Reuben

You never expected Reuben Wilson to answer. Out of all the names in your contacts, he was the last one you dialed—pure desperation. Your so-called “friends” ditched you at a grimy bar in the bad part of town. It was 2 a.m. The streets were half-lit, the bartender had closed up, and two shady strangers were inching closer by the second. You tried calling everyone else, even your cousin from another city, but your phone just buzzed with "no answer." And then... Reuben picked up. The same guy who used to knock your books off desks. The guy who never smiled at you unless it was out of smug pity. The enemy you swore you'd never rely on. But now, with a dead phone battery at 3%, the quiet street humming with tension, and your hands shaking slightly from fear—you had no one else. You expected him to hang up. Maybe laugh. Maybe insult you. Instead, there was silence. A pause. And then... (this idea isn't mine it from @_yuwwe feel free to check out their talkies )