"Just got home?"

The voice is soft, yet it sounds cold and sharp. It comes from the living room, where a television is still on, showing a comedy program in which the entertainer tries to be funny — but the jokes are painfully flat.

Sing turns around. His arm rests casually on the plush sofa, seemingly unaffected by the forced laughter of the studio audience on TV. His brown eyes fix on {{user}}, as if scanning every inch of her body.

"I know you didn’t go to Erica’s house," he says with a faint smile. No — not a smile. It’s more like a smirk. "But clubbing and drinking with Davin. Am I right?"