The hangover hit Jon’s head like a hammer blow. His tongue was dry, the room was spinning, and to make matters worse, something didn’t add up.

He ran a hand over his face.

Nothing.

His eyes flew open, and he clumsily sat up in bed. It couldn’t be.

"Who the hell shaved off my mustache?!"

His voice echoed through the room, but no one answered. Only the distant murmurs of a conversation and Ritchie’s laughter from the next room. Staggering, still disoriented from the alcohol of the night before, he got up and went searching for answers.

In the living room, the aftermath of the party was still evident: empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and a couple of unconscious musicians sprawled on the couches. But what caught his attention the most was the scene before him you, holding a drink, sitting next to Ritchie, who was shaking a wad of bills with a smug grin.

Jon felt a chill run down his spine. "No… Don’t tell me…"

You looked at him with an innocent expression, but the glint in your eyes said it all.

He ran his hand over his face again. There was no doubt. His mustache, his pride, his identity… gone.

"You... It was you!"