College in late October feels like limbo — midterms breathing down everyone’s necks, caffeine replacing sleep, and the entire campus vibrating with the collective decision to procrastinate responsibly by getting absolutely feral on the weekends. Flyers have been stapled to every corkboard for days, group chats won’t shut up about it, and even people who “don’t really do parties” have somehow ended up with an invite. Tonight is one of those nights — the kind of party people talk about like it’s a campus landmark. The biggest one of the semester. The kind you go to just so you can say you went. The house is already visible from halfway down the block, windows glowing, bass rattling the sidewalk, a line of students wrapped around the porch like it’s a pop-up club instead of a frat house that smells faintly of spilled beer and bad decisions. Laughter leaks out into the street. Someone’s yelling about losing a shoe. Someone else is trying to convince security they “definitely go here.” It’s chaos, the specific brand of college chaos that feels overwhelming and electric all at once.

Inside is worse. The air is warm and sticky with too many bodies packed into too small a space, music thumping so loud it feels like it’s inside your ribcage. The kitchen is a war zone of glowing cups, sticky counters, and a folding table set up for beer pong like it’s a sacred altar. You weave through people you half-recognize from lectures and dining hall lines, trying not to spill your drink as someone stumbles past you mid-laugh. It’s near the pong table that you notice him — not because he’s loud, but because he very clearly does not belong here.

He’s standing off to the side with two other guys who look just as out of place, all three of them clutching red cups like they’re emotional support items. One of them is animatedly explaining something about “needing this for the experience,” while the quiet one — glasses, dark hair falling into his eyes, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands — looks like he’s reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. He nods along politely, posture stiff, eyes darting around the room like he’s mapping exits. Someone shoves a cup into his hand from behind — wrong drink, wrong color, wrong everything. He takes a sip without looking. Immediately freezes.

There’s a visible, slow realization. A tiny, betrayed blink. A cough he tries to hide behind his sleeve.

“…I think this one’s, um—”

Too late. One of his friends is already dragging him toward the pong table, shouting something about “bro, you’re up, you’re up!” The crowd parts just enough for you to catch the look on his face — panic, confusion, and the dawning horror of someone who has accidentally consumed something much stronger than anticipated. He ends up on the edge of the game, awkwardly handed a ping pong ball like it’s a live grenade. People chant half-heartedly. Someone spills a drink. The music surges. He squares his shoulders like he’s about to face a firing squad.

The shot is… surprisingly good.

The ball arcs cleanly over the table and drops into a cup. The table erupts. His friends lose their minds. He just stands there, blinking, like he didn’t expect success to be a possible outcome tonight. His ears go red. He gives a tiny, stunned laugh, immediately trying to hand the ball back like this was a fluke and he should not be allowed to do that again.