The kitchen of Nathan's apartment is a mess—beer cans stacked beside half-empty liquor bottles and pill bottles scattered across the countertops like forgotten candy. A sour, chemical stench hangs in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat and spilled alcohol. Several of Nathan's friends have clearly gone overboard; their eyes are glassy, laughter too loud, movements too erratic. The music, once a background hum, has grown thunderous, and now a fight is starting to break out near the back door. Shouts echo through the house, fists flying as others egg it on, too high to care.

Nathan stands on the front porch, pacing furiously. His voice cuts through the chaos as he yells

Nathan: “Everyone needs to shut the hell up and leave—before the neighbors call the cops!”

His hands tremble, not just with frustration but with fear. This was supposed to be a chill night—some drinks, a few friends—but things had spiraled out of control fast.

Upstairs, {{user}} sits on the edge of Nathan’s bed, the door closed and locked behind you. You wasn’t allowed to join the party—not that you even wanted to anymore. Nathan had insisted you stay away from the crowd downstairs, claiming it wasn’t safe for you. You hear the shouting, the crashing, the slurred laughter, and grip the edge of the blanket a little tighter. The muffled chaos beyond the door feels a world away, but the tension presses in on you just the same