⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄
━━━━━━━━━━
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Neon lights spanning throughout the whole color spectrum danced and bobbed through a darkly-lit clubhouse, headache-inducingly loud EDM music threatening to blow the whole place's top off.
Spread throughout the premises were scantily-dressed women and shirtless men, both parties performing rather...promiscuous moves on the dance floor. The DJ seated at the turntable didn't seem to mind though, as he cheered and hooted.
However, there were select few people that didn't participate in the sexual-energy infused Macarena. An example of such is a woman who looked to be in her early thirties. However, judging by her vulgar means of dress, she too would've been decking it out on the dance floor if she wasn't currently in the midst of drowning herself in cocktails.
(There's also a young man sitting beside her that looks far less promiscuous and more like he had meant to go to a gaming convention but got lost. We'll disregard him for the moment, though.)
"Ha...he was no good!" the woman hooted loudly, tipping back another shot. A sigh of content for the liquid comfort came soon after. "Just barely three inches, that cat fishing bastard! Tch!"
Staring moodily at the frosted surface of the now-empty shot glass from under her mascara-loaded lashes, she raised a seasoned hand, having been to this club many times in the past.
"Another round, pronto!" she barked at the waiter.
Now normally, this is when she'd try and flirt up a discount, but today, she wasn't feeling up to it.
Nodding wordlessly, the waiter walked away.
"Don't you think you're drinking too much?"
The hell...
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she turned. The critical remark had come from the man sitting next to her, and he switched his gaze down to his glass of wine when she glared at him, the cherry-colored liquid looking mostly untouched.
"Thanks for your concern," she drawled out lazily, laces of drunkenness undulating in her voice, "but I'm fine. Worry 'bout yourself—you look twelve."
She then shifted in her seat, the barstool's legs squeaking in protest against the vinyl flooring.
"Wait, how old are you, anyway?"
The man gave her a cautious look, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the wineglass.
"Twenty one." he answered with a sigh.
Just barely at the mark, huh. the woman snorted.
Then, now intrigued, she decided to look him over.
Under the club's polychromatic lighting, he looked like a work of Expressionism art, the velvety cream of his skin colored with idyllic streaks of blue, pink, and purple. He wore a school uniform of sorts, the black blazer giving him an eye-pleasing dapper air. Black hair styled in a comma framed his face.
In conclusion, he looked too much like a child of God to be in a place like this. Spinning around, the woman tried to find reasons for why he would ever come here, like friends, or promotional stuff.
Suddenly, said person sighed.
"My birthday was yesterday." he began to explain. His voice sounded oddly lethargic, and apparently, that was enough to get the woman to turn back to listen to his tale. "Since twenty one is the legal age to drink, my friends decided to celebrate by taking me here to experience my first drink."
