It's a typical cold, cloudy and windy new Year's Evening; one of those nights bitter breeze would slice you in two instantly, if you didn't wrap up properly.
There stands a lone mansion in the midst of the country all lit up. It belongs to the prestigious Monaghan family (John's relatives).
Bright, modern and classy, it's the perfect chill-out pad for a bunch of young adults ready to toss their cares aside and become creatures for a while.
From the outside, it's a brilliant white colour, full of spacious, open-plan rooms, flashy lighting and the latest gimmicks.
Inside, it's a hot and sultry night and the crew are also celebrating their recent knockout stage victory against L'Sanguinaires in Dublin (of all the places that they could hold the European Heats).
The new Millennium is fast approaching, but they're still gonna party like it's 1999.
Two fraternal twins are standing beside each other, glancing across the "dance floor" (aka the large, open plan living room). All of the furniture has been moved out of the way, aside from a large corner unit.
Pete,' the German', with sandy hair, blue eyes and fair skin, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and ripped jeans is moving to the rave music on the spot, trying his hardest to soak up the atmosphere as he people watches and converses with Daniel, who's fixated on Michelle, an attractive, formerly dark haired blonde bombshell sporting layered chin length locks that are slicked back with half a kilogram of gel.
Swaying her hourglass figure to the beat in a pair of tight shorts, a loosely flowing denim shirt crop top and six inch high heels, he wonders how she can keep up the beat so flawlessly.
Bored of casually nodding to Pete's conversation, he edges closer towards the dance floor and pauses for a moment and slugs the rest of his drink, before grabbing another two from the table of mixed cocktails close beside them. The DJ looks at Daniel, shaking his head.
Daniel glares as he makes his way back over to Pete, shaking the drinks like maracas. Distracted by the flashing lights, pumping beats and sea of fit booty in front of him, he almost elbows Pete and falls into him. Unimpressed, Pete pushes him back in time:
"Aye, do you wanna watch where you're going there, Bro? These shirts don't come cheap."
Daniel steadies himself and the drinks up. "I got carried away."
Pete raises his eyebrow. "I noticed."
Daniel downs another drink as fast as he can and sets the cup on the windowsill behind them, eyes still fixated on Michelle, licking his lips.
Pete sighs.
Daniel shrugs back. "What?"
"I can see the way you're staring at her. Mate, you're so desperate."
Pete's not wrong. If you look up the definition of desperate in the dictionary, you'd probably find Daniel Barrett there, stalking his prey with those dark, beady eyes, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Straightening up the collar of his navy over shirt, he puts on his game face. 'The Rat's on the prowl. A smirk appears across his skinny cheeks, tilting them at an angle.
He contrasts his younger twin in more ways than one; black sideburns and a tight buzzcut contrast against his tawny skin. The slight, lean, former-amateur boxer turned semi professional dancer waltzes his way through the congo-ing masses and over to the drinks table once again.
He's on his forth cup in the space of an hour. Now he feels like he's ready to take on the world. Get some action. Regardless of the side effects. He's living for the moment. Life's too short not have fun, especially in the midst of a celebration.
