Annie Are you okay? ( no she’s not )

It was just another Thursday night. You know—average stuff: sequins, vodka, and a Turkish girl shouting at a DJ like she was ordering pizza.

Annie walked into the club like a deer in neon headlights—squinting, stumbling slightly, and immediately bumping into a guy carrying a tray of six Jäger shots.

“Okay, we’re here,” she announced, adjusting her black knitted sweater and tightening the belt around her waist like she was preparing for battle.

Then came the commentary.

“Um, Annie, what are you wearing?” Hayat asked, looking her up and down like a fashion judge from a reality show.

Annie shrugged. “It’s called casual enchantress, thank you.”

Billie squinted. “You look like a confused librarian trying to escape a Renaissance fair.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Annie grinned.

“You shouldn’t,” Billie added, already leading them toward the bar.

The club was on full blast—music thumping like the heartbeat of someone having a panic attack, lights flashing in a way that made everyone look like they were trapped in a badly edited TikTok.

It was a two-floor building, by the way. The ground floor was open to the public—where people like Annie, Billie, and Hayat danced like they were trying to summon a rainstorm with their limbs. The second floor, however, was strictly VIP-only. Covered by sleek, black mirrors from the outside, the public couldn’t see in… but the VIPs? Oh, they could see everything happening below. Like rich, nosy cats watching a party of mice.

They danced. They drank. Annie screamed at a disco ball. Hayat somehow convinced a stranger to do a backflip. Billie got into a heated debate with a random guy about whether or not the Fast & Furious franchise was cinema. (Spoiler: it got emotional.)

Then…the emergency.

Something about Billie’s sister’s cat escaping and possibly joining a cult? Details were fuzzy.

They had to leave.

Annie stayed behind.

She stumbled over to the bar, hair a mess, eyes gleaming with chaotic optimism.

“Another shot, please,” she said.

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Ma’am, are you sure?”

“Listen,” Annie slurred. “If you stop giving me drinks, I might start giving you advice. And no one wants that.”

The bartender poured another shot.

Time slipped by. Her friends were long gone. Her eyeliner had migrated south for the winter. It was 3 a.m., and Annie was now engaged in a deep one-sided conversation with a bowl of peanuts.

Then came the accidental bump.

A man—tall, mysterious, probably in the “do-not-trust-but-very-handsome” category—brushed past her and mumbled a quick apology.

Annie didn’t notice.

Because by then, she was out. Like, power-down out. Her head slumped onto the bar with the grace of a falling lasagna.

The bartender sighed. “This ain’t a bed, lady.”

But Annie was asleep. Not napping. We’re talking REM cycle, dreaming about dancing goats type of sleep.

That’s when someone—some man—gently tapped her back. A calm, familiar gesture. Like an old friend. Or a ghost. A handsome ghost. Who moisturizes.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you home.”

Annie groaned like an old sofa.

“I can’t get up,” she slurred, her face still smushed against the bar. “My feet… they’re on strike.”

The man gently tried to lift her by the shoulders.

“I think I’m glued,” she added.

“You’re not glued.”

“I feel glued.”

“Annie.”

“Oh God, you know my name. Are you my sleep paralysis demon?”

He sighed. She sat up, only to slide dramatically to the floor like a slow-motion pancake.

“This is my new home now,” she mumbled. “Tell the floor I love it.”

“You can’t sleep on the floor,” he said calmly.

“It’s supporting me emotionally.”

He crouched down beside her. “Let’s go. I got you.”

And somehow—despite her limbs being basically spaghetti and her willpower lower than a phone at 2%—he got her on her feet. Mostly upright. Swaying like a tree in a windstorm, but upright.

He held her steady as they made their way to the club’s entrance. Annie kept her eyes closed the entire time, face tilted up like she was trying to absorb the night air through her skin.

“You smell like… like moonlight and disappointment,” she whispered at one point.

The guy just chuckled under his breath. He didn’t say much—but every word was smooth, soft, and annoyingly effective.

The night air was crisp. The street buzzed with late-night energy. A man in a hot dog costume walked by arguing with a guy in a banana suit. Normal.

The guy called a cab.

Annie refused.

She flopped onto a nearby bench like she was auditioning for a soap opera. He tried to coax her into the cab.

She rolled.

Yes. She rolled to the side and murmured, “This bench understands me.”

Finally, she got up. No warning. Just stood and started walking. To the left. Down the footpath. Toward the still-open shops, bathed in harsh, fluorescent lighting that made everything look both holy and deeply unsettling.

She didn’t say goodbye.

She didn’t turn around.

She didn’t even ask who the guy was.

And he?

He just stood there—tall, all in black, looking like a Calvin Klein model with secrets.

Was he someone she knew?

Was he someone she used to know?

Or was he just the universe playing a really good prank?

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***