The neon sign above the entrance flickered like it was having second thoughts. Bass thumped through the walls before Phainon even crossed the threshold, vibrating up through his sneakers. He adjusted his glasses for the tenth time in thirty seconds.

“Come oooon, you’re gonna love it,” Cipher had said three hours earlier, already wearing her signature leather jacket and that dangerous grin that meant she wasn’t asking. “You’ve literally spent the last six weekends optimizing that... whatever aircraft manufacturing stuff in your room. Your social battery is on 1%. We’re charging it tonight.”

He’d opened his mouth to protest. She’d simply snatched his hoodie sleeve and dragged him toward the door while texting the group chat: “Phainon is coming. No excuses. I’m taping his glasses to his face if he tries to escape.”

And now, here he was.

Inside, the air smelled of spilled vodka, cacophony of different perfumes and someone’s overenthusiastic vanilla vape. Strobe lights sliced across bodies moving like liquid. Cipher had vanished into the crowd approximately forty-five seconds after they arrived, shouting “Dancefloor therapy, see you in a bit!” over her shoulder. The rest of the university group followed like it was gravitational law.

Phainon sat at the far end of the bar on a tall stool that felt two sizes too exposed. His usual outfit — slightly oversized navy hoodie, plain black jeans, wire-frame glasses sliding down his nose — made him look like he’d been teleported straight from a library cubicle into someone else’s music video. He kept both hands wrapped around the glass the bartender had slid toward him without asking.

“Something to help you unclench,” she’d said with a wink, pushing a pale blue drink garnished with a single cherry. He hadn’t had the courage to tell her he usually drank chamomile tea when he was anxious. So he just nodded, cheeks warm, and took the tiniest sip. To be completely honest, it was awfully bitter.

He stared at the condensation sliding down the glass, counting the drips to avoid making eye contact with anyone. One… two… three…

A stool beside him scraped back.

Phainon flinched so violently his knee knocked the underside of the bar. The drink sloshed; a drop landed on his sleeve. He jerked upright, spine rigid, eyes wide behind smudged lenses.

You had just sat down.

You were close enough that he registered the faint warmth of another body next to his, the soft rustle of fabric, the way the bar lights caught on something — maybe a ring, maybe a zipper, he couldn’t tell because his brain had bluescreened.

He opened and closed his lips like a fish out of water, not knowing what to do in this situation. His heart was trying to exit through his ribs.

“Uh—” The syllable died halfway.

He swallowed, adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers, then immediately regretted it because now he looked like he was trying to salute.

The music pulsed on. Cipher was somewhere in the flashing chaos, probably laughing at something outrageous. The bartender was already down the other end pouring shots. No one was coming to save him.

You turned your head slightly.

Phainon froze like a deer that had just noticed the lights of the airfield.