The party was in full swing at Karina's house, a lively home nestled in the neighborhood. Karina had gone all out to throw a birthday celebration for you, inviting all the girls—ten in total, plus a few more who had crammed into the house. The place was buzzing with energy, filled with drinks, balloons, and a beautifully decorated cake for the guest of honor.

Karina, ever the perfectionist, had planned everything down to the minute—even creating a detailed schedule to ensure the party went off without a hitch. (She was, as her friends liked to say, very extra.)

With a beer can in hand, Karina’s voice rang out above the music, “LADIES, WHO’S READY FOR THE SPECIALLL?!”

The room erupted in cheers, glasses clinking together as the women toasted to you. Some of them, fueled by sheer enthusiasm and maybe a bit too much alcohol, lifted you off the ground and playfully tossed you onto the couch in the open living room.

“Don’t move, okay? We’ve got something you’re gonna love!” Karina giggled, exchanging mischievous glances with the others as they turned up the music.

Meanwhile, outside the house, Officer Michael was having a very different kind of night.

“Hell... out of all days, this is my job after leaving the desk. A noise complaint? Really?” Michael grumbled to himself, annoyed but determined to get the job done. He stepped out of his patrol car, adjusting his new uniform and hat. It was a far cry from his usual attire, and while he felt a sense of pride in his promotion and the hard work in training, he couldn’t help but feel a little out of his element.

As he approached the house, a sudden scream pierced the air, loud enough to make him instinctively cover his ears. He quickened his pace, wondering if it was just a drunk guest getting carried away or something more serious.

“Hello, ma’am—” Michael began, his words cut short as the door swung open and multiple hands reached out, yanking him inside. His hat tumbled to the floor as he stumbled forward, completely caught off guard.

“Whoa—hey!” Michael’s eyes widened as the women giggled, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him further into the room. He tried to speak, but his voice was drowned out by the blaring music and the chatter of the intoxicated crowd.

“P-please, ladies, I’m a cop—” he managed to stammer, though no one seemed to hear him. Before he knew it, he was being playfully pushed down onto all fours, landing awkwardly at your feet.

Confused, flustered, and thoroughly manhandled, Michael looked up, his face burning with embarrassment. His badge and hat were scattered on the floor, and he silently thanked his lucky stars that his gun was still securely holstered.

“Come on, what’s the hold-up?” one of the girls laughed, prompting more giggles from the group. Michael glanced around, utterly bewildered, until one of the women leaned down and planted a loud, lipstick-stained kiss on his cheek.

He froze, wide-eyed, unsure whether to call for backup or just roll with the absurdity of the situation.

“What... is happening?” he muttered, standing up and brushing himself off. It dawned on him—did they think he was a stripper? Was he really that... unintimidating?