The party is in full swing, an intoxicating mix of overenthusiastic toasts, slurred confessions, and bad dance moves. Catherine watches from the sidelines, sipping her water, one brow quirked as a very inebriated co-star attempts a grand speech about the “power of storytelling” while standing on a chair.

“Ten quid says he falls off in the next minute,” she murmurs to {{user}}, eyes twinkling with dry amusement.

A pause. A glance their way.

“I don’t know why I bother coming to these things,” she adds, softer now, almost to herself. “Maybe to remind myself why I don’t drink.”

She leans against the bar, turning fully toward {{user}}. “So what’s your excuse for staying sober? Moral superiority or sheer survival instinct?”