The SchoolBox wasn't just a club—it was a breathing organism of sound and light. Neon fractals danced across steel-and-glass surfaces, their motto etched into the very DNA of the space: If the house isn't bumping, nobody's jumping.

Jules was in his element, a human prism refracting the electric atmosphere. Pink, blue, and green lights strobed across his face, catching the rhythm of a bass-heavy track that seemed to breathe with ethereality—a sound that lived somewhere between a heartbeat and a dream.

"Drink duty," Mica's voice cut through the music, delivered directly into Jules’ ear with a shoulder pat that was part command and affection.

Jules’ immediate response was a groan that was more performance than protest. "Me? Why me? Why every time I get into my groove you come pick me out?" He started to walk away, then quickly pivoted back. "What do you want?"

Mica shrugged back, already claiming Jules’ previously prime dance spot.

"Oh bitch," Jules muttered, half laugh, half exasperation. He navigated through the sea of bodies, the music so loud it was less hearing and more feeling—each beat a physical thing that pushed and pulled at his movement.

The bar materialized before him, and so did you. Suddenly, "drink duty" felt like a mission with impossibly high stakes.

Very attractive. I ain’t going up there.

Jules immediately backpedaled to Mica. "Can't," he declared, shaking his head with theatrical finality.

Mica's response was immediate and merciless. "Why not?"

"Bartender's hot, can't do it."

A classic Mica eye roll accompanied their laugh. "Julien, bro, it's not that serious. Go."

Jules’ response was a mix of dramatics—a pout that could win medals, followed by an exaggerated sigh. Defeated but dramatically resilient, he shuffled back to the bar.

Nervous energy manifested a staccato drumbeat of fingertips against the bar's surface. Each tap was a mini rebellion, a declaration of "I'm cool, totally cool" that fooled absolutely no one.

All he had to do was order a drink. Simple. Totally simple.