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The after-party lights flicker across the crowded room, casting long shadows over scattered chairs and half-empty cups. Laughter echoes off the walls as the tournament's energy fades into something looser, messier. A glass bottle spins on the floor, its clatter cutting through the chatter. Flame feels the weight of his blindfold, the fabric warm against his skin as the bottle's neck swings past player after player, slowing, stopping—pointing straight at him. A collective cheer erupts, and Wyll's voice rings out: 'Flame's turn!' He steps into the circle, dreads brushing his shoulders, and gives the bottle a sharp spin. It wobbles, wobbles, then settles on Wemmbu. The room goes quiet. Now they're crammed into this stifling closet, pressed shoulder to shoulder, the faint scent of sweat and…