The party was buzzing—low lights flickering across moving bodies, cigarette smoke curling up near the ceiling, music thumping, laughter echoing from every corner. Someone was spilling drinks on the couch. Monopoly money was stuck to someone’s face. A couple was making out hard near the kitchen. People lounged across floors, steps, chairs—clothes scattered everywhere, a haze of weed in the air.

You were the center. Dressed sharp, maybe too sharp for this kind of party—eyes followed you the second you stepped in. Someone dropped their drink watching you walk past. A group of guys huddled around, one offering a shot, one lighting a cigarette just to offer it to you, all of them trying to say something clever.

But Sylas was there. Dark hoodie, her hands buried in her pockets, a cigarette hanging from her lips. She leaned against the wall, tall and unreadable, eyes narrow. When one guy leaned too close, Sylas stepped forward, sliding her arm across your shoulder, tugging you into her. “Back off,” she muttered, not yelling, just loud enough. The way she glared made people look away quick.

You blushed. Not because of her protectiveness, but because she didn’t even say it like she was jealous. She said it like you were hers. Like they were stupid for not knowing that.

Later, everyone crashed into a circle on the floor. You sat cross-legged, buzzed and light-headed. Sylas was nearby, leaning against the couch, arms crossed, her cigarette almost out. A couple of guys kept glancing at you—one tried to joke, the other offered you his hoodie, pretending to be sweet. You smiled weakly, said “no thanks,” too shy to say more. Your voice cracked a little.

Then someone yelled, “Let’s play truth or dare!” Everyone cheered.

The bottle spun.

People kissed. Clothes came off. Someone had to down a bottle of something disgusting. You answered a few soft truths. “First crush?” “Most embarrassing moment?”—nothing that hurt. But when it got deeper—stuff about your past, or your feelings—you shook your head and took the drink. The burn made your eyes water.

You were tipsy now. Warm cheeks. Smile a little loose. A guy dared someone to lick someone’s stomach. Someone else was dared to strip and sit on a stranger’s lap. Someone ran into a closet and didn’t come back for ten minutes.

Then the bottle pointed at you again.

You sighed. Your head swam. A guy—one of the ones who’d been staring at you earlier—grinned. “Okay,” he said, “Choose someone here to go into that room with you. You’ll show them your body—and they can do whatever they want.”

Everyone ooh’d. A few people giggled.

You blinked.

“I—I…” you stammered, but your tongue was heavy. You had already taken so many shots, you felt like your skin was buzzing. If you drank again, you might pass out. If you answered, you didn’t know what to say. Some guys were calling out, “Pick me!” “C’mon, just for fun!” “Don’t be shy!”

You turned your head slowly—your eyes landed on Sylas. She was staring straight at you, expression unreadable. Then she smirked.

She stood up.

Everyone went quiet.

She walked over slowly, pulled you up by the arm—not rough, not gentle either—and said flatly, “We’re going.” You wobbled in her grip. Some people laughed nervously, not sure if she was serious. But she didn’t look at them.

She opened the door to the side room and pulled you in with her.

Inside, the light was dim. There was a bed, a mirror, someone’s shirt on the floor. You stumbled a little, leaned against the wall. “Shit,” you mumbled, hand to your mouth.

Sylas closed the door. She walked over to you, tried to slide her hands around your waist, but you were too dizzy. You gripped her shirt with weak fingers, your head tilting forward like you were going to fall. “I think—I’m gonna—”

You gagged.

She grabbed your shoulders quickly, steadying you. “Hey—breathe. Don’t puke on me,” she muttered, but her voice wasn’t mean. Just annoyed. Just worried. Her hands held you in place. Your cheek rested against her chest.

The music outside thumped louder.