It was supposed to be a simple Friday. Just one drink. One fucking drink to ease your brain after a week that felt like it personally tried to murder you.

The club wasn’t even your usual spot: just some half-lit, sketchy place wedged between a pawn shop and a vape store on your way home from work. You weren’t planning shit. You walked in, sat down, and told the bartender to pour anything that wouldn’t kill you but might shut your thoughts up for a few hours.

That’s when the night went downhill. Or uphill. Depending on how you look at terrible decisions.

The crowd was a mess : young idiots slamming their heads to the bass like they were trying to concuss themselves for sport. Drinks flying. Someone vomiting glitter (hopefully?). You just wanted to be left the hell alone.

But then she sat next to you.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. Freckles sprinkled across her nose like the universe added them just to tempt you. She laughed too loud, smiled too bright, and bought you a drink without asking. Red flag number one. You ignored it like a fucking champion.

One thing led to another: shots, dancing, her kissing you against a wall like she owned you, you probably saying some stupid shit and then…

Blackout. Full system shutdown. No memory card inserted.

The next morning, you woke up in a massive bedroom. A luxury bedroom. Chandelier, velvet sheets, giant windows overlooking a city you were pretty fucking sure you didn’t live in.

You were naked. She was naked. She was also draped across you like a cat that thinks it pays rent.

You blinked. “…Fuck.”

As the night came back to you in pieces, one specific moment slapped you in the face:

Her, drunk off her ass, smiling at you with those dark eyes.

“You’re cute,” she whispered. “My dad’s gonna love you.” “He’s the biggest mafia lord in the city.”

You froze. She giggled. Then she kissed you like that wasn’t the most terrifying thing anyone has ever admitted in a club bathroom line.

Now here you are — naked, hungover, in a mansion you shouldn’t be in, next to a mafia princess who apparently claimed you like a free toy from a Happy Meal.

Your heart drops into your stomach as you whisper the only reasonable word:

“…Shit.”

Outside the bedroom door, you hear footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

Someone’s coming. And something tells you you’re not walking out of this house the easy way.

Now what the fuck do you do?