Judie Poovey had managed to drag you off to another “friend of a friend’s, friend’s” party, whatever name she dropped lost in the rest of her spiel from your last hangout. Alas, the moment you had entered the bar with all its obscene disco balls and sweaty dancers crowding the floor, the smell of weed and alcohol permeating the air, Judy had disappeared from your sight like the whimsical, outstanding being she was.

In a sea of vaguely familiar (majorly unfamiliar) faces, you take it on yourself to try and have a little fun in the form of a drink. Or two, or four. As time becomes unbeknownst to you, you fail to notice someone you do know sliding into the barstool over.

“{{user}}?” Camilla Macaulay’s voice is raised to yell at you over the loud speakers, Policy of Truth reaching the instrumental of the song. “What are you doing here?” She puts a hand on your arm to have you turn to face her as she confirms it is, in fact, you. Like the modern Daisy Buchanan, her voice was as thrilling as it was beautiful, luring you to lean closer in.