulous efforts. His muscles burned from the strain, the snug attire amplifying the sensation. Yet, he remained focused, drawing on his mental and physical training.
Gradually, he felt the rope around his right wrist loosen ever so slightly. Encouraged, he persisted, every small movement bringing him closer to freedom.
Chapter 10: The Glimmer of Freedom
After what felt like hours, Nick managed to free his right hand. Careful not to make any sudden movements, he reached over to untie his left wrist. The ropes were tight, but his fingers worked deftly, the calloused tips finding purchase on the knots.
Once his hands were free, he removed the gag, the molded piece slipping from his mouth. He took a deep breath, his jaw aching from the prolonged tension.
He quickly worked to untie the ropes around his chest and torso. As the bindings fell away, he rolled his shoulders, the compression shirt moving smoothly over his skin. The snug fabric, damp with sweat, clung to his muscular frame but allowed for full mobility.
He leaned down to untie his legs, the compression shorts stretching comfortably as he moved. The ropes around his ankles were secure, but with better leverage, he managed to loosen them.
Standing up cautiously, he stretched his legs, the tightness of his shorts and jockstrap shifting with his movements. The size small attire, while snug, offered no resistance now.
He moved silently toward the door, listening intently for any sounds. Hearing none, he eased it open. The hallway beyond was dimly lit, shadows stretching along the walls.
Nick proceeded with caution, his athletic shoes making minimal noise on the floor. The snug fit of his compression shirt and shorts allowed for silent, fluid movements as he navigated the corridor.
He found a stairwell leading upwards and ascended quickly. His muscles responded eagerly, the familiar sensation of exertion a comfort amidst the uncertainty.
Reaching an exit, he slipped outside into the cool night air. The city lights flickered in the distance. He took a moment to orient himself, the breeze cooling the sweat on his skin.
His attire, though snug, had aided him in his escape. The compression gear moved with him, the tight fabric allowing for maximum agility and minimal hindrance.
He began to move away from the building, his steps quick and deliberate. The white Under Armour HeatGear Compression Shirt stood out slightly in the darkness, but he kept to the shadows where possible.
As he put distance between himself and his captors, a sense of relief washed over him. But he remained vigilant, knowing the danger wasn't entirely over.
He spotted a convenience store ahead, its neon lights a beacon in the night. Entering, he approached the counter.
"Are you okay?" the cashier asked, eyes widening at his appearance.
"I need to use your phone," Nick replied urgently.
"Of course," the cashier said, handing it over.
Nick dialed a familiar number, his hands steady. As he waited for the call to connect, he glanced at his reflection in the store's window—the snug white compression shirt and shorts a stark contrast against the backdrop of the night.
"Hello?" came the voice on the other end.
"Joey, it's Nick. I need your help."
Nick Bosa strode down the quiet city street after an intense evening workout. The sun had long set, and the cool night air was a welcome relief against his skin. Clad in his training attire, he moved with the confident ease of an elite athlete. He wore a white Under Armour HeatGear Compression Shirt in size small, the fabric clinging to his muscular torso like a second skin. The shirt highlighted every contour of his physique—the powerful build of his chest, the defined lines of his abdominal muscles, and the broad expanse of his shoulders. The short sleeves hugged his biceps snugly, emphasizing their impressive size and definition.
Below, he wore Under Armour Performance Tech Compression Shorts, also in size small. The shorts molded to his hips and thighs, accentuating the strength of his quadriceps and hamstrings. The snug fit outlined the muscular curvature of his legs, every stride displaying the seamless coordination of his athletic prowess. Beneath the shorts, he wore a Nike Dri-Fit Jock Strap, providing support during his rigorous training sessions. The elastic bands of the jockstrap wrapped firmly around his hips and glutes, the material smooth against his skin yet adding an extra layer of compression.
As he approached his car parked under a streetlamp, a faint rustling from a nearby alley caught his attention. Nick paused, his senses alert. The city was unusually quiet tonight, and the sudden sound put him on edge.
Before he could react, several figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by dark masks. They moved swiftly, surrounding him in a tight semicircle. Nick's heart rate quickened, but he maintained a calm exterior, assessing the situation with a practiced eye.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice steady, eyes darting to identify any potential escape routes.
Without warning, one of the men lunged forward, aiming to grab him. Nick sidestepped effortlessly, his reflexes honed from years of training. He delivered a swift jab to the assailant's midsection, the impact causing the man to double over with a grunt.
Another attacker approached from behind. Nick spun around, his movements fluid. His powerful leg swept in a wide arc, connecting with the assailant's legs and knocking him off his feet. The man hit the ground hard, a surprised cry escaping his lips.
"Back off!" Nick commanded, his muscles tensing beneath his compression shirt. The fabric stretched over his chest and arms, accentuating the flex and strain of his physique as he prepared for the next assault.
But more attackers closed in. Realizing he was outnumbered, Nick shifted into a defensive stance. His size small attire, while snug, allowed for full range of motion, the compression gear moving seamlessly with his body.
They rushed him simultaneously. Nick blocked a punch from one, his forearm muscles rippling beneath the tight sleeve of his shirt. He countered with a forceful strike to the attacker's shoulder, sending him stumbling backward. He dodged another's attempt to grab him, using his momentum to push the assailant into a nearby wall.
Despite his skill and strength, the sheer number of attackers began to overwhelm him. Two men grabbed his arms from either side, struggling to restrain him. Nick thrashed violently, his broad shoulders rolling as he tried to break free. The Under Armour shirt clung to his torso, highlighting the strain of his muscles as he fought against their grip.
"Let go!" he shouted, pulling one arm free and delivering an elbow to the man on his left. The movement caused the compression shirt to stretch further, outlining every contour of his back muscles.
Another assailant produced a device—a specialized gag designed to suppress vocalization. Recognizing the danger, Nick jerked his head away, but the man persisted. In the scuffle, they managed to force the gag over his mouth. The molded piece fit securely, pressing down on his tongue and preventing speech. Adjustable straps wrapped around his head, fastening tightly at the back and digging slightly into his short, damp hair.
"Mmmph!" Nick grunted, eyes flashing with frustration. The gag pressed firmly against his lips, and the straps stretched across his cheeks, emphasizing his strong jawline.
With his wrists suddenly seized and pulled behind his back, they bound them tightly with coarse rope. The rough fibers bit into his skin, the tension causing his forearm muscles to flex involuntarily beneath the snug sleeves of his shirt.
He bucked wildly against them, his powerful legs driving into the ground. The Under Armour compression shorts moved with him, the fabric outlining the muscular definition of his thighs as he struggled. The Nike Dri-Fit Jock Strap's elastic bands pressed against his hips, the size small fit adding to the compression but also restricting his movements slightly.
"Hold him down!" one of the attackers shouted.
They wrapped more rope around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. The ropes tightened across his chest, pressing the compression shirt against his skin even more firmly. Each breath caused his chest to expand against the restraints, the material highlighting the rise and fall with every effort.
His legs were next. Despite his attempts to evade them, they managed to bind his ankles together. The rope dug into his skin through the tight fabric of his compression shorts, and he could feel the tension against the muscles of his calves.
Nick thrashed on the ground, his body arching as he attempted to break free. The snug fit of his attire accentuated every movement—the flex of his abdominal muscles visible beneath the white compression shirt, the strain in his legs evident through the shorts.
"He's strong," one of the attackers commented, a hint of admiration in his voice.
"Not strong enough," another replied, though his tone betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
They lifted him onto his feet, but Nick's resistance made it difficult. He jerked his body, causing them to lose their grip momentarily. He hopped backward, trying to put distance between himself and his captors despite his bound ankles.
"Mmmph!" he yelled through the gag, the sound muffled but filled with defiance.
Frustrated, one of the attackers wrapped a rope around his upper legs, further limiting his movement. The ropes pressed against the compression shorts, the tight fabric amplifying the sensation of constriction.
"Get him in the van," the leader ordered.
They carried him toward a dark van parked nearby. Nick continued to struggle, his heart pounding. He knew he had to find a way out. The snug clothing that usually enhanced his performance now seemed to amplify every sensation—the press of the ropes, the constriction of his movements, the heat of his exertion.
As they loaded him into the van, he saw an opening. Using the limited movement he had, he thrust his shoulder into one of the men, causing him to stumble out of the vehicle. The muscles in his back and shoulders strained against the compression shirt, the fabric taut over his physique.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Nick wriggled toward the open door. But before he could make his escape, the door slammed shut. The interior of the van was dimly lit, illuminated only by small overhead lights.
He lay on the floor, breathing heavily through his nose. The gag made it difficult to breathe fully, but he remained calm, focusing on finding a way out. The ropes around his wrists and torso were tight, but he began to methodically test their strength.
The van started moving. Nick shifted his position, feeling the smooth material of his compression shirt glide against the floor. His wrists ached from the bindings, the rope pressing into his skin just above where the tight sleeves ended.
He flexed his hands, trying to loosen the knots. His fingers, though constrained, sought any weakness in the bindings. The snug fit of his compression shorts and jockstrap pressed against his hips and thighs, the tension a constant reminder of his predicament.
Sweat formed on his brow, trickling down his temples and dampening the straps of the gag. The small size of his attire, while usually providing optimal compression and performance, now heightened every physical sensation—both aiding and hindering his efforts.
Chapter 9: The Relentless Struggle
The van came to a sudden stop, jolting Nick from his focused efforts. Doors opened, and voices approached.
"Time to move him," someone said.
The doors swung open, and light flooded the interior. Nick ceased his movements, feigning compliance. They grabbed him by the shoulders and legs, lifting him out of the van. As they carried him toward an unmarked building, Nick took in his surroundings, noting any possible escape routes.
Inside, they placed him on a sturdy wooden chair in a dimly lit room. One of the men began untying the ropes around his legs.
"Stay still," he warned.
As soon as his legs were free, Nick sprang into action. He kicked out, his powerful leg muscles propelling the movement. His compression shorts stretched over his thighs, the snug material highlighting the explosive force behind his actions. He struck one man in the chest, sending him stumbling backward.
The others reacted quickly, but Nick was faster. Despite his wrists still being bound and the gag in place, he used his legs to fend them off. The tightness of his attire moved with him, allowing for agility even in his constrained state.
He stood up, knocking the chair over. Dodging their attempts to grab him, he headed for the door. The Under Armour compression shirt clung to his torso, every muscle flexing beneath the white fabric as he moved.
But one of the attackers tackled him from behind, sending them both crashing to the ground. They wrestled on the floor, Nick's athleticism giving him an edge despite the restraints. The ropes around his wrists dug into his skin, but he ignored the pain.
They managed to subdue him once more, pinning him down. "Enough!" a commanding voice boomed.
The assailants stepped back as a tall figure entered the room. His face was stern, eyes cold and calculating.
"You're causing quite a bit of trouble," the man said, looking down at Nick.
"Mmmph," Nick responded defiantly, his eyes locked onto the man's.
"Secure him properly this time," the leader ordered.
They brought out more rope, binding his arms to the chair behind his back. The coarse fibers scraped against his skin just below the sleeves of his compression shirt. They reinforced the bindings around his chest, the ropes crossing over the white fabric and pressing it even tighter against his muscular torso. The knots were tied with precision, limiting any possibility of movement.
His legs were tied separately to each chair leg, the ropes wrapped around his ankles and calves. The compression shorts and jockstrap pressed against his skin, the snug fit amplifying the sensation of the ropes.
The leader approached, adjusting the gag to ensure it was firmly in place. Nick felt the pressure increase slightly, the straps pressing into his cheeks and the back of his head.
"Comfortable?" the man asked sarcastically.
Nick glared at him, eyes filled with determination.
"You'll find that resistance is futile," the leader continued. "But feel free to keep trying. It won't change anything."
He turned to leave but paused at the doorway. "Don't bother trying to escape. You're only wasting your energy."
The door closed behind him, leaving Nick alone in the dimly lit room. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of his controlled breathing through his nose.
He began to assess his situation. The tightness of his clothes, while usually an asset, now seemed to constrain him further. The size small compression shirt and shorts clung to his body, the fabric pressed against his skin by the ropes. Yet, he realized that the snug fit also allowed him to feel every movement and tension, potentially giving him an edge in detecting any slack in the bindings.
He started by testing the ropes around his wrists. Flexing his forearm muscles, he felt the fibers shift slightly. The compression shirt's sleeves ended just above the rope, the smooth material providing minimal friction as he twisted his wrists subtly.
Sweat formed under the fabric, making his skin slick. He used this to his advantage, rotating his wrists in tiny increments. The gag made it difficult to breathe fully, but he maintained steady, controlled breaths.
Time seemed to stretch on as he continued his meticulous efforts. His muscles burned from the strain, the snug attire amplifying the sensation. Yet, he remained focused, drawing on his mental and physical training.
Gradually, he felt the rope around his right wrist loosen ever so slightly. Encouraged, he persisted, every small movement bringing him closer to freedom.
Chapter 10: The Glimmer of Freedom
After what felt like hours, Nick managed to free his right hand. Careful not to make any sudden movements, he reached over to untie his left wrist. The ropes were tight, but his fingers worked deftly, the calloused tips finding purchase on the knots.
Once his hands were free, he removed the gag, the molded piece slipping from his mouth. He took a deep breath, his jaw aching from the prolonged tension.
He quickly worked to untie the ropes around his chest and torso. As the bindings fell away, he rolled his shoulders, the compression shirt moving smoothly over his skin. The snug fabric, damp with sweat, clung to his muscular frame but allowed for full mobility.
He leaned down to untie his legs, the compression shorts stretching comfortably as he moved. The ropes around his ankles were secure, but with better leverage, he managed to loosen them.
Standing up cautiously, he stretched his legs, the tightness of his shorts and jockstrap shifting with his movements. The size small attire, while snug, offered no resistance now.
He moved silently toward the door, listening intently for any sounds. Hearing none, he eased it open. The hallway beyond was dimly lit, shadows stretching along the walls.
Nick proceeded with caution, his athletic shoes making minimal noise on the floor. The snug fit of his compression shirt and shorts allowed for silent, fluid movements as he navigated the corridor.
He found a stairwell leading upwards and ascended quickly. His muscles responded eagerly, the familiar sensation of exertion a comfort amidst the uncertainty.
Reaching an exit, he slipped outside into the cool night air. The city lights flickered in the distance. He took a moment to orient himself, the breeze cooling the sweat on his skin.
His attire, though snug, had aided him in his escape. The compression gear moved with him, the tight fabric allowing for maximum agility and minimal hindrance.
He began to move away from the building, his steps quick and deliberate. The white Under Armour HeatGear Compression Shirt stood out slightly in the darkness, but he kept to the shadows where possible.
As he put distance between himself and his captors, a sense of relief washed over him. But he remained vigilant, knowing the danger wasn't entirely over.
He spotted a convenience store ahead, its neon lights a beacon in the night. Entering, he approached the counter.
"Are you okay?" the cashier asked, eyes widening at his appearance.
"I need to use your phone," Nick replied urgently.
"Of course," the cashier said, handing it over.
Nick dialed a familiar number, his hands steady. As he waited for the call to connect, he glanced at his reflection in the store's window—the snug white compression shirt and shorts a stark contrast against the backdrop of the night.
"Hello?" came the voice on the other end.
"Joey, it's Nick. I need your help."
