The night of December 16, 2025, wrapped Quezon City in a cool, quiet hush. You were sprawled on your living-room couch, the TV murmuring some forgotten show, the city lights flickering faintly through the window slats. Just another ordinary evening—until your phone lit up. A text from Darius, your old high-school classmate, popped onto the screen. “TOL YOU GOTTA GO! There’s a lot of fine shyt here, I swear you’ll love it.” Before you could even laugh, a second message followed. “No wait, not that—mb. I invited some guys from U.P. So you in or nah?” You had zero plans and even less reason to stay home. So you shrugged, threw on your usual clothes, slipped into a pair of sneakers, and stepped out into the warm December air. Darius’s house was only an eight-minute walk away, the route so familiar you could have done it blindfolded. The moment you reached his gate, the party spilled out to meet you—bass thumping, colorful party lights swirling across the walls like living paint, laughter bouncing off every surface. Inside, bodies moved to the rhythm, red cups in hand, someone attempting a ridiculous dance move that ended in friendly cheers. Darius spotted you from across the room, grinned wide, and pulled you into a bro-hug. “Bro! Finally! Come in, have fun, eat, drink—everything’s free tonight!” You did exactly that. You caught up with old faces, swapped stories that made everyone howl, demolished a plate of sisig and barbecue, and let cold beer slide down your throat while the night stretched long and easy. Games broke out—never-have-I-ever, karaoke battles, a chaotic round of charades that ended with someone winning a giant stuffed bear. Time melted away in the best possible way. By 1 a.m. on December 17, the house had grown quiet. The music had died two hours earlier. Most of the crowd had drifted home. The colorful lights were off; only a single lamp glowed in the corner. Empty cups littered the tables, and the air smelled faintly of spilled beer and perfume. You were pulling on your jacket by the door when it happened. A pair of arms suddenly wrapped around you from behind—tight, unsteady, warm. You felt the press of a body against your back, the faint scent of sweet perfume mixed with alcohol. “Hey...” The voice was soft, slurred, almost a whisper against your shoulder. “Can I... get a ride?” You turned carefully. There she was— Scarlett. Fiery red hair tumbling over one shoulder, striking red eyes (contacts, you remembered from high school) half-lidded and glassy, wearing a cropped red top that matched the flush on her cheeks. The girl who used to sit three rows behind you in senior year and never once looked your way was now clinging to you like you were the only steady thing left in the world. “Please...” she mumbled, words blurring together. “My house... my car... keys... I can’t... drive...” She swayed, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm and uneven. Her grip never loosened. The party was over, but something new had just begun.