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  The Welcome Party, hosted in the university's main hall and surrounding student union spaces, marked the true beginning of student life. By now, first-year students had already signed up for clubs—some enthusiastically, some just checking boxes, some out of peer pressure. Most had not yet even met the upperclassmen or experienced the true pulse of campus life.

  This party was designed for that.

  An informal grand event, organized by the Student Union with the support of various clubs, to properly welcome all new students and celebrate the diversity of the university community. Each club was encouraged to participate to build a sense of belonging. The atmosphere was vibrant, a mix of carnival and concert, with stages, booths, food stalls, and some corners for people to escape to.

  Still, the party was open to all students, regardless of their club affiliations—a place to gather, to observe, to stumble into unexpected friendships… or drama.

  It was a night meant to turn strangers into something more.

  Mira stood in front of her mirror, frowning slightly at her reflection. She had let Camille talk her into it—a soft, flowery off-shoulder dress that fluttered slightly at the hem. Her silver hair was down for once, wavy and loose, a soft contrast to her usual tight ponytail.

  She had even put on light makeup, with a touch of rose on her cheeks and lips. The final, regrettable touch: high heels. She wobbled slightly as she tested them, cursing under her breath. Why did she agree to this again?

  Normally, she would’ve taken the stairs. She liked the exercise. “Green energy,” she always said, waving away the elevator with a smirk. Five flights weren’t much. It made her feel grounded, like she was earning each day with every step she took. No need to waste electricity for the sake of convenience.

  But tonight, the heels made that vow impossible.

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  Adrian had just stepped out of his room in the hallway, carrying something large and awkward in his arms. A long box, strapped down, filled with tools or equipment for the Rare Plant Club. He noticed her immediately.

  They exchanged a silent nod, and she gave a small smile. “Need help with that?” she asked, gesturing toward the box.

  He glanced at her shoes. “You sure?”

  Without saying anything else, she bent down and slipped off her heels with practiced ease, holding them in one hand. “Yeah, sure. Don’t mind me. These things are inconvenient anyway.”

  His gaze paused on her for a moment, a small shift he didn’t mean to show. She stood there barefoot in her flowery dress, completely unfazed, as if walking through the dormitory hallway like that in early autumn was the most natural thing in the world.

  He adjusted his grip on the box, making room for her beside him. “Alright,” he said.

  Their hands brushed when they reached for the elevator button at the same time. A small, unspoken moment.

  When they stepped out on the ground floor, she stopped to put her heels back on. One foot slipped in easily, but when she reached for the other, her ankle wobbled.

  He reacted before thinking, catching her arm.

  “…Thanks,” she said, looking up, a loose strand of hair falling across her cheek.

  He gave a short nod, letting his hand drop away just as quickly as it had moved.

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  Elara’s dance club opened the evening with an elegant showcase—yet beneath the shimmer of sequins and spotlights was a different story. Seraphina, the club leader, sang like a diva on her farewell tour, commanding the stage with the smug grace of a queen used to being adored. Elara danced perfectly, but too tightly, the weight of rehearsals and Seraphina’s ambition evident in the strained line of her smile.

  Mira and her friends clapped louder than anyone else, a small act of solidarity that Elara felt, even if she couldn’t look.

  Later, things softened. The performances gave way to mingling. Luca wandered off and returned beaming—he’d been recruited by Vincent, the cool-headed leader of the Movie Club. Camille, meanwhile, was clearly smitten with Noah, a composed violinist from Orchestra Club who played like he’d grown up with symphonies in his bones.

  It was almost a perfect night—until the drinking game started.

  9:15 PM – The Drinking Games Begin

  The music faded into a low, pulsing beat as the lights dimmed slightly, casting a warm golden glow across the lounge. The crowd instinctively parted as Seraphina made her entrance—heels clicking with sharp precision, her dress catching the light with every step, a walking spotlight. Her signature smirk was in place, lips painted the exact shade of power. Behind her trailed a group of admiring first-year girls, hanging onto her every word, their eyes wide with awe.

  She raised a crystal glass into the air like a scepter. “Time for the Queen’s Challenge,” she declared, voice rich and commanding. “Drink with style—or don’t drink at all.”

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  A circle formed around the central table as bottles were lined up, shot glasses placed like tiny soldiers awaiting orders. The rules were simple: each round, a name would be drawn at random. The Queen would issue the challenge.

  And the first name drawn was: Elara.

  All eyes turned. Elara stepped forward slowly, shoulders straight, but there was a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. Seraphina’s smirk widened like a cat spotting a cornered bird.

  “Let’s see if elegance helps with alcohol,” she purred, tilting her head mockingly. A few giggles bubbled up from her fanclub.

  Before Elara could respond, Camille cut through the tension like a blade.

  “She’s not playing,” Camille said coolly, stepping into the circle. “But I’ll take your challenge.”

  Gasps. A pause. Then Seraphina gave a slow, amused clap. “Brave.”

  She stepped back with an arched brow and a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Let’s see how long that courage lasts.”

  The table was reset. Shot glasses refilled. All eyes were on Camille and Seraphina, who now stood across from each other like dueling queens.

  First round: Tequila. Simple. A warm-up. Seraphina raised her glass, made a theatrical toast about “grace under pressure,” and downed it with a flourish.

  Camille lifted her glass and drank without saying a word.

  Second round: Vodka—no chaser.

  Seraphina’s smile sharpened. “Still in?” she asked sweetly, locking eyes with Camille.

  Camille gave her a half-shrug, barely a nod. She wasn’t going to waste words. She drank.

  The students erupted—louder now. A chant started building in the back. Some were already filming.

  Third round: A mystery mix. A glowing, ominous shade of blue.

  Seraphina narrowed her eyes as she handed Camille her glass personally. “Not for the weak-hearted.”

  Camille took it. Held her gaze. “Good thing I’m not.”

  The girls drank. Seraphina’s face stayed still, composed.

  Mira was at the edge of the circle, wide-eyed, whispering to Elara, “Okay she’s terrifying—but in a good way, right?”

  Elara, still stiff from earlier, let out a laugh. “She’s insane.”

  Fourth round: Shot roulette. Random bottles, unknown contents. One of them would be brutal.

  The two locked eyes. Seraphina’s fanclub leaned in, tense. A beat passed. Then both girls downed their glasses simultaneously.

  Seraphina’s eye twitched.

  Camille smirked.

  Someone shouted, “CAMILLE! CAMILLE!” and the chant caught on. The crowd was now undeniably on her side.

  Seraphina’s posture remained flawless—but her pride had clearly taken a hit. Her smile had gone tight. Her comments now clipped. But she didn’t back down.

  Round five: Camille raised her glass first this time. “For the ones who don’t talk too much.”

  A roar of laughter.

  They drank.

  By now, the Queen’s Challenge was no longer about alcohol—it was a duel of will, image, and nerve. And Camille, with her fire and silence, was chipping away at Seraphina’s perfectly polished mask. Shot by shot.

  And the whole party could feel it.

  The seventh round hit hard. Even Camille, who had stood steady like a wall of fire, blinked twice after the last shot—something neon and wicked that burned like betrayal. But she didn’t sway. She didn’t even sit down.

  Seraphina did.

  Just for a second—just a brush of her palm to the table as she leaned for balance—but the crowd noticed. A few whispers broke through the chants.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Camille’s still standing—”

  But before anyone could speak it out loud, one of Seraphina’s fan club girls stepped forward and clinked a spoon to her glass like a toast.

  “That’s the final round, everyone! Queen Seraphina wins!”

  Cheers—mostly from Seraphina’s circle—burst up, but the confusion in the air was palpable. People glanced around. Some clapped, some didn’t. The energy dipped into hesitation.

  That’s when Mira stepped forward.

  She glanced at the girl with the spoon. “Wait,” she said simply. “I thought this was a drinking challenge, not a drama club skit.”

  That landed. A few students snorted. Seraphina straightened in her seat.

  Mira pointed calmly toward Camille. “She drank every round. She never backed down. Seraphina stumbled—twice.”

  Gasps. Some nods. Mira’s voice grew steadier.

  “If this is about who looks good in glitter, sure, Seraphina wins. But if it’s about who held their ground, drank with nerve, and didn’t try to twist the rules at the end?” She turned slightly. “Then you all saw who really won.”

  A long pause.

  Then someone clapped.

  Then a few more.

  Then the chant started again—but this time louder, with new voices:

  “CAMILLE! CAMILLE! CAMILLE!”

  Seraphina’s face froze, lips tight, fan club looking lost.

  Camille didn’t bask in it. She just raised her hand to Mira, palm out for a high-five.

  Elara burst into laughter, her earlier tension finally melting away.

  And Mira?

  She just gave Seraphina the faintest smile and said, “Better luck next party.”

  As the chant thundered through the hall, Seraphina’s radiant smile strained at the corners, wavering like a candle in the wind. Her loyal followers clapped a beat too late, visibly unsure whether to celebrate or retreat.

  Scattered through the crowd, a few second-years leaned together, voices hushed but sharp with curiosity.

  “Who are they?”

  “The redhead? That’s Camille. Journalism major. First year.”

  “And the one who called out Seraphina—Mira. She’s the only full scholarship student in the International Department.”

  “What about the third girl? The one who danced earlier?”

  “Elara. Business and Economics. Another scholarship student.”

  “Wow. Bold trio.”

  “They’ve got guts. First year standing up to Seraphina like that?”

  “Brave. Way braver than we were.”

  Another added, “This new batch? Different vibe. Way more fire.”

  “Kind of loving it.”

  Elara, overhearing just enough, gave a glance to Mira and Camille. Mira just gave a casual shrug, as if to say we didn’t plan this… but we’re not backing down either. Camille, still catching her breath, sipped her water and grinned—satisfied, triumphant.

  In the center of the ballroom, the atmosphere had changed. And everyone knew it.

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