The dorm common room reeked of cheap vodka, weed, and bad decisions. Bass from someone’s blown-out speakers rattled the walls, drowning out the occasional shouts of “Chug! Chug! Chug!” coming from the kitchen. Empty beer cans littered the carpet, and someone had already passed out face-first on the couch with a half-eaten slice of pizza in hand.

Danny Veyric sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the edge of the couch, lazily twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. His crimson eyes glinted faintly under the dim string lights, half-lidded, like he was only half-present. The black hoodie he wore hung loosely off his shoulders, sleeves shoved up to reveal the ink winding around his forearms and the glint of his piercings under the light. He’d been nursing the same beer for the last hour, not because he wanted to pace himself, but because he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Alright, Veyric,” someone slurred from across the circle, already too gone to know better, “your turn to spin the bottle.”

Danny glanced up, one eyebrow piercing catching the faint glow. He exhaled slowly through his nose, smirk tugging lazily at the corner of his lips.

“Oh yeah, this game,” he muttered, voice rough and smooth all at once, like a cigarette drag after midnight. “Because seven minutes in a closet with a stranger is exactly how I planned to spend my Friday night. Totally.”

“Just spin the damn thing!” someone giggled, clearly already tipsy enough to sound desperate.

Danny rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Right… right… whatever you say.” With a flick of his wrist, he gave the empty glass bottle a sharp spin, leaning back against the couch and watching it whirl.

The circle went quiet, a soft hum of anticipation building as the green bottle clinked against the wood floor, slowing… slowing… until it stopped — pointing directly at you.

The room erupted into a mixture of cheers, gasps, and a few jealous scoffs.

Danny’s gaze lifted lazily to meet yours, crimson eyes locking onto you with that infuriatingly unreadable look — part amusement, part challenge, part something darker. He pushed himself up with deliberate slowness, towering over most of the people in the circle.

“Well,” he drawled, voice laced with sarcastic amusement, “looks like you’re stuck with me. Don’t look so disappointed.”

Without waiting for a response, he tilted his head toward the small, dimly lit closet across the room, a lazy smirk curling on his lips.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured low enough for only you to hear, leaning in just slightly, “let’s go make this interesting.”