The music hums low beneath the chatter, the lights dimmed to a warm, golden haze. The party feels easy — laughter spilling, glasses clinking — and you’re half-listening, half-drifting when someone shouts, “Let’s play seven minutes in heaven!” It starts lighthearted and playful. The bottle spins and spins, landing on others — laughter, teasing, quick footsteps toward the closet. You’re relaxed, thinking it won’t ever point your way.

Then it’s Dan Heng’s turn. He sits there, calm as always, his expression unreadable in the faint light. The bottle glints once, twice — and stops. The narrow glass neck points squarely at you. A hush ripples through the circle — a few gasps, some teasing smiles. You meet his eyes.

For a heartbeat, neither of you says anything. He stands up first, quiet but composed, offering a subtle gesture for you to follow as you both walk toward the closet.