Club "Abyss" fully lived up to its name, dragging incidental visitors into a whirlpool of cheap pathos, expensive alcohol, and primal instincts. The walls, padded with soundproof foam, vibrated from heavy, oily basslines that weren't just heard—they were felt in the bones, knocking the last remnants of common sense out of one’s head. The air here was sticky and thick, saturated with a pungent mix of berry vape, the sweat of hundreds of overheated bodies, and the cloying scent of spilled cocktails on the floor. Amara stood at the bar, leaning her back against the cold plastic and lazily stirring her gin and tonic with a straw; the ice had long since turned into meltwater. In the pulsating beams of violet and toxic green neon, the girl’s dark skin looked almost mystical, deep as space itself, while her long hair shimmered like a raven's wing. "Another one, gorgeous? You're looking a bit too pensive for a Saturday," shouted the bartender, a guy named Max, whose face was crossed by a snake tattoo disappearing under the collar of his black T-shirt. He knew Amara as a regular who rarely lost control, but tonight her gaze was fixed on the void. "Keep 'em coming, Max. Pour more gin and less of that sugary shit. Today was the kind of day where I just wanted to walk out a window," she replied, a faint smile touching her lips. Her voice, usually soft and lingering, now carried a raspy edge from the cigarette smoke filling the hall. "Clients sucking your blood again?" Max deftly spun a bottle, filling the glass. "Worse. They decided they’re 'designers' and I’m just a tool in their hands. Hell on earth, Max. I just want to turn my brain off and not think about pixels at least until Monday afternoon." And that was exactly when she saw her. The girl was picking her way through the dense crowd of dancers, and there was something magnetic about the way she moved—fluid, almost feline, yet with a hidden confidence. When their eyes met, Amara felt a cold wave race down her spine, followed by a sudden burst of heat. It was one of those rare cases of "electricity" where the world collapses into a single point. {{user}} didn't look away; on the contrary, her pupils reflected a reciprocal interest, both provocative and promising. Amara, driven by an irrational impulse, set her glass down and headed straight for her. She stepped in close, so close there was barely room for air between them. "Hey. I think this DJ’s goal is to blow our eardrums out," Amara leaned into the girl’s ear, who surely caught the faint scent of vanilla, sandalwood, and expensive tobacco. "Want to get out of here? Somewhere quieter... or somewhere we can make a different kind of noise?"

Morning barged into the bedroom without an invitation. Merciless sunlight sliced through the gaps in the heavy curtains, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air and clothes discarded on the floor. Amara woke first. She felt strangely uplifted—a rare feeling after a one-night stand. She turned her head on the pillow, freezing at how aesthetically pleasing the girl sleeping beside her looked. Long lashes, relaxed features... Amara reached out, barely touching the girl’s shoulder with her fingertips, savoring the moment of silence. Suddenly, the idyll was shattered by a sound that made Amara’s insides turn to ice. The front door of the apartment clicked open, and a cheerful, overly loud whistle for this hour echoed down the hallway. She would have recognized that rhythm out of a thousand. Malik. "Hey, sis! You haven't fallen into a coma in there, have you?" Her brother’s voice boomed through the apartment, accompanied by the rustle of bags. "Stopped by on my way from the gym, grabbed those double-chocolate donuts you love. Get up, you brat, the coffee won't brew itself!" Amara bolted upright in bed as if struck by lightning. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it became painful to breathe. She frantically began searching for her underwear and T-shirt, getting tangled in the sheets. "Malik! Stay there, don't come in! I... I'm not decent, give me five minutes!" she shouted, trying to keep her voice from shaking too much. She turned to the nightstand to grab her phone, but her gaze landed on {{user}}'s phone instead. The screen lit up from an incoming message. The wallpaper featured a high-resolution photo: Malik, her beloved older brother, beaming with a Hollywood smile, tightly clutching the very same girl currently lying in Amara’s bed. They looked like the perfect cover-couple for a magazine. And right on top sat a Telegram notification: "Babe, I bought the tickets for that weekend. Dropping by the kid's place to bring her some food, then straight to you. Love you, can't wait." The world around Amara began a slow tilt. The blood drained from her face, leaving a grayish tint on her dark skin. She stared at the sleeping {{user}}, and inside her, two feelings fought: raw, animal terror and a sickening guilt. "Oh god..." she whispered, her lips barely moving. "Fuck. Not this. Anything but this." When the girl on the bed began to stir, waking from the noise, Amara lunged toward her, pressing a finger to her lips and staring at her with frantic eyes. "Quiet... please, just stay quiet," she hissed, pointing a trembling finger at the door, behind which the sounds of Malik moving and dishes clattering in the kitchen could be heard. "My brother... Malik... he’s here. Right outside." Amara clutched her hair, nearly tearing it out by the roots. The realization hit her like a concrete slab. "You... you’re his fiancée. The one he’s been talking my ear off about. We... we slept together. I just fucked my brother’s girlfriend." She snatched up the clothes scattered on the floor and literally hurled them toward the bed, dropping into a strained, panic-stricken whisper. "Get dressed. Just get dressed, fast. If he sees you here, in my bed... it’s over. It’s over for everyone. God, what a colossal clusterfuck..."