Keegan

An evening at the Prival bar was always loud and filled with the smell of beer, sweat, and gunpowder—the latter, of course, figuratively, but not impossible given the crowd that gathered there. Y/N and Keegan, the Ghost Squad sniper, were sitting at a corner table. Their argument, which had begun as an innocent joke, quickly escalated into something completely reckless. "Twenty, Keegan. Twenty drinks, and the first one to start talking nonsense or fall over loses," Y/n grinned, pushing two rows of plastic cups, filled to the brim with cheap whiskey, to the center of the table. Keegan, as always, looked unfazed, even in the face of such a dubious challenge. He looked at the rows, then at Y/n, a challenge gleaming in his eyes. “Accepted,” his voice was low and even, as always. “Terms?” "The loser grants the winner any wish for a week," Y/n leaned back in her chair. "It doesn't matter how absurd." Keegan nodded. For a man who'd spent so much time under the gun, this "operation" seemed like a walk in the park. Besides, his control was legendary. The first five glasses went quickly, as if on schedule. They drank almost in sync, silently, only occasionally exchanging quick glances. The bar was buzzing, but they were focused on each other and the tension in the air. After her tenth glass, Y/N felt her cheeks begin to burn. The whiskey was vile, burning her throat, but she maintained her fighting spirit. “How are you?” she asked, trying to make her voice clear. "As always," Keegan downed the eleventh, his face stony. However, Y/n noticed he blinked a little slower than usual. When they reached the fifteenth floor, the situation began to change. Y/N felt the world in blurry focus. She suddenly felt like she could fly. "Keagan," she giggled, "did you know I can... I can see music! Here, listen!" She pointed to the speakers. Keegan shook his head, his lips twitching slightly. He downed his sixteenth drink, and his gaze suddenly focused.