Is that for here or to go?

((OOC:... FUUUUUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK I CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHY I HATE THE INTRO SO MUCH. THIS IS FOR SHATTER ME, IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A FUN STORY TELLING THING AND I CAN'T EVEN DO IT RIGHT))

The apartment is dark, lit only by the flickering blues of an old movie playing softly on the screen. The sound of rain pattering against the windows adds to the illusion of peace—false comfort wrapped in nostalgia. Euna sits curled into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to her chest, a blanket half-draped around her shoulders. She hasn’t spoken a word in hours. Just... existing. Just breathing. Just watching. And then— THUNK. The front door slams open hard enough to rattle the frame. Euna flinches. Lucien staggers in like a storm breaking through the calm. The sharp hiss of the fridge opening, the clink of glass. A beer. Always a beer. His footsteps are uneven, heavy. “Oh, there she is,” Lucien slurs, already cracking the bottle open. “Didn’t think you’d be just sittin’ here like a goddamn angel, huh?” Euna’s voice is quiet, too careful. “Lucien… hey. You’re—late. I didn’t know if you were coming ho—” “Don’t. Don’t start with that ‘concerned girlfriend’ act. I’m not in the mood.” He’s swaying. Eyes bloodshot. Voice sharp and unpredictable, the way it gets when there’s more beer in him than blood. “What were you doing today, huh? All alone at work with him?” Euna’s heart stutters. “Who?” she asks, already knowing the answer. “That pretty boy from your shift. Don’t play dumb.” He’s walking toward her now, fast. She stands instinctively, backing up toward the far wall. “Lucien, it’s nothing. I barely even talk to—” “LIAR!” he screams. His fist punches through the drywall just inches from her head. ((OOC: Kylo Ren Reference?)) She gasps, frozen. Then comes the crash of the bottle against the floor, shards spraying across the tile. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what you do behind my back? Wearing that tight shit, laughing like a goddamn slut—” And then he grabs her. Hands like iron. Shoves her hard into the wall. The wind leaves her lungs. “You’re mine,” he growls. “You remember that.” And just like that, he’s gone. Door wide open, night air howling in. Twenty minutes pass before she moves. She doesn’t cry at first—just stares at the floor, legs trembling, breath coming in hollow gasps. Then it breaks. Quiet sobs. Hands over her face. Tears soaking into her sleeves. Eventually, like clockwork, she gets up. She sweeps the glass. Changes clothes. Puts on lipstick like armor. And walks. The bar is low-lit and nearly empty, the way she likes it. She sits in the farthest booth, tucked into the shadows. The bartender—a man with tired eyes and a soft voice—approaches. She doesn’t look up. “What can I get you, miss?” “Red,” she whispers. “Something dry. Please.” A minute later, the glass is in front of her. She wraps her hands around the stem like it’s a lifeline. Takes one sip. Then another. But it tastes like nothing. Her mind is screaming, and also utterly silent. She watches the slow swirl of the wine in her glass like it holds an answer. But nothing’s there. Not even her reflection. Just... emptiness. “Tough night?” the bartender asks, hesitantly. Euna’s lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t come. “It’s always a tough night,” she murmurs. “I think I forgot what easy ones feel like.” The bartender lingers a moment longer, then steps away. And she’s alone again. Or—she thinks she is. But she feels eyes on her. Someone’s presence, close but quiet. And then— ((OOC: AND OHHHHHH BOY THIS IS REALLY WHERE IT GETS BAD 🤬... I think I should just scrap the intro entirely and restart it, mannnn fuck 💔)) You step closer. A shift in the air. The sound of shoes scuffing on hardwood. Her head lifts, slowly. Eyes red, but steady. Tired. Beautiful in the way wreckage sometimes is. A collapsed cathedral of a girl, still standing somehow. ((OOC: yeah, I finished this half with chatgpt. What you gonna do about it? I was desperate for ideas mane)) “…Are you here to stare?” she says softly, her voice like bruised silk. “Or… did you want something?” She doesn’t mean it cruelly. She’s just... gone. A candle burning its last inch. But something in her eyes flickers when she sees you. Caution. Curiosity. Hope? No. Too early for that. “You don’t look like the kind of person who comes here,” she adds after a moment. “So... what’s your story?” ZThere’s a pause. A long one. Then—z “...Sorry.” zShe blinks.z “That wasn’t fair. I just—forget how to talk to people. I forget a lot of things lately.” Her fingers tighten around the glass. She finally holds your gaze. “But if you’re gonna sit there... don’t lie to me. Please. I’ve had enough lies to last me ten lives.” And there it is—that quiet, broken invitation. A girl with ghosts in her chest and wine on her lips, asking you—just you—to stay.