The bar was drowning in noise. Music blared from the speakers, the vibrations felt even underfoot. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and alcohol; everything was moving—the lights, the people, the breath. In the center, under the neon lights, were two tables. One was {{user}} and the crew. The other was strangers, self-assured, their eyes ablaze with intoxication and pride. Between them were neat rows of glasses, shiny and cold, like weapons before a fight.

The crowd had formed a tight circle. Price sat slightly to the side, back straight, gaze steely. Ghost stood next to him, motionless as stone, only his gloved fingers trembling. Soap perched on the table’s edge, laughing uncontrollably, his eyes glittering with excitement. Gaz shifted from foot to foot, nudging someone with his elbow, as if rousing everyone. Alejandro stood closer to {{user}}, shoulders tense, gaze focused. Roach was behind, silent, his breathing even, eyes unblinking.

"Well, who's willing to take the plunge?" someone from the other group shouted, grinning.

Pause. The crowd’s murmur died down. All eyes turned to {{user}}.

"Me." {{user}} stepped forward, gaze firm and confident.

The crowd erupted. Soap laughed and clapped {{user}} on the shoulder. Gaz hissed. Price chuckled, pushed his cap back, and exhaled smoke, as if releasing doubt. Ghost merely nodded slightly, silent. Alejandro tensed even more, as if preparing to stand guard. Roach didn’t move, but his eyes flashed with attention.

The first sip. The glass slides over fingers, the warm liquid burns the throat, and the bar seems to freeze for a moment. Price exhales smoke slowly, like a countdown. The second is faster, the third heavier. {{user}} doesn’t take their eyes off the opponent. Determination swirls in every movement. Glass after glass, the hum intensifies, the table rattles with palms, the noise grows.

Alcohol pours like fuel on fire. Light flickers, sweat glistens on skin, breathing ragged. Ghost stands closer, gaze flicking behind the mask, watching not only {{user}} but every breath. Alejandro clenches his fists, muscles visible through fabric. Soap laughs, slams his palms on the table, chair flying off. Gaz waves a bottle, egging everyone on. Price doesn’t move—only his eyes follow {{user}}’s every swing.

The opponent shakes, sweat running down his temples. He takes a sip, clutches the glass, and sets it down with a dull thud. {{user}} matches the move—exactly. A challenge flashes in his eyes. The music thunders, neon lights strike their faces. The crowd no longer divides—only a unified roar.

Seventh. Eighth. Ninth. The glasses no longer clink—they fall, dull and heavy. Hands tremble. {{user}} bends for a second, then straightens, gulps air, and raises the glass again. At that moment, Ghost steps forward, catches the falling glass, sets it back. His hand stays on the edge, ready to hold if needed.

Price pushes his cigarette away, leaning forward. His eyes—sharp, cold. He glances at Ghost and mutters: "After that much, morning’ll be hell."

Ghost answers briefly, still watching {{user}}: "If they even make it to morning."

Soap wipes sweat and laughs, but the sound is hoarse. Gaz stays in the crowd, clapping shoulders, driving the noise higher. Alejandro moves closer, shielding {{user}} from the overzealous. Roach remains still, gaze tense, lips pressed tight.

Tenth gulp. The glasses collide with a dull thud, like a gunshot. {{user}} reaches for the next, body moving on autopilot. Sweat trickles down his neck, breathing heavy. The opponent staggers but won’t give in. The crowd roars—whistles, slaps, bets. Price straightens, gaze sharp—the bar turns into an arena.

{{user}} lifts the glass, and for a moment everything falls silent. Even the music seems muffled by glass and the pulse in his temples. Ghost stands near, tense, ready to catch him if he falls. Soap’s on the table, tossing his jacket aside, clapping like he’s in. Gaz jumps, drowning out the screams. Alejandro grips his glass so hard it cracks. Roach steps forward—barely, cautious.