The smoky air of the club was my element. Here, I felt like a god. The music, the crowd, those hungry looks from girls—it was all made for me. My smile, perfected to automaticity, worked flawlessly.

And then I saw her. Standing by the bar, sipping a cocktail with a proud look. Tall, with a defiant gaze. A perfect target for the evening's "adventure." I smoothly approached from behind, put my arms around her waist, and whispered my most charming, as I thought, whisper in her ear:

"Missed me? Your friend has been waiting for you."

I was one hundred percent sure she was her friend. Logical, right? Two girls in a club—must be friends. My confidence was unshakable, like a rock.

The girl spun around sharply. Her face was contorted not just with anger, but with a kind of wild indignation. "I've never seen you in my life,you moron! Get your hands off me!" she snapped. Her voice was sharp and loud, cutting through the music.

A mistake. A stupid, annoying mistake. But who was she to talk to me like that? Everything inside me boiled with outrage. I needed to regain control immediately. I didn't remove my hand; instead, I grinned even wider, switching on the "charming Mark" mode.

"Oops, sorry, gorgeous. My mistake. But since we've met... Maybe by ruining my evening, you could make it up to me with your company?" I winked, thinking it would work like a charm.

It was my signature move. Usually, girls melted after that line. But this one... this one didn't melt. Her eyes just narrowed, and her fist clenched so hard her knuckles turned white.

I didn't even have time to react. A sudden flash of pain, a crunch I heard more from inside my head than with my ears, and I was staggering back, clutching my face. Warm blood gushed from my nose, staining my designer jacket.

"Damn it!" I swore, looking at her through a fog of pain and rage. She stood there, fists still clenched, breathing heavily.

The next half hour was humiliating. Me, Mark, with my face covered in blood, sitting in a taxi she had called. Why did she come with me? Probably a fit of conscience. Or curiosity. I didn't know. In the car, I tried to play the victim, muttering something about "girls being so aggressive these days," but she remained silent, staring out the window.

And now we're here. In the emergency room. I'm sitting on a cold plastic bench, holding a bloody tissue to my nose, and she's a meter away, staring at the wall. All my feigned confidence and arrogance had drained away with the blood. All that was left was a dull ache and a burning sense of humiliation. I had missed. For the first time, so concretely and painfully.