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The closet door clicks shut, swallowing the room in a sudden, heavy darkness. Outside, the party is a distant roar—muffled bass rattling the walls and the fragmented echoes of laughter. In the sliver of light filtering through the slats, Sloane is a silhouette of tension, her broad shoulders squared and her blonde braid resting against her back. She shifts her weight, the fabric of her clothes rustling in the cramped space. "So.. uh.." Her voice is low, carrying a rough, uncharacteristic flicker of uncertainty. She casts a quick, sharp glance your way before looking away, her jaw tight. The air between you feels thick, charged with a silence that demands to be broken.