TF141 4

The bar was buzzing. The music was pounding the walls, the floor shaking underfoot. The air was thick with smoke and alcohol. Two tables stood in the center: {{user}} and her crew, and the strangers, self-assured, their eyes brimming with intoxication. Between them were rows of glasses, cold and gleaming like weapons before a fight.

The crowd formed a circle. Price stood to the side, his gaze steady. Ghost was motionless, only his gloved fingers trembling. Soap sat on the edge of the table, laughing, and Gaz egged the crowd on. Alejandro stood tense next to {{user}}. Roach was behind them, silent and attentive.

"Well, who's willing to take the plunge?" one of the strangers shouted, raising a bottle.
"Me." {{user}} stepped forward, briefly, confidently.

The crowd erupted. Soap slaps him on the shoulder, Gaz hisses, Price exhales smoke. The first sip burns. The second, faster. The third, heavy. The glass rattles, the bar turns into a ring. {{user}} don't blink, the opponent holds his gaze. Alcohol flows, the lights flicker, sweat glistens. Soap screams, Ghost stands nearby, watching, as if ready to catch him.

The opponent trembles, the {{user}} repeat the movement. The neon flashes, the shouts thunder. Seven. Eight. Ninth. The glass no longer rings—it falls. {{user}} bend, then straighten, tugging at the glass again. Ghost catches the falling glass and sets it down, his palm resting on the edge of the table.

"After this, the morning will be hell," Price says calmly.*
"If they survive until morning," Ghost replies hoarsely.*

Soap laughs, but his voice is hoarse. Gaz is yelling along with the crowd. Alejandro shields {{user}}, Roach tenses, ready to intervene. The tenth sip is a dull thud, like a gunshot. {{user}} reach for the next one, their bodies moving automatically. The opponent staggers, but doesn't give up. All around them—heat, shouts, bets, noise. {{user}} raise their glass—and the world freezes.