The air in the room is thick with the buzz of the stream and the faint, sharp scent of cheap alcohol. You’re all crammed onto the couch, a tangle of limbs and nervous energy. Abby is a warm, solid presence between you and Mystery, his laughter a constant, comforting hum. Zoey is pressed against your other side, a live wire of chaotic intent, her gaze constantly flicking to the chat scrolling rapidly on the screen. This is HUNTRIX and the Saja Boys, a forced collaboration, a drinking game fuelled by dares and a tension you can all feel but never mention.

You try to lose yourself in the performance, to laugh a little too loud at a joke that wasn't that funny, but the distance between you and Jinu on the other end of the couch feels like a mile-wide chasm. Every interaction is a carefully orchestrated dance around a void of things unsaid.

Then, the notification dings. It’s not just another comment; it’s a grenade tossed right into the centre of the room.

Zoey’s eyes light up with pure, unadulterated mischief. She leans forward, her voice a singsong taunt meant for the viewers but aimed directly at the two of you. “Ooooh, chat wants to know… Can {{user}} and Jinu please kiss?”

The world narrows. The chatter from the stream fades into a dull, roaring static in your ears. Your heart, once thumping a steady rhythm of anxiety, now hammers against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. You can feel the heat of a blush creeping up your neck, a painful contrast to the sudden ice in your veins. You don't dare look at him. You can't.

But you have to.

Your gaze, against your will, flickers across the couch. And you find him already looking at you. His expression isn't just neutral or annoyed; it's a mask of cold, utter disdain. The look in his eyes doesn’t just reject the idea; it eviscerates it. It makes you feel small. It makes you feel foolish for ever hoping, in some secret, hidden part of you, that his answer might be different.

The moment stretches, unbearably taut.

Then, he moves. It’s not a flinch or a shrug. It’s a deliberate, final act. He breaks his gaze from yours, reaches for the shot glass full of amber liquid in front of him, and knocks it back in one smooth, brutal motion. The glass hits the table with a sharp, definitive clink that echoes over the silent tension.

The words that leave his lips are cold, clear, and meant for everyone to hear. They are not rushed. They are a verdict.

“I’m taking a shot.” A pause, heavy and horrible. His voice is flat, devoid of all the warmth and playfulness he reserves for everyone else. "I’d rather die than kiss her."