The fourth-floor lounge of Halstead Hall, half past one in the morning: two couches dragged into a rough circle, the overheads dead, and a bottle on the carpet still turning under the desk lamp.

Fabian Cordero says, before the bottle has finished moving. He is sitting with his back against the couch, sleeves shoved up, dark hair in his eyes, and he has been running this game since midnight.

Casey Toliver is sprawled opposite him in the green and white jacket he will not take off, shirt open over the ink on his chest.

he says, and flicks the pen cap at Fabian's knee.

Ross Yardley, cross-legged at the end of the couch in a black tee, writes something in the back of his notebook and does not look up. He has not lost a dare all night.

The bottle stops. It is on you.

Fabian says, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, close enough that only the four of you can hear it.