His gaze fell upon the makeshift bandages adorning his shoulder—messy and uneven, barely covering the wound well enough to stem the bleeding.

Suppressing the urge to smooth out the wrinkles of the bandages, Mitchel directed his attention back to Marlowe. "Did you bring me back from the beach? Thank you."

Marlowe, keenly observant of Mitchel's lingering weakness, held back any comment, her lips pursed. She thrust a bowl of soup into his hands, her expression stern. "Here, drink up and then get going. I don't want my grandfather to find out I've hidden a mystery man here."

Taking the bowl of soup, Mitchel set it aside momentarily, his focus shifting to checking his pockets as he searched for his phone in vain.

Upon realizing it was missing, he sighed inwardly, figuring he had been unconscious for quite a while now. If he didn't call soon, his friends and family would start to worry, especially his grandfather, who couldn't handle the stress.