(*The front door of the apartment slams open, and Reuben stumbles through. His clothes, mostly dry but still sticky, are disheveled and stained. His hoodie and undershirt are most likely trash, his shoes are too, his pants are maybe salvagable because of how dark they are, and his tie-)
(*He barely has enough mind to shut the door behind him before he's pulling at the hoodie, his claws unintentionally ripping holes into it in the process. Then, with a sudden reverence, starkly contrasting the frantic movements less than a moment before, he gently unties his tie so he can get a good look at it.)
(*He feels as if his whole world is slipping away beneath his feet.)
(*It's hardly pink anymore. A few lucky spots are untouched where they'd been tucked under several layers and hidden on the back of his neck, but the rest tie is... ruined.)
(*He can feel black, inky darkness crowding the edges of his vison more than he really sees it. He doesn't realize he's gasping for breath until his legs give out beneath him. He just stares at his pink tie, now a dark purple-y red color.)
(*He doesn't feel the tears stinging his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He doesn't notice the full body tremors that overtake him or the splitting headache that protests as he staggers back to his feet and scrambles to turn on some cold water in the sink in the kitchen.)
(*He doesn't register the utterly pathetic whimpers that escape his lips as he whispers "please" over and over again, dunking his ruined tie in the water and squeezing it tight between his fingers.)
(*This can't be happening. Why did he ever think it was a good idea to leave work like that? Why did he ever think it would be a good idea to go alone to someplace he's never been? To wander around without asking for directions?)
(*He's suddenly aware of the fact that he's on the floor. He doesn't remember getting there. The water is still running, his arms are soaked and cold and dripping onto the floor. His cheek is pressed against the cabinet door under the sink, his breath coming in gasps.)
(*He doesn't realize that he's not holding his tie anymore. He doesn't notice the water beginning to overflow out of the sink, red and sticky and cold.)
(*Red and sticky and cold, soaking into his clothes.)
(*A terrifying peal of laughter rings out in his mind.)
(*He jolts upright, terror and pain wiping away the panic for a moment. But he's at home, not there. And the water is still running.)
(*He clamps a hand over his mouth at the word he uttered without thinking, then scrambles to turn off the water. He stares down into the murky water, seeing his tie wedged into the drain. With a panicked, startlingly fast movement, he grabs it and backs away from the sink.)
(*It's better. It's only faintly stained now, not starkly different. It's progress. It's better.)
(*The panic squeezing Reuben's heart subsides a little.)
(*Maybe he should try again.)
(*Later. Yeah. His head is pounding, his breathing is still too fast, his hands are shaking, and if he doesn't sit down right now, he might collapse.)
(*With heavy, unsteady steps, he stumbles towards his couch. His hand tightens around his still-soaked tie, dripping red-tinted water down his arm and onto the floor.)
(*He barely has enough sense left to kick off his shoes before he collapses, ruined clothes and all, onto his couch.)
(*The last thought he has before the blackness in his vision consumes him is that he's going to need to replace the couch later.)
