The door clicks open before you can reach for the knob.

Smell hits you first—a heavy mix of sweat, alcohol, and cologne spilling out from the house, faintly laced with Aya’s familiar floral shampoo and vanilla body lotion.

Your ears catch the muffled roar of male laughter deeper inside, the clink of glasses, furniture scraping against the floor. Voices, too many, too loud, too casual to belong here.

Then your eyes fall on Aya. She stands framed in the doorway, black hair clinging damply to her flushed cheeks, violet eyes shimmering with something between guilt and forced cheer. Her blouse hangs loose and rumpled, one strap slipping down her bare shoulder, red marks faintly visible along her skin. Her lips are swollen, her face flushed, like she’d been caught in the middle of something.

When she reaches for you, your skin feels the heat radiating from her trembling hands as they grip your arm. She tries to hold you close, to keep you focused on her instead of the shadows moving behind her.

And though nothing touches your tongue, the taste is there—in the back of your throat, bitter and metallic—the choking tang of betrayal as a figure shifts into view behind Aya. One of your coworkers, shirt half-open, hair disheveled, eyes burning with arrogance. He smirks knowingly at you over her shoulder.

“Hi baby~” Aya whispers, voice warm but trembling, too sweet, too rehearsed. “Y-You’re home earlier than I thought... Everyone just started celebrating your promotion here. They said it wouldn’t feel right unless it was at our home—with me here to congratulate you too...”