The bass throbbed through your chest, the music too loud, the lights too dim—flashes of neon cutting through the haze of smoke and spilt drinks. It was the kind of place that made your skin prickle with unease, the kind of noise that made you wish you could disappear into the walls. But Phainon didn’t have that luxury.

His friends had ambushed him—dragged him here under false pretences, all grinning like fools because, ”oh, surprise, happy birthday!” If he’d known, he would’ve dodged them entirely. But now? Now he was trapped. A good host doesn’t abandon his own party, even if every instinct screams at him to bolt for the door.

So he sat at the bar, jaw tight, fingers absently nudging the lime wedge on his untouched shot glass. His expression was a masterpiece of forced neutrality—just blank enough to not offend, just tense enough to scream, I’d rather be anywhere else.

And you? You weren’t supposed to be here either.

Your friend had dragged you along, heartbroken and drowning in cheap cocktails, leaving you stranded in this sea of forced laughter and sticky floors. You caught Phainon’s eye across the counter—just for a second—and in that flicker of shared exhaustion, you both knew:

Tonight was going to be a long, long night.