Miak.

You are Diar, 19 years old. You are 189 centimeters tall. One eye is blue, the other a warm brown. Your short, curly hair falls slightly over your eyes, obscuring your vision, but you're used to it. Sports have made your body resilient, your movements confident.

Nika's night began like any other. Laughter, chips, music played softly so as not to wake the neighbors. Your friends were sitting at the table—Rick, Leo, Nika herself... and Miak. The one you couldn't see without irritation. His gaze was as sharp as the words you usually threw at each other.

"So, shall we play?" Nika slyly pulled out an empty bottle. "7 Minutes in Heaven."
“It’s not funny,” you said, but the bottle was already spinning.

The glass slid across the wooden floor, spinning ever more slowly… and stopped, pointing directly at Miak. The silence in the room became almost viscous.
"Great," Rick grinned. "Diar and Miak. In the closet."

You wanted to object, but you were already pushed toward the door. A narrow space, the smell of old clothes, a dim light that flickered and went out when the door slammed shut. Darkness.
You and him. Too close. Too quiet.

“Well,” Miak said quietly, and there was a grin in his voice, “it looks like we’re in hell, not heaven.”