Chapter Text
The party was held in one of the hillside neighbourhoods where the houses stopped pretending to be homes and started acting like statements. The kind of place where the driveway alone could fit three cars side by side, where glass walls looked out over the city lights as if they had nothing to hide.
It belonged to the Han family, old money, quiet money, the sort that didn’t need banners or rented halls to announce itself. Their son had simply decided that Saturday night would be open. Music pulsed through the house in steady waves, bass vibrating through polished floors and climbing the staircase railings.
Someone had dragged a speaker setup into the living room, while others spilled into the kitchen and out onto the terrace. The air smelled like too many things at once: alcohol, citrus soda, fried snacks, and the faint bite of chlorine drifting in from the illuminated heated pool outside.
Drinks were easy to come by. Bottles of cheap beer sweated in open coolers, cans of flavoured hard seltzer stacked in the sink, and a half-hearted attempt at a cocktail station sat abandoned on the counter, plastic cups, sliced limes, and a bottle of something clear that no one bothered to measure.
On the dining table, trays of food were slowly being picked apart: greasy chicken bites, chips and dip, store-bought pastries, and bowls of candy that stuck to fingers. People grouped themselves instinctively. Some clustered around the couches, passing a controller back and forth as a fighting game flashed bright colours across the TV screen.
Others gathered on the floor, cards scattered between them, rules changing every few minutes as the alcohol loosened memories and tempers alike. Laughter rose and fell, sometimes sharp, sometimes forced, sometimes too loud for no real reason at all.
The pool area had its own crowd, shoes abandoned in uneven piles, a few brave souls dangling their feet in the water despite the cool night air. Phones came out constantly, flashes popping as photos were taken and retaken, stories uploaded in real time. For some, the party was less about being there and more about being seen there.
As the night went on, the atmosphere shifted in subtle ways. What had started as casual fun edged closer to chaos. Voices grew louder. Movements became less careful. Someone knocked over a cup and didn’t bother cleaning it up. Another person laughed a second too long at a joke that wasn’t funny.
Near the centre of the living room, two guys began roughhousing, shoulders bumping, hands shoving, laughter loud and reckless. At first it drew cheers, someone egging them on, someone else filming. But the space was tight, the floor slick in places, and the line between play and something sharper thinned quickly.
The music didn’t stop. No one intervened.
And somewhere between the noise, the lights, and the careless motion of bodies, the night tipped just enough for something to go wrong.
----
By the time the night slipped past its midpoint, the party had lost whatever loose structure it had started with. Conversations overlapped and tripped over each other. Someone had turned the music up too high and then forgotten why. The floor near the kitchen was sticky in patches, shoes making faint peeling sounds every time someone stepped away too fast.
A guy yelled something incomprehensible from the couch and was rewarded with laughter that felt a little too loud to be genuine. Nearby, a group argued over whether they’d already played that song or not, fingers smudging the phone screen as they scrolled. Empty cups gathered along windowsills and on stair steps, some tipped over, some half-full, none of them belonging to anyone anymore.
The wrestling in the living room had drawn a small crowd by now. It was still being treated like a joke, even as elbows started landing harder and the laughter sharpened into something competitive. Someone shouted for them to take it outside. Someone else shouted encouragement. No one actually moved.
People squeezed past one another constantly, hands brushing shoulders, apologies muttered or skipped altogether. The house felt smaller than it looked, like it was breathing everyone in and refusing to let go.
Someone moved through that congestion quietly, slipping between groups with a practised lack of presence. A plastic cup was clutched in one hand, the beer inside barely touched. She kept her head slightly down, navigating by gaps rather than asking for space, pausing when bodies blocked the way and continuing when they shifted. Her clothes hung loose on her frame, sleeves brushing against strangers without comment.
She passed the kitchen without stopping, ignored the call of someone she didn’t recognise, and edged along the wall of the living room instead of cutting straight through it. The noise pressed in from all sides, music, laughter, shouting, but she didn’t engage with any of it, moving like she was counting steps rather than moments.
Near the centre of the room, the crowd surged suddenly, reacting to the ongoing scuffle. Someone stumbled backward. Another person laughed and shoved them forward again. She adjusted her grip on the cup, stepping aside a fraction too late.
The scuffle tipped fully into something rougher. Laughter thinned out, replaced by sharp exclamations as the two guys shoved each other again, harder this time. One of them misjudged his footing, heel slipping against a damp patch on the floor. He windmilled for balance, failed to find it, and stumbled backward far too fast.
He crashed into someone behind him.
The impact knocked the breath out of her. The plastic cup flew from her hand, beer arcing briefly through the air before splashing down across clothes and floor alike. Bodies tangled, and then both of them went down in an awkward heap, the fall loud enough to cut through the music for half a second.
A groan slipped out of her before she could stop it, low, frustrated, threaded with irritation and the sting of embarrassment. Her shoulder ached where it had hit the floor, and something sharp pressed briefly into her side before shifting away. The guy scrambled up almost immediately, swearing and laughing at the same time, already being pulled back by his friends.
She stayed where she was for a beat longer, blinking.
The room swam. Lights smeared into indistinct shapes, faces blurring at the edges as she tried to focus. Her hand came up automatically, reaching for the familiar weight on the bridge of her nose... and found nothing.
A flicker of annoyance cut through everything else.
Her glasses were gone.
She pushed herself up onto one elbow, scanning the floor through the haze of motion and spilled beer. Shoes stepped too close. Someone laughed nearby. The music surged back to full volume as if nothing had happened.
Somewhere on the ground, just out of clear sight, a small glint caught the light and disappeared beneath moving feet.
For a moment, the sound of the party dulled, as if someone had shoved her head underwater. The bass thumped distantly, warped and uneven, and voices blended into an indistinct roar. Her ears rang faintly as she shifted, the floor cold and tacky beneath her palm.
Someone stepped too close. Another laugh burst out, sharp and careless, followed by a shouted “Yo, watch it!” that wasn’t meant for her. No one asked if she was okay. The scuffle had already reclaimed everyone’s attention, the brief disruption filed away as just another accident.
She pushed herself upright, blinking hard. The blur refused to clear. Lights smeared into halos; outlines doubled and slid past one another. It made her stomach twist. Her gaze dropped to the floor. The ground was a mess of shoes and shadows, dark patches where drinks had spilled, glittering shards of reflected light from something glass, or plastic, near the edge of her vision.
She crouched slightly, one hand braced against her knee, scanning carefully, squinting until her eyes ached. The music surged again, louder now, the bass rattling in her ribs. Someone brushed past her without slowing, nearly knocking her forward off balance again. She hissed under her breath, more irritated than hurt, and shifted closer to the wall where there was at least less movement.
There, something faintly familiar. A shape on the floor, thin and curved, half-hidden beneath a chair leg. Relief flared, brief and sharp.
She reached for it.
A foot came down first.
There was a small, unmistakable crack- sharp, brittle, swallowed almost immediately by the music.
Her hand froze inches above the floor.
The sound cut through the haze, clearer than anything else had been since she fell.
--pov change--
From the edge of the living room, the party looked like it always did once things went on too long: too many people, not enough space, and everyone pretending it was still fun. Music rattled the walls, bass pulsing through the floor and up her legs where she leaned near the doorway.
The air felt warm and thick, heavy with sweat and alcohol and something citrus-y she couldn’t quite place. She had been half-watching the game on the TV, half-scrolling through her phone, when the movement near the centre of the room caught her attention.
The wrestling had gone from stupid to uncomfortable a while ago. Shoulders slammed harder. Someone laughed too loud, too fast.
Then it tipped.
One of them stumbled backward, arms flailing, and crashed into someone behind him. A cup flew. Liquid splashed dark across fabric and floor. Both bodies went down in a messy sprawl that drew a quick burst of noise, shouts, laughter, a couple of halfhearted “Oh shit”s, before the room swallowed it again.
Her eyes followed the aftermath instead of snapping back to her screen.
The guy scrambled up almost immediately, pulled away by his friends, still laughing like it was nothing. The other person stayed crouched for a second longer, movements slower, more careful. She watched them blink, one hand coming up to their face, and then falter.
Something small slid across the floor as feet shifted. A faint glint caught the light near the chair leg.
She frowned, attention narrowing.
The crowd didn’t slow. Someone stumbled past, nearly kicking over an empty cup. Another person stepped sideways, heel coming down hard.
Crack-
The sound was quiet but wrong, sharp in a way that didn’t belong to plastic or music or laughter. It made her flinch.
She looked down just in time to see a thin frame twisted under a shoe, bent at an angle it shouldn’t have been.
Her stomach dropped.
Without really thinking about it, she pushed off the couch and stepped forward, already weaving through bodies, eyes fixed on the floor where the other person had frozen mid-reach. She stepped forward slowly, weaving through the careless crush of feet and swaying bodies.
Music and laughter washed over her, but her focus narrowed to the floor, to that thin glint under the chair leg.
The fallen person didn’t move, save for a slight shift of a shoulder, frozen with her hand hovering inches above the spilled mess. Her hair fell forward as she leaned slightly, a faint blur of red in the chaotic lights.
She crouched down carefully: careful not to bump anyone else, careful not to startle the frozen figure. Fingers brushed against the smooth surface. The glasses were cracked along one lens, frame bent awkwardly, but intact enough to hold.
She lifted them gently, holding them out, weight balanced in her hands, offering them silently to the person crouched on the floor. Her eyes flicked up just enough to gauge the reaction, careful, patient, letting the chaotic world swirl around them without touching this small, fragile moment.
The frozen person blinked, finally aware of the hands offering help, but still didn’t speak.
--pov change--
The room buzzed around them, lights flickering off polished surfaces, music hammering through walls and floor. Feet shuffled, voices shouted, laughter ricocheted, an endless tide of motion. And yet, in the centre of it, time slowed.
She didn’t move. Just blinked. Her hand hovered over the sticky floor, the spilled beer soaking into the loose sleeve of her shirt. Her shoulder throbbed where she had hit the ground. Her eyes swam, blurry, refusing to focus. Somewhere, lights smeared into a haze of gold and red.
The other presence crouched before her, still and careful, fingers holding the broken glasses out. A faint citrus scent brushed past her senses, carried lightly through the air, and for a heartbeat it made her pause, confused, cautious. The glasses glinted weakly in the scattered light, one lens cracked, a tiny fracture line catching her blurred gaze.
Her chest tightened. She wanted to reach, she knew she should, but something stubborn rooted her to the floor: embarrassment, irritation, the sharp sting of being exposed in a room that didn’t care. She just stared, frozen, while the other waited patiently, unhurried, letting the chaos of the party swirl around them unnoticed.
The glasses wavered slightly in those outstretched fingers. She blinked, blinking past the blur, past the spilled beer and the sticky floor, and slowly, hesitantly, her hand inched forward to accept them.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they reached forward, brushing against the thin metal of the frame. The weight of the glasses felt oddly significant, heavier than it should have been, as if the moment itself had pressed down on them. She hesitated, hand hovering for a heartbeat longer, caught between pride, embarrassment, and the sharp sting of irritation that the fall, and the spilled beer, had left her with.
The other crouched there, still and steady, not saying a word, just holding them out. She could see the faint reflection of the overhead lights glinting on the cracked lens, and for a moment she wondered if anyone else would even notice. The party continued around them, someone shouted, a cup tipped over somewhere, bass thumped through the floor, but here, there was stillness, a bubble she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t deny.
Finally, she took them. Fingers closed carefully around the frame, lifting them from the floor. The touch was clumsy at first; the cracked lens pressed lightly against her palm, awkward, foreign. She pressed them back onto the bridge of her nose and winced slightly as the world snapped into sharper focus, too sharp, too sudden after the blur, but still infinitely better than before.
Her eyes met the other’s, briefly. Not directly, not fully, just enough to acknowledge the gesture. A flicker of something: surprise, gratitude, maybe hesitation, passed between them. Words weren’t necessary; they didn’t come immediately. The party’s noise surged back, overwhelming once more, and yet for those few seconds, neither movement nor sound seemed to matter beyond the simple, quiet act of holding broken glasses.
The other gave a small, patient nod, a subtle encouragement without forcing the moment, then straightened slightly, letting her retreat if she wanted. She blinked again, rubbed at the frame as if to reassert control over her own space, and muttered, quiet, clipped, almost defensive...
“...thanks.”
It was brief, awkward, and careful, not warm, not bubbly, just functional. And yet, somehow, it was enough.
She slowly pushed herself up, brushing strands of hair from her face. The glasses were back in place, even if broken, but her sleeve was soaked, clinging uncomfortably to her arm. She let out a low, frustrated groan, tugging at the fabric as if it might somehow release the irritation.
The other remained crouched for a heartbeat longer, then straightened. Fingers lingered briefly at her sides, hands empty now. A small, awkward smile tugged at her lips: tentative, careful, the kind that said she hadn’t expected anyone to notice, but she had.
Finally, her gaze flicked up, meeting the strangers for the briefest second.
“...thanks,” she said again, clipped, soft, almost as if she were surprised the words had left her mouth.
Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode toward the kitchen. A full beer still waited on the counter; she grabbed it, twisting the cap off with a muted pop. She took a long, slow sip right there, letting the cold liquid wash down the tight knot of annoyance that had built up.
Then she moved on again, toward the terrace. The night air hit her immediately, sharp and sweet, carrying the faint scent of citrus from nearby drinks and the city below. She inhaled deeply, letting her shoulders drop, letting the irritation roll off her with the breeze. The music and shouting from inside became distant, almost irrelevant.
The other watched for a moment, still lingering near the edge of the kitchen, before letting herself be swallowed again by the chaos of the party. A faint tension hung in the space between them, unspoken, fragile, yet lingering, like a quiet promise that neither fully understood yet.
--pov change--
From across the room, she caught sight of the tall, quiet girl with the broken glasses slipping away from the kitchen. Loose sleeves dragged over one arm, hair falling in a tangled wave as she moved toward the terrace. She didn’t hurry, didn’t make a scene, just walked with the kind of fluid, unnoticed grace that made her seem out of place in the chaotic mess of the party.
Something about the way she moved caught her attention. Maybe it was the small cloud of stillness she carried in the midst of noise, or the faint red glint of her hair in the dim lights. Maybe it was curiosity, or the simple human urge to see if someone needed help... or just company.
She hesitated a beat, watching the tall girl’s back disappear through the glass doors. Then, almost instinctively, she followed, weaving between clusters of oblivious partygoers, careful not to bump into anyone. The music thumped too loud, voices cut across the floor, and lights flickered across the polished surfaces, but outside, the terrace promised a quiet pocket, a space where the city air carried away the pressure of the crowded, messy room.
She stepped out behind her, cautious, letting a few meters of distance keep things comfortable. From here, she could watch without intruding, notice the way the other inhaled deeply, shoulders finally loosening in the fresh air.
It wasn’t bold, it wasn’t brave, it was just careful attention. And somehow, that small choice to follow felt more important than anything happening inside.
--pov change--
The terrace air hit her like a relief, sharp and cool against the sweat and warmth of the crowded house. She stepped forward, letting her back rest against the stone wall, shoulders pressing into the solid surface, as if the weight of the party could be shrugged off there.
Her sleeve was still damp, sticky against her skin, and she tugged at it, muttering under her breath. “…stupid…messy…idiots,” she hissed, voice low and clipped, more for herself than anyone else. A deep exhale followed, fogging faintly in the cold night air.
She didn’t hear the soft shift of the door sliding open behind her at first. She didn’t care. She didn’t need anyone here. She had no reason to glance back.
Then came a voice, light, hesitant:
“I’m Zoey, by the way.”
Something about the tone, the small inflection, careful and unassuming, pulled her attention back. She turned her head, sharply but silently, eyes narrowing through the dim light. A girl stood there, small, careful, with the faintest awkward smile tugging at her lips. Her posture wasn’t bold, wasn’t intruding... it was just... present.
Mira blinked once, a flicker of surprise passing through the sharp line of her expression. She hadn’t expected the interruption. Hadn’t expected anyone to follow her out here. And yet, somehow, there she was.