The air inside the villa felt heated, trembling with restlessness; every bass drop lifted the crowd as if the floor itself were breathing. Some people danced wildly to the rhythm, others swayed their hips with lazy confidence. Laughter burst in the air only to be drowned out by louder cheers. A line formed at the drink station, hands raised high, holding colourful glasses, splashing streaks of alcohol that glittered like shattered sugar under the lights. People leaned into each other's ears to speak—one sentence followed by three laughs.
Some were pushed by their friends straight into the heart of the dance floor, as if thrown into a harmless chaos. The colored lights flickered nonstop, painting every face with a warm, feverish happiness. Footsteps, shrieks, phone flashes, hugs, alcohol and perfume—all churned together into one boiling mood.
Standing at the edge, Zola watched the entire room pulse like a beating heart—faster and faster, as if it never intended to stop.
Ethan was tightly wrapped in a girl's arms, practically pressed into her embrace. She clung to him, fingers sliding boldly down his back as if confirming every inch of possession. He lowered his head to kiss her; she met him halfway, their lips separated only by a breath. Ethan's hand slid to her waist, then a little further in, searching for warmth beneath the fabric. They were too close—every inhale seemed to come from the same pool of air, the intimacy almost spilling over.
Amid the flashing lights, Zola caught a sudden movement—a flash of the girl pulling Ethan by the hand, leaning toward the back of the crowd in invitation. Ethan glanced around with a half-lazy smile and let himself be led. Their figures flickered under the spinning lights, nearly fused together. The girl pushed open a half-closed door, shot Ethan a teasing gesture over her shoulder. He chuckled softly, braced a hand on the doorframe, and followed her inside. The door shut behind them, sealing out the noise of the party.
The music exploded again, lights dancing across Zola's face. She kept staring at the closed door, an inexplicable heaviness filling her chest. Emily, who had been leaning on the railing beside her, still hadn't left. Despite boys approaching her every few minutes—inviting her, flirting, offering drinks—she dismissed all of them with polite chill, like they were moths she couldn't be bothered to swat away.
Following Zola's gaze, Emily caught sight of Ethan and the girl disappearing. She let out a soft "oh," as if something had clicked, then lifted an eyebrow at Zola with a half-playful, half-knowing expression. Her smile was sharp yet strangely gentle.
Leaning closer, her voice cut through the music—low, broken into pieces yet unmistakably clear: "You're not used to it, are you?"
She paused, eyes sweeping over the bodies pressed together on the dance floor, the lights dusting her lashes like frost.
"This is a hunting ground," she said slowly, like stating a harmless fact. "Hunters and prey—roles switch all the time."
Then she looked directly at Zola, her gaze pinpoint, unwavering. "We are all hunters," Emily murmured. "And all prey."
Zola didn't respond. She lifted her champagne instead, mimicking Emily's movements—gently swirling the glass, taking two practiced sips. Bubbles burst on her tongue, but she couldn't taste any of the "layers" people talked about. She was simply copying—the posture, the poise, the effortless elegance she wished she had. She knew Emily could see through it instantly, but still she tried. It was the only way to keep herself from shrinking.
Just then, the lights swept over the room again, and Zola spotted a familiar silhouette. She blinked, staring harder.
CoCo.
Her makeup, outfit, and setting had changed, but nothing could hide that unmistakable red lipstick—so bright it seemed meant to be found. Without it, Zola might not have recognized her at all.
CoCo stood on the edge of the crowd, quieter than usual, even a little stiff. Her gaze never rested on her own space; instead, it clung desperately to Luca and Levi across the room.
Those two seemed born for the spotlight—every casual remark sent a circle of girls into fits of laughter. The girls orbited them like moths around a flame, their giggles rising every few seconds.
CoCo's eyes were full—yearning, nervous, hopeful, restrained—compressed into a single trembling line. She even took a small step forward, but quickly retreated.
That's when Zola noticed the two handbags hanging from CoCo's arms. Not hers. Clearly, she was carrying them for someone else.
Zola followed the direction of the handbags and saw Sofia leaning into Bella, laughing mid-story. Both women looked flawless, champagne glasses dangling loosely from their fingers, too entertained to glance back even once.
Sofia didn't spare CoCo a single look. No signal, no instruction, not even a "stay close." As if CoCo were nothing more than a functional accessory.
Zola's stomach tightened.
No wonder CoCo didn't dare walk over. With two bags weighing down her arms, she looked exactly like…
a personal bag-carrier.
For a moment, Zola felt a flicker of sympathy. But then she remembered how CoCo had treated her before, and she looked away.
Emily had been pulled off by a girl she knew, leaving Zola alone again. Exhaustion settled over her—not physical, but the kind that seeped in when a loud house suddenly felt hollow. She was surrounded by people, yet utterly alone.
She slipped away to the villa's back garden.
Night wind drifted through the yard, turning the party noise into a distant hum. The garden was quieter, moonlight resting on neatly trimmed boxwood and a dense golden-elm tree whose leaves rustled like whispers. The stone path still held a trace of daytime warmth, and the air smelled of wet soil and dew. At the center was a small hidden clearing, and an old wooden bench tucked deep behind the elm's shadow, like a concealed exit.
Zola sat, drained of strength. The house was so loud, yet the silence here was almost cruel. She looked up at the sky—stars scattered like unreachable cold sparks—and her chest tightened.
Then she heard it. A rustle behind the bushes.
First a girl's muffled giggle—too close, too intimate. Then a man's roughening breath, a rhythm impossible to misread.
The sounds were subdued, yet carried enough heat to slip straight into her ears. Zola felt a wave of nausea. Not at the act itself, but because In all this tangled desire and restless night, she suddenly understood: She didn't belong anywhere in this world.
The rustling stopped abruptly. A girl's stifled sobs replaced it—wet, shaky. And a drunken, angry muttering followed, thick with resentment.
Zola froze, spine tightening. She wished she could disappear into the tree's shadow.
Then—her phone rang. Loud, jarring, slicing through the hush.
The crying girl shot up, saw Zola—and her face twisted from hurt into fury.
"Were you spying?!" she screamed, voice jagged like broken glass.
The girl behind her—the one who had been crying earlier—tried to intervene. "Stop, she's not—"
"Get out of my way!" The drunk girl shoved her so hard she stumbled, nearly falling.
Zola stood paralyzed. The phone wouldn't stop ringing. She answered only because she didn't know what else to do.
"Zola?" Emily's voice—calm, cutting, sharp as a needle. "Where are you?"
"In… the back garden," Zola forced out.
Hearing Emily's voice seemed to ignite the drunk girl.
"Oh, her." She laughed—a cracked, ugly sound. "You two are the same, right? She can do it, but I can't? What makes her better than me?"
She stepped closer, the red slap-mark on her cheek glowing under the moon. Her eyes crawled over Zola's dress, her lips, her skin.
"Dressed like that…C-country girl…" Her tone curdled with venom. "You must be good at this kind of thing, huh? Bet lots of guys love your little 'exotic' look, right? Isn't that—"
Her sentence snapped in half.
Because someone stepped between them.
Emily.
She appeared like a blade drawn from darkness—controlled, icy, radiating an authority that dropped the temperature around them. Even the passing lights made her face look colder.
"Are you stupid?" she said flatly, addressing the crying girl's companion. "Why are you still standing there?"
The pushed-down girl jolted upright, scrambling to pull the drunk girl away. "We're leaving—we're leaving now!"
The drunk girl kept cursing, swaying on unsteady heels. During the struggle she twisted her ankle twice, but didn't dare direct a single complaint toward Emily.
Zola watched the pair stagger off—the drunk girl's makeup ruined, hair messy, steps chaotic; her companion limping, too frightened to slow down.
Silence returned to the garden.
Emily stood straight and steady, as if the entire altercation hadn't stirred her at all. But when she turned, her pale eyes were sharp enough to slice through the night.
She stood in front of Zola, not speaking at first—only looking, checking, making sure she was safe.
The night wind moved again, leaving only the sound of their breathing.
Emily finally lifted her chin, brushing away the scene as though it were nothing.
"Something happened inside," she said coolly. "That girl wanted to latch onto some guy—what was his name? I don't remember. Too many people tonight."
She spoke casually, flattening all the chaos into trivial gossip.
"Turns out Bella had her eye on the same guy. They argued." Emily shrugged. "Messy. So messy."
Then she looked at Zola, her voice softening subtly. "Let's go. If you don't like it, we'll leave."
Zola answered with a small "mm," exhaustion settling into her bones.
They walked back toward the villa. The noise swelled again, swallowing the earlier silence.
And then Zola saw it—a flash of a whirling skirt.
She stopped.
Mike.
She didn't know when he had arrived—maybe just now, maybe she had overlooked him. But there he was, in the center of the dance floor, dancing a shockingly bold tango with a girl.
This wasn't casual party swaying. It was controlled, intimate, electric.
His hand gripped the girl's waist with easy confidence. Her skirt flared with each spin, revealing long lines of legs and polished movement.
They were close. Too close. Their gazes burned like entwined flame.
Zola froze, as if someone had stepped on her shadow.
A soft sting bloomed in her chest—not jealousy, not possessiveness. Just a quiet ache at the edge of being pushed aside.
She thought she was special. She thought Mike's gentleness, his attention, meant something different.
But the Mike she saw now— smiling so naturally, touching so effortlessly— was simply like this with everyone. It wasn't exception. Not affection. Just his nature.
In that moment, she realised she wasn't the singular figure she imagined in his eyes. The lights swept across her again, and she lowered her head, trying to swallow the faint bitterness rising in her throat.
As Zola and Emily were about to leave, Mike suddenly seemed to spot her, pushing his way through the crowd as if drawn by a magnet. He stopped right in front of Zola, eyes widening theatrically.
"God, I saw you from across the room!" he exclaimed. "Zola, you look incredible tonight—like the only light in this whole crowd. Saying you stand out doesn't even begin to cover it."
Zola was a little embarrassed by his exaggeration and gave a small smile. "Sorry, I was just about to leave with Emily."
Half of Mike's smile disappeared.He lifted a hand to gently hold her arm—not forceful, but unmistakably unwilling to let her go.
"Zola, you always reply to my messages," he said, his voice dropping into a half-pleading, half-playful whine, "but you never actually agree to hang out with me alone. And now that I finally get to see you… You really expect me to just let you walk away that easily? No way."
Looking at his ridiculously handsome, unfairly charming face, Zola found she couldn't even muster irritation. She sighed softly. "I've just been really busy. I have to study. You understand that… right, Mike?"
But Mike clearly wasn't ready to give up. He turned to Emily. "Can I borrow Zola for a bit?"
Emily glanced between the two of them, amusement flickering in her eyes as if watching a tiny drama unfold. "Sure. But bring her back in an hour."
The moment he got permission, Mike lit up instantly, like someone had flipped a switch behind his eyes. Almost too eagerly, he intertwined his fingers with Zola's—ten fingers locked, familiar and intimate, as if this were something they'd always done.
"Come on!" he said brightly. "I want to introduce you to my friends." Zola was pulled along by his warm hand, slightly off-balance, unable to match his enthusiasm but unable to resist following him deeper into the crowd.
Mike brought her to a group of guys, introducing them one by one with great excitement.
To Zola, they all looked nearly identical—of course, that was from her c-country perspective. She couldn't distinguish them; all she saw were bright eyes, light-colored hair, and handsome white guys who looked like variations of the same template, only with different eye colours swapped out.
Zola grew shy, lips pressing together lightly. Mike's friends clearly picked up on it and immediately started teasing him.
"Oh damn, Mike, look at you," one laughed. A few more jokes followed, and soon they were shoving drinks at him, insisting he down them or be branded a coward. They slapped his shoulder, cheered, and didn't stop until Mike had downed several cups.
But the more he drank, the more excited he became.His eyes shone as if someone had turned up the brightness, and his smile kept stretching wider and wider.
His friends' girlfriends were there too. They were exactly the type of girls Zola secretly admired—tall, poised, perfectly made-up, the kind of women who carried confidence like a second skin. When they saw Zola, they smiled politely and complimented her outfit. The praise was genuine, but the friendliness carried a subtle, courteous distance.
Soon, Mike was dragged aside again, whispering with his friends in a tight huddle. The background music pounded so hard it made the air vibrate, and their shadows tremble.
The girls remained kind enough, but Zola still felt a knot of awkwardness tightening in her stomach. She didn't know where to put her hands, where to stand, or how to join either side of the conversation. She just wanted to talk to Mike—anything to feel a little less alone.
She took two tentative steps toward him.
As she got closer, she caught a low murmur from one of Mike's friends:
"…came with Emily? Then you'll have to pay for that."
The moment she appeared at the edge of their circle, the whispering stopped. Mike and all of his friends froze mid-sentence, as someone had suddenly hit a mute button.
For a second, the air tightened— a brief, sharp tension hanging between all of them.
The awkward silence was pierced like a bubble, broken by a sharp clap from one of Mike's friends. "I've got something even more fun," he said, his mouth curling into a grin that was deliberately wicked. "Let's play the paper-passing game."
He plucked a thin, almost translucent napkin from a server's tray, flipping it between his fingers, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"You know the rules—pass the napkin mouth to mouth. One round, then rip it in half and pass again. Can't catch it? Or don't dare to?" He laughed as if he already knew exactly what was going to happen. "—You drink."
Laughter exploded around them, and the air warmed immediately.
He was still being "kind" in the first round, but by the second he tore the napkin until it was no larger than a fingernail, thin enough to disintegrate with a single breath.
They formed a circle, alternating male and female. Zola stood between Mike and one of his friends. Light fell over cheekbones, lips, and collarbones, glazing everyone with a faint heat that made the atmosphere feel dangerously alive.
In the first round, when Zola held the napkin between her lips and leaned forward to pass it, her ears burned. The tiny square fluttered between two faces, so close that their noses almost brushed.
The second round was where it truly became dangerous. The paper was now so small it practically touched the lips. A boy held it delicately, and the girl tilted her head to receive it; their breaths intertwined, close enough to feel the warmth at the corners of each other's mouths. One wrong move and they would touch. Some couples even leaned their bodies closer unconsciously, just to make sure they "succeeded."
Zola's knees nearly gave out from watching. She wanted to raise her glass and admit defeat right then—
But Mike caught her hand.
In that instant, it felt like his fingertips carried a tiny spark, brushing against her skin. He lowered his head to look at her, his eyes too bright, holding something uncontained—something that felt like desire wrapped in restraint. A look that said, Please… just one step closer.
Zola's breath stumbled.
When the paper reached Mike's mouth, he slowed down deliberately. His profile under the lights was sharp and pale; the tiny piece of paper rested lightly between his lips, but his eyes never left her.
He lifted a hand to her waist—gentle, but firm enough to pull her straight into his arms.
Zola stepped forward involuntarily, almost pressing into his chest. She had to rise on her toes, her hands bracing on his shoulders. Her fingertips brushed the warm line of muscle beneath his shirt, and her heartbeat thumped so fast she thought it might burst.
Mike leaned down.
How close?
Close enough that if she lifted her head a fraction, their breaths would collide. Close enough that the paper brushed her lips, and his lips pressed on the other side. Close enough that anyone watching from afar would swear they were already kissing.
The bass vibrated through the floor; the whole world shrank into the small space between their mouths.
When Zola's lips finally brushed the paper, a spark shot through her entire body.
And Mike's eyes— looked ready to cross whatever line came next.
The napkin passed between them without falling; Zola succeeded easily.
But just when it was supposed to move on to the next person—Mike's male friend—the game twisted unexpectedly.
According to the rules, Zola should now pass the napkin from her mouth to Mike's friend. Which meant— Zola had just been on one side. If the game continued, she would have to press her mouth close to another man's.
Mike's expression flickered.
The next second, that tiny scrap of paper dropped— "pop"—blown off course right as it brushed Zola's lips.
It fell silently to the floor, but the impact was explosive.
The whole group froze for half a second.
Then— "OH——!"
Laughter and shouting erupted like fireworks.
"Mike! You totally did that on purpose!"
"Rule-breaker!"
"Drink! Drink! DRINK!!!"
People whistled, clapped, doubled over with laughter. Even the colored lights seemed to flicker with amusement.
Mike only smirked, looking like a mischievous child caught red-handed. He lifted both hands in mock surrender— a perfect picture of "Oops, my bad."
But Zola, being closest, saw everything clearly: there was zero guilt in his eyes. Only a suppressed smile— a hint of pride, and something that looked very much like possessiveness.
Of course, he didn't want the intimacy he'd just had with her passed to another man.
Zola's face flushed scarlet.
The chanting around them grew louder: "Drink! Drink! DRINK!"
Mike gave an exaggerated sigh, pretending resignation, but he wasn't resisting at all. He glanced back at Zola— fire, teasing, and a painfully obvious "you know why I did it" shining in his eyes.
Then he tipped his head back and swallowed the entire cup of liquor in one go.
The crisp tap of the glass hitting the table echoed like the beat of some dangerous, sweet rhythm.
Mike narrowed his eyes slightly, breath warming from the alcohol. When he turned back to Zola, the light caught a gleam in his gaze— intense enough to pull her in.
The game didn't stop. With every new round, the napkin shrank until it was barely a floating sliver of shadow. As the paper grew smaller, the group's boldness grew larger.
By the third round, someone shouted a new rule:
"No more drinking alone! The loser can choose two people—mouth-to-mouth shot!"
Cheers exploded.
The atmosphere shifted sharply— more heat, more daring, more playfulness that teetered on the edge of danger.
Zola felt a jolt of panic. She was already nervous, but now the paper passed so quickly she barely had time to react. It was too small, too fragile, dropping "accidentally" at just the right moments.
Some couples were practically pushed together— lips brushing cup rims, sharing warm alcohol between breaths— nothing explicit, but charged enough to make Zola's face burn.
Then her turn came with Mike.
And—of course—the paper fell.
It dropped lightly, naturally, perfectly. So perfect it made her wonder if someone had "let go" on purpose.
The crowd surged instantly:
"You two! Do it!"
"Mike, don't chicken out!"
"Zola's adorable—this is a win for you!"
Zola froze, mortified. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire.
She thought Mike would refuse— at least check if she was okay— But Mike just looked at her. And in those eyes, she saw a smile, mischief, and something deeper— a restraint stretched thin.
Shouting roared around them, lights flashing in glasses and eyes as anticipation rose—everyone waiting, hungry for something closer, riskier, sweeter.
Mike took a glass of liquor, fingers gliding along the rim as he walked toward her. Not fast. But with a purpose that made her heart pound wildly. Zola's breath tangled in her chest. She knew what was coming. She knew it was "just a game."
But it didn't feel like a game at all.
Mike lifted the glass, letting his lips brush the edge. He drank slowly, deliberately— as if showing her the shape of his mouth, the movement of his throat, the glint of wetness on his lips.
Zola swallowed hard.
He didn't approach her immediately. Instead, he set the glass down—then raised his eyes to hers. A look that asked, teased, and invited, all at once. Then he leaned in.
He came so close she could feel the faint heat of his breath on her collarbone. So close his chest brushed her shoulder, so close her entire body tightened before the liquor even reached her.
Mike held the liquor in his mouth, pausing a hair's breadth from her lips. Not a kiss. Not a touch. But so much more devastating.
He hovered there, giving her room to retreat— but his eyes told her clearly: He wouldn't stop unless she did.
Zola inhaled sharply— And the liquor spilled forward. A drop slid across her lip. Her body jolted. Mike's hand settled at her waist—steadying her, or pulling her closer. Zola lifted her chin, hands clutching his shoulders, stepping unconsciously into the circle of his body.
And then— she caught the liquor. Warm alcohol flowed from his mouth to hers— soft, charged, edged with the faintest danger. Their breaths tangled and overlapped, close enough that a millimetre more would tip them over the line.
Zola's heartbeat drowned out the music entirely. Her ears burned down to her neck. She couldn't even look at him. When Mike pulled back, a trace of liquor clung to his smile. He leaned close enough that only she could hear, his voice low and velvety, brushing her ear:
"Good girl."