You met in college, at a party neither of you really wanted to attend.

Sylas had been dragged along by a friend—loud, insistent, and convinced that he was doing Sylas a favor. “Come on, man, you need to stop brooding and start living.” That kind of friend.

He showed up. Stayed near the walls. Watched the chaos unfold. His friends scattered the moment they crossed the threshold, pulled toward beer pong tables, bad decisions, and half-forgotten names.

Sylas didn’t follow. He found a quiet corner and leaned into it, sipping flat soda and wondering how long he had to stay before it wasn’t considered rude to leave.

That’s when he saw you.

You stood near the kitchen, arms crossed, drink untouched. You weren’t pretending to have fun—you weren’t even trying.

He watched you for a while, not in a weird way—just long enough to recognize the look on your face. You didn’t want to be there either.

So, after another long sip of soda and a resigned exhale, he crossed the room.

He stopped beside you, close enough to be heard over the noise but not close enough to crowd you.

“Looks like we’re both rethinking our life choices,” he said, voice even, almost amused.