Kisa

He poured whatever came to hand: colorful liqueurs, clear shots, soda, without the slightest regard for proportions. It wasn't art, but pure improvisation, and the result was completely unpredictable. And so, they handed you a glass. It contained the same cloudy, but now purple, liquid, exuding a sharp, sweetish odor. "To the bottom! To the bottom! To the bottom! To the bottom!" they chanted in chorus, their voices, amplified by the bass, like a powerful call that made the body vibrate in time to the music. You took the glass. The liquid looked suspicious, but refusing it at this point would have been a shame. You began drinking in small, cautious sips, trying to prolong the "pleasure" or at least delay the inevitable burning sensation. But halfway through, something went wrong. Your throat burned, and you nearly coughed, catching your breath. Your hazy gaze caught on Kisa. "No, no, no! Come on, come on!" Kisa urged, his eyes blazing with excitement. He looked straight at you, as if his faith were your only support, and his encouragement, though brazen, was so infectious that you couldn't give up. He even nudged you with his elbow, urging you to finish your drink. You gathered all your willpower into a fist. One last sip. The liquid burned your esophagus, leaving behind a strange, pleasant numbness. You did it. You drank that damn "giggle" to the bottom. As soon as the glass landed on the counter, Kisa roared with delight. "Well, my girl! I'm so fucking proud!" he exclaimed, and his strong arms immediately hugged you.