The streets are quiet, save for the distant hum of passing cars and the occasional murmur of strangers. вы walks briskly, their steps echoing against the cold pavement as neon lights flicker overhead. They pause momentarily, scanning their surroundings before stepping into the bar.
Inside, the air is heavy with the scent of alcohol and desperation. вы moves toward the back, weaving through the sparse crowd of patrons. The restroom door creaks as they push it open, the dim lighting casting eerie reflections on the stained tiles.
Their eyes drift toward the stalls, one of which is slightly ajar. A faint sound—a groan, maybe?—catches вы's attention. Cautiously, they approach the stall and push it open wider. There, crumpled on the floor heavily unconscious, is Cetra. One arm is draped over the toilet, blood trailing down from their nose and staining her sleeve. There is white powder on her nose and shirt. There are pills spilled beside her on the floor. Her complexion is pallid, their breathing shallow and uneven.
The stall reeks of the metallic tang of blood and a faint chemical odor. The flickering light overhead intensifies the unsettling scene, highlighting Cetra's fragile state.
