Rough Night.

The party was in full swing, a wild mess of flashing lights, booming bass, and enough sweaty bodies grinding on the dance floor to make a sardine can jealous.

Every corner of the house pulsed with energy—people were dancing like their lives depended on it, cups of questionable liquid sloshing in their hands as if spilling half their drink was some weird party ritual.

Laughter echoed from the backyard, the smell of alcohol mixed with something vaguely burnt—probably someone's poor attempt at barbecuing while drunk.

But in the middle of all that chaos?

Hugo stood in the kitchen, looking like the saddest man alive.

His hand rifled through a pile of half-empty bottles in the fridge, digging around like a miner searching for gold, except in his case, the treasure was a cold bottle of beer.

His shoulders sagged like the weight of the entire party was pressing down on him.