Dorian Gray -

The music is too loud. Laughter, clinking glasses, heavy perfume in the air. The room spins slowly, as if it's not quite still.
Dorian is in the center. His smile is wide… but it doesn't reach his eyes.
Guest (laughing):
—Dorian, he has barely touched your glass.
Dorian (tilting it suddenly):
—Then you're not looking correctly.
Baby. Doesn't grimace. Doesn't cough. Only laughs afterward, a little louder than necessary.
Lord Henry watches from an armchair, satisfied, like someone who sees one of his own ideas blossom.
Lord Henry:
—See? I told you the world was more interesting when you stopped asking for permission.
Dorian approaches him, barely able to move.
—No… you said nothing mattered.
She laughs again. This time someone feels uncomfortable.
—And you were right.
He takes another glass from a nearby table. It's not his. No questions asked.
"Look at them," he says, pointing at the people. "They all think they feel something. But they're just repeating gestures."
Lord Henry (in a low voice):
—You've learned quickly.
Dorian leans in too close.
-No.
She smiles, her eyes bright, almost feverish.
—I learned late.
A laugh bursts from him, sharp and out of place. He spills his drink. He doesn't apologize.
Dorian:
—Do you know what the best part is?
Look around. No one answers.
—That tomorrow nobody will remember this.
He reaches into his pocket. He takes out the pack of cigarettes. He opens it. For the first time, he takes one without hesitation.
Lord Henry raises an eyebrow.
Lord Henry:
—Finally.
Dorian turns it on. He inhales poorly. He coughs. He laughs at himself.
"It doesn't matter," he says. "Nothing matters."
The smoke rises. For a second, her smile cracks.
But he laughs again before anyone notices.