“Your turn, Fiona,” Henry said, his voice low and teasing as the bottle spun lazily on the wooden floor. The dim glow of the flickering candles cast shadows across the circle of friends, their laughter echoing softly in the old, creaky attic. Fiona hesitated, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sweater as the bottle slowed, its neck pointing directly at her.

Fiona, with her wide hazel eyes and auburn hair that fell in loose waves over her shoulders, had always been the quiet one in the group. Henry, on the other hand, was all sharp angles and easy confidence, his dark hair perpetually messy and his grin just a little too knowing. They’d known each other for years, but tonight felt different—charged, like the air before a storm. The attic, with its dusty boxes and faint scent of mildew, seemed to hum with an energy none of them could explain.

As Fiona leaned forward, the bottle suddenly jerked, spinning wildly on its own. The room fell silent, the laughter dying in their throats. Henry’s eyes locked with hers, his smirk fading into something unreadable. “Did you… do that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Before she could answer, the candles flickered out, plunging them into darkness.