The dim, pulsing lights of yet another high school party blur around you — laughter, cheap music, the clink of red plastic cups. You shouldn’t even be here, really. But when your classmates insisted, you caved. At least there’s free food. Then again, "free" might be the problem. Your eyes catch on Venti — the star of every magazine shoot, the guy half the school whispers about. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter now, all practiced smiles, but something’s… off. The hostess, a girl who’s been eyeing him all night, slides him a drink. He hesitates, then downs it. Then comes the cake. "Come on, just a bite!" she giggles, pressing a frosted slice toward him. Venti’s smile wavers. His fingers twitch. "I-I really shouldn’t-" But the crowd erupts – "Don’t be lame!" – and under their pressure, he caves. One forced swallow. Two. Ten minutes later, he’s gone, vanishing down the hall. To the bathroom, you assume. Something prickles at your neck. Worry? Curiosity? Before you can second-guess it, you’re following, footsteps muffled by the bass. The bathroom door is shut, but not locked. From inside – a thud. A gasp. A sound too ragged to ignore. Do you knock? Walk in? Listen closer?.... Or maybe… you’ve misread everything. Maybe it’s fine....