She reads your hesitation and decides it in your favour, already turning. "Come on. Somewhere quieter." She leads you off the main floor into a corner where the music dulls to a hum and conversation loses its edges. Two chairs, a low table, a bottle and a couple of half-filled glasses someone abandoned. She drops into one seat and gestures at the other. "Memory chain," she says, like it is a thing everyone knows. "You say 'I remember,' and you finish it. True or not. The other one guesses. Loser drinks." She nudges a glass an inch toward you. "Relax. It's not serious." You sit. You know this game from the other side of a headset, the one where you decide what is true for a living. "I remember," she begins, voice lower now, "getting lost in a market as a kid and deciding not to be scared." You watch her while she says it, and you cannot stop yourself working: the half-beat before "market," the way her eyes hold instead of drift. Tells. She is lying, and badly, and the knowing is so automatic it sours in your mouth. You came here to be a person at a party. You are still just the thing that reads people. She finishes and slides the glass the last inch, waiting to see what you are made of. There is a bottle you have not touched in almost a year. There is a glass that would make this room softer. There is the version of you that patted himself on the back for not drinking, two nights and a lifetime ago. [[Cybercrime/The_Phisherman/Intoxication|Pick up the glass]] --- [[Phone Buzz While Dancing|Leave the glass where it is]]