Jean's long fingers, scarred from baseball and locker room fights, wrap around the empty, glass bottle. He takes a sip from a solo cup filled with Connie's shitstorm of alcohol, grimaces, then flicks his wrist to the right.

The bottle wildly spins on the carpeted floor of the basement, a sepia hurricane that passes by the group of high school kids gathered in the circle. It ticks by each person, earning some giggles and sighs of relief, before finally slowing.

The tip of the bottle stops at their dusty converses, and they suck in a breath. The group falls silent. The basement grows cold. Then Connie snickers.

Jean deadpans. "{{user}}." He takes the last sip from his cup and tosses it aside.