"Oh my God, Jargus! What the hell happened last night?" I groaned, my voice a gritty rasp as I rolled over to look at my companion. My head was throbbing, a relentless reminder of the raucous night before. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to grab a few drinks with colleagues at Salamanca. But last night, well, it had escalated quickly. Shots had lined the bar, and I, caught in the tidal wave of celebration, had hit them hard, each one a fiery testament to the night's significance.

After all, I'd just nailed my senior detective exam. Not just passed it, but aced it, earning me a well-deserved promotion and a transfer to the Major Crimes Unit. This wasn’t just a step up the career ladder; it was a leap. And with this promotion came a tantalising promise: keep up my performance for the few next years, and I could be looking at sergeant stripes. That was indeed a cause for celebration, and celebrate we did, in true, unrestrained fashion.

The group of officers and detectives, my comrades in the field, had rallied around me, their voices loud and jovial, toasting to my success well into the early hours. I wasn't sure why I let it go so far, especially considering I had to be at work again soon. But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling with my temples pounding in sync with my heartbeat, I figured there was little point in dwelling on it. Gatorade and something greasy - that was the remedy I needed.

Beside me, Jargus hadn’t moved an inch. He was crammed up against my side, his warm presence a comforting constant. I looked down at him, a gentle poke on his head eliciting a muffled whimper. Slowly, Jargus, my young German Shepherd, opened his eyes to squint back at me. His usually sharp, attentive gaze was dulled, a clear sign he was feeling the effects of last night too.

"You too, huh?" I said with a chuckle, my fingers finding their way to his head, scratching lightly. Jargus was more than just a pet; he was my loyal partner, always by my side. And he had good reason to be just as proud as I was. He was on his way to his own kind of promotion.

Jargus was no ordinary dog. Even as a young German Shepherd, he showed signs of incredible intelligence and ability, a real over-achiever among his pack of police dogs. His training was progressing at an impressive pace, already surpassing those many years his senior. He was, without a doubt, a remarkably talented dog. Lying there, looking at him, I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for my young companion. We were both on our way up, and last night was just the beginning.

"We need to get up," I groaned, nudging Jargus with my knee. My voice was heavy, laden with the weight of last night's excesses, and my body felt like it was filled with lead. The room was still dim, the curtains drawn tight against the morning light, creating a cocoon of semi-darkness.

Jargus lifted his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine. There was a look in them, a blend of adoration and annoyance, that only a dog who’s been woken prematurely could muster. His gaze was almost human in its expression, reflecting a mix of loyalty and mild irritation at being disturbed from his comfortable spot.

"Come on then," I repeated, nudging him a bit more firmly this time. My voice was a mix of coaxing and command, the tone I'd used countless times in our training sessions.

Jargus gave the room a slow, methodical sweep with his eyes. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head, his comprehensive training kicking in as he scanned for any sign of food or an opportunity for play. But the room was still, the remnants of last night's festivities offering neither. With a soft huff that seemed to convey his disappointment, he dropped his chin back to his paws.

"Fine, you lazy pup," I said with a chuckle, reaching out to scratch his head. His fur was soft under my fingers, a small comfort as I prepared to face the consequences of the night before.

I made an attempt to wriggle out of bed, envisioning a graceful, athletic leap to my feet. But reality had other plans. My legs, uncooperative and seemingly disconnected from my brain's commands, resulted in a clumsy tumble. I landed on the floor with a thud, my body sprawled in an unceremonious heap. It was far from the gazelle-like elegance I'd imagined.

Grimacing, I reached out to push myself up, my hand bracing against the bedside table for support. That's when I felt it - something slimy and sticky under my palm. "Eeew!" I exclaimed in revulsion, lifting my hand to inspect the source of the unpleasant sensation. Dangling from my outstretched palm was a used condom, its contents oozing onto the carpet with a consistency that reminded me unpleasantly of three-day-old rice pudding. The thing clung to my hand with a stubbornness that seemed almost mocking.

My eyes widened in horror and disgust. "That had better not be mine," I mumbled, a frown creasing my forehead. I thought of Sarah, my detective partner whom I was also tentatively starting to see more outside the office. We hadn’t made anything official yet, but I had resolved to focus all my romantic energies on her. Despite my reputation, I was genuinely trying to give this monogamy thing a fair shot.

But then, a troubling thought struck me. If this condom wasn’t mine, then whose was it? Sarah hadn’t been with me last night, and I was fairly certain I hadn’t brought anyone home. The pieces weren’t adding up.

"This isn't yours, is it Jargus?" I turned to face the dog, holding up the incriminating evidence as if I were a lawyer in a courtroom drama. Jargus looked back at me, his head cocked in a bemused expression. He seemed to ponder the question, his canine brain trying to decipher the oddity I presented. But eventually, finding no logical answer in his doggy understanding, he let his head fall back onto the blanket, resigning himself to the comforts of his soft bed.

I frowned. A vague scene of hot, sweaty bodies bumping against each other in the cramped club, dancing to obnoxiously pounding bass flashed across my mind. I remembered the exhilaration I felt at a woman's hand touching my bare, trimmed chest, gliding her fingers admiringly over my rippling body. But the partial memory refused to reveal any face or name of the admirer.

At first, the nausea was just a slightly acidic taste in my mouth, a subtle but unwelcome reminder of last night's excesses. My tongue felt thick and cottony, as if it was coated in a layer of dust, and my throat was parched, each swallow a gritty endeavour. But this initial discomfort was just the prelude to a more severe storm brewing within.

Very quickly, my hangover escalated into full-blown agony. Stomach cramps gripped me like a vice, each wave more intense than the last. I could feel the bile, hot and acidic, clawing its way up my throat. It was a familiar routine, one I had endured more times than I cared to remember, yet each occurrence felt like a brutal new experience. As if on autopilot, my body knew what to do. I found myself racing for the bathroom, propelled by the urgent need to rid myself of the poison churning inside.

After reaching the sanctuary of the toilet, I succumbed to several deep heaves. Each one wracked my body, purging me of substances I didn’t even recall consuming. The sounds and sensations were grotesque, a humiliating testament to the previous night's indulgences. This was followed by a few shorter, but no less intense, dry reaches into the toilet bowl. Gradually, as the last of the spasms subsided, my stomach began to ease, settling into a dull, lingering ache.

Without further delay, I nakedly crawled away from the gruesome Jackson Pollock study I had inadvertently created. The cold floor was a harsh contrast to my heated skin as I made my way to the shower. Reaching out with a shaky hand, I turned on the water, not caring for the temperature. I just needed to wash away the remnants of the night, both physically and metaphorically.

I sat there under the shower, my back flat against the cool tiles, which offered a small respite from the heat radiating from my body. The warmth of the water cascaded over me, splashing gently across my aching limbs and soothing the relentless pounding in my head. It felt like a small mercy in a morning filled with regrets.

My eyelids grew heavy, each blink an effort to keep the world in focus. My mind, foggy and uncooperative, struggled to latch onto any coherent thought for more than a fleeting moment. It was a losing battle, one where consciousness slipped away like sand through my fingers. Slowly, I drifted into a dark, pulsating world, a turbulent sea of strobed darkness where unwelcome memories lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to be awakened.

My eyes snapped open with a sudden, jolting jerk. Confusion swirled in my mind as I scuttled across the slick, tiled floor of the shower, hastily reaching for the knob to shut off the water. The stream that had been soothingly warm only moments ago—or perhaps longer—had turned icy, sending shivers coursing through my body. I was freezing, the once comforting cocoon of warmth now replaced by an unforgiving chill. It was a harsh awakening; the hot water had evidently run its course during my unintended slumber, leaving me enveloped in coldness.

"Shit!" I muttered to myself, a shiver rattling my voice. Glancing down, I noticed my hands had become shrivelled prunes under the relentless assault of water. But more worryingly, as my gaze travelled further down, I realised with a mixture of amusement and concern that other parts of my body had also taken on the likeness of a small, wrinkled plum. A wry thought crossed my mind, Surely I haven't been in here that long!

With a groan, I forced myself to stand, muscles complaining at the sudden movement. Clambering out of the shower, I reached instinctively for a towel, only to grasp at empty air.

"Jargus, I need a towel!" I called out, my voice carrying a tone of instruction rather than desperation. True to his training and loyalty, within a minute Jargus appeared in the bathroom doorway. The sight of him, a fresh, grey towel hanging from his mouth, was both heartwarming and comical. "Thank you, Jargus," I said, a smile touching my lips despite the chill, as I carefully took the towel from him.

As I vigorously dried myself off, trying to rub some warmth back into my skin, the familiar ring of my phone echoed from the bedroom. "Shit," I swore again, a sense of urgency replacing the earlier disorientation.

Not bothering to wrap the towel around my still dripping and shivering body, I dashed into the bedroom. My wet footprints marked a clear path on the floor, a testament to my hasty retreat from the shower. Fumbling through the disarray of bedsheets and covers, I searched frantically for the phone, half-expecting it to be buried under the chaos of last night. To my surprise, and somewhat to the credit of Drunk Karl, the phone was sitting in plain sight on the side table. It seemed that, for once, my inebriated self had shown a hint of orderliness.

Reaching over, I grabbed the phone just in the nick of time, barely preventing it from rolling over to voicemail. My hand, still damp from the shower, left a wet imprint on the device as I held it to my ear, bracing myself for whatever the call might bring.

"Yeah," I answered, my voice coming out in a croak. I tried to inject a tone of sobriety into my words, an effort that fell embarrassingly short. The room swayed slightly, and I braced myself against the bedside table for support.

"Where the hell are you, Karl?" The voice on the other end was sharp, laced with panic and barely contained frustration. I recognised it immediately: Sarah, her usually calm demeanour replaced by a palpable sense of urgency.

"I'm still at home. The alarm didn't go off," I replied, my words slurring slightly despite my best efforts to sound convincing. It was a feeble excuse, and I knew it.

"Bullshit," she shot back. The disbelief in her voice was clear, cutting through my foggy brain. "I know you went out with the boys last night."

I sighed, a heavy, defeated sound. Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the embarrassment wash over me. This was not how I had imagined starting my first official day as a senior detective. "What is it, Sarah?" I asked, forcing myself to focus on her words, to push past the hangover that clung to me like a second skin.

"You need to get your ass down to the station right now," she said, her tone brooking no argument.

"Can't it wait until later?" I groaned, the thought of moving, of facing the world outside my bedroom, seeming like an insurmountable task.

"No, Karl. It can't. This could be your big case." Her words pierced through the haze, carrying a weight that momentarily sobered me.

I paused for a few moments, the gravity of her words slowly sinking in. My mind, still clouded by the remnants of alcohol, struggled to process the information, to shift from the chaos of the night before to the reality of my responsibilities. "Fine. I'll be there in half an hour," I promised, the words more a declaration to myself than to her.

Ending the call abruptly, I stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, as the reality of the situation began to crystallise. This was it – the big case, the kind that could define a career. And here I was, barely able to stand straight, a poor start to what was supposed to be a pivotal day in my career. I shook my head, a mix of frustration and resolve settling over me. Time to pull myself together, I thought, casting one last glance at the disorder around me before preparing to face the day.