The apartment smells like vanilla candles and her anxiety. Clara sits cross-legged on the couch in one of your oversized hoodies, picking at a loose thread on the hem. She's been quiet since dinner, that specific kind of quiet that means she's building up to something.

"So... um." She glances up, blue eyes doing that thing where they go extra wide and apologetic. "Kappa Delta has this... tradition. Tomorrow night."

Her fingers twist together in her lap. Outside the University Village window, palm trees sway in the warm Metropolis Bay evening. Somewhere down the block, a car blasts synthwave—probably someone heading to Club Neon.

"It's called Sunset Nights. It's been happening since like, the seventies? All the sisters go, and..." She bites her lower lip, that nervous tell you know too well. "It's at the Alpha Kappa house. In the basement. It's really exclusive and secret and—"

She stops, takes a breath. When she continues, her voice drops to almost a whisper.

"The guys... they can touch. Anyone who comes. It's consensual, obviously, but it's like... free-use? For the night?" Her cheeks flush pink. "Madison and Brittney keep saying I have to go, that it's how you prove you're really Kappa Delta, not just some scholarship girl playing dress-up."

She reaches for your hand, squeezing tight.

"I know it sounds crazy. But... I want you there. With me. Watching." Those blue eyes search your face desperately. "It's just one night. And maybe... maybe it'll be hot? For both of us?"

Her thumb strokes your knuckles, her smile trembling and hopeful and terrified all at once.

"Don't you trust me?"

The basement of the Alpha Kappa mansion reeks of expensive cologne, leather, and something darker—sweat and sex and old money privilege. Red lights pulse to muffled synthwave bleeding through the ceiling. Clara stands near the bar in a white slip dress that clings to every curve, looking like a sacrifice at an altar.

You watch from a leather couch in the corner as three Alpha Kappa brothers approach her—football players, all of them, sons of senators and CEOs. The one in the middle, Jake Morrison (his father owns half of Golden Shore), grins like a shark.

"Clara Hartley, right? Kappa Delta's newest?" His hand lands on her waist, proprietary. "We've been waiting for you."

She glances back at you, her eyes wide and glassy with champagne and nerves. Her lips form a silent "okay?" before Jake's other hand slides up to cup her breast through the thin fabric. She gasps, her body going rigid for a moment before melting into the touch.

"Good girl," Jake murmurs, and something in her face shifts—guilt and pleasure warring as his friend pulls down the strap of her dress, exposing her to the room.

Her nipple hardens under rough fingers. She whimpers, then catches your gaze across the room and holds up a trembling peace sign, her smile apologetic and ecstatic and breaking.

"She's fucking perfect," one of them growls. Clara's eyes find yours across the room—wide, pleading, terrified. Her lips form words: "I'm sorry." Then hands are everywhere and her apology dissolves into a moan she can't control.

Clara's breathing comes in short, desperate gasps. Her eyes never leave yours as they bend her over the bar.

"Watch me," she mouths, just before Jake pushes inside her and her back arches, a moan tearing from her throat that echoes through the red-lit basement.

Sunlight cuts through the blinds in sharp golden lines. Clara sits at the kitchen table in your t-shirt and nothing else, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee she hasn't touched. Her hair is still damp from the shower—her third since you got home at 4 AM.

She hasn't looked at you directly since you woke up.

"I made breakfast." Her voice is small, gesture toward the untouched pancakes on the counter. "Your favorite. With the chocolate chips."

There's a hickey on her collarbone she missed with concealer. Her phone buzzes on the table—probably the Kappa Delta group chat—and she flinches, silences it without looking.

Finally, she glances up. Her eyes are red-rimmed, whether from crying or lack of sleep you can't tell.

"Last night was..." She stops, swallows hard. "I don't know what I expected it to be. But it was... a lot."

Her fingers trace the rim of the mug, around and around.

"Madison texted. Said I was 'amazing.' Said I'm officially one of them now." A bitter laugh. "Guess I proved I'm fun enough, right?"

She stands abruptly, crosses to where you sit, and drops to her knees in front of you. Her hands grip your thighs, her face tilted up—desperate and pleading.

"Please tell me you still love me. Please tell me I didn't—" Her voice cracks. "I kept looking at you. The whole time. Did you see? I only wanted... I just wanted you to be proud."

Her lower lip trembles. Outside, the University Village morning continues—students heading to class, skateboards on pavement, someone's radio playing that same synthwave station.

"Can we just... pretend it didn't happen? Go back to normal?" She presses her forehead against your knee. "Or..."

A long pause. When she speaks again, her voice is barely audible.

"...do you want me to go again?"