Knot The One They Want

Lorali Pov

My head pounds, the drumming inside my skull growing louder and louder until it feels like the walls themselves are vibrating. I raise my hand to my temple, pressing hard, as though I can quiet the storm. Slowly and painfully, I open my eyes. The dim light in the room is strange, almost comforting in its darkness, but it doesn’t answer the question clawing at me: where am I?

I blink, forcing my vision to focus. The tiled walls, the faint smell of bleach mixed with something sour, the porcelain gleam beneath me, it hits me. I’m in a bathroom. My stomach twists. What am I doing here? The last thing I remember is Club Vice, the pounding music, the flashing lights, the blur of faces. Then everything went hazy, like smoke curling around my thoughts.

My eyes dart across the room, desperate for clues, and then I notice the humiliating truth. My head is resting on a toilet seat. A toilet seat. The realization jolts me. I fling my hair back, disgusted, and spring up too quickly. The sudden speed sends my head spinning, the world tilting sideways. I stumble, clutching my skull, my vision swimming in and out of focus.

"I want to vomit," I groan, clutching my stomach as it churns violently. My fingers brush against my skin, and I feel something strange, the prickle of stitches beneath my fingertips. Confusion spikes. Only then do I realize I’m not wearing the mini high‑neckline black dress from last night. Instead, I’m dressed in someone else’s pajama shorts and a tank top that cuts right beneath my chest. My body is smeared with ash, and the stench of petrol clings to me like a curse I can’t wash away.

"Oh, what have I done?" I groan loudly, dragging my hands down my face, stretching the skin as if I could erase the truth. My voice echoes in the small bathroom, trembling with dread. "Please tell me I didn’t kill anyone!" The words hang heavy in the air. I may not regret what I did to Yurena, but I don’t want another stain on my soul. I was lucky not to be locked in a mental home the first time, only because no one found out.

I splash cold water onto my face, scrubbing hard, desperate to rid myself of the filth and the memory of waking up with my cheek pressed against a toilet seat. I don’t even know who used it before me, and the thought makes my skin crawl.

I stumble out of the bathroom, refusing to stay another second in that suffocating space. The hallway greets me with chaos. To my left, piles of clothes tower like mountains. To my right, heaps of shoes spill across the floor. I trail my hand along the wall for balance, careful not to trip, though I nick my foot against a stray heel more than once. My head throbs, but I keep moving, following the faint glow of light ahead.

It proves to be the right choice. I emerge into a sitting room, and the sight nearly overwhelms me. A long L‑shaped couch dominates the space, blankets stacked high upon it like a fortress. A fireplace sits beneath a mounted TV, but instead of wood, the hearth is stuffed with shoes. The entire place is a disaster zone, clothes, blankets, shoes, everything scattered like debris after a storm.

The only thing familiar in this chaos is the view beyond the windows. The city skyline. That’s when it clicks. This has to be Astrid’s apartment. Everything matches. She must have brought me back after the Club Vice party. Maybe it went on for hours, maybe I passed out. But none of it makes sense.

I run my hand through my tangled hair, pacing toward the door, jumping over the lumpy puddles of blankets. Questions spiral in my mind, relentless, clawing at me. Why don’t I remember falling asleep? Why do I smell like petrol? What did I do? And why, of all places, was I sleeping on a toilet seat?

"I need to get out of here first, take some medicine for this headache, sleep, and then I’m sure everything will come back to me." I mutter the words again and again as I tug at the door, but nothing happens. It refuses to budge. It’s locked, and I’m trapped inside.

I search the surrounding area in desperation, under the carpet, inside the shoe rack, even pressing at the corners of the wall as if a hidden key might magically appear.

Nothing.

Who would have ever thought Astrid was responsible enough to lock the doors at night? She never struck me as the type to care about security. She doesn’t even seem like the kind of person who would bother locking the door of our apartment, let alone this place. Yet here I am, locked in.

"Augh... just my luck!" I groan, frustration boiling over as I kick the door. The moment my bare toes slam against the wood, pain shoots through me like fire. "Shit!" I hiss, clutching my foot. I forgot I wasn’t wearing shoes. Limping away from the door, I curse under my breath. "Augh, I hate this damn house."

I need Astrid. She’s the only one who can open this door and get me out of here. But where am I supposed to find her? This place isn’t nearly as big as the penthouse, yet it feels confusing, claustrophobic, and suffocatingly dark because every curtain is drawn tight.

Deciding it’s better to stay put than wander through this messy house and risk more injuries, I roll my eyes, huff, and drag myself toward the couch. I throw my body down, expecting to land on something soft, but instead I’m met with the opposite. A groan rises beneath me, followed by the shift of blankets. My heart leaps into my throat as I shoot upright, pulse pounding.

A head pokes out from under the blanket, eyes half-lidded and tired. "Don’t sit on me" a random girl mutters, her voice heavy with exhaustion. She turns her head away, buries herself deeper into the couch, and pulls the blanket tighter around her as if totally forgetting I’m still standing there.

I stumble back, wide-eyed. Are they people under all the blankets here? My mind reels. Oh my goodness, this is insane. But why am I even shocked? Astrid could definitely pull something like this.

With no other option, I sink onto the carpet, crossing my legs, staring at my life unraveling. One night I can’t even remember has led me here, sitting on the floor of some crazy girl’s house. My eyes drift toward the television mounted above the fireplace. I’d watch something to kill time if I knew where the remote was, but I don’t dare search for it. The last thing I want is to wake up someone who could be a pain in the ass.

I sit still for what feels like an eternity until a faint groaning echoes from the hallway. My entire body jolts with relief. Astrid. She emerges at last, stepping out of the shadows in a flowing white nightdress. Her hair is a tangled mess, her makeup smudged, and she looks like she’s been hit by a bus, just like me.

"Astrid!" I shout, springing up from the floor. A pillow smacks the back of my head. "Shut up!" the girl on the couch groans, her voice muffled by the blanket.

"Oh please, I wasn’t that loud," I snap, rolling my eyes and rubbing the sore spot where the pillow struck.

I almost forget about Astrid, my mind tangled in irritation as I debate whether to wake the girl on the couch and show her what a real shout sounds like. The thought tempts me, but then I realize I’m just in a foul mood, searching for an outlet, and it’s better to save my anger and blow up on Torin, I won’t feel guilty about it later. I need to get out of here, go home, or whatever that place even counts as and take my frustrations out somewhere safer.

When I glance back, Astrid is no longer standing where she was. She’s already walking away, her nightdress trailing faintly behind her. Panic jolts through me. I rush forward, leaping over blankets, shoes, and scattered clothes, desperate not to lose her. "Astrid!" I call, my voice sharp, pacing quickly to catch up.

She doesn’t look furious, just exhausted, her body heavy with weariness. She groans, clutching herself as if holding her bones together. "Lorali, not now," she mutters, her tone dragging. "I need to take my Ibuprofen first. My head is killing me. Then I’ll eat something, have coffee, and only then will I talk to you."

She takes a sharp left, and I follow her into the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen is startlingly neat, almost pristine. It’s not like the penthouse kitchen with its open-plan design and gleaming counters. This one is closed off, compact, and it actually feels like a proper kitchen, the kind where meals are cooked instead of staged for show.

"Astrid, I need the keys to leave. Your door is locked," I say, forcing the words out, my chest tight with impatience. I can’t wait to get out of here.

Astrid doesn’t even glance at me. She stretches upward, reaching for the top cabinet, and pulls down a box filled with medication. She rifles through it slowly, one packet after another, until she finds what she wants. She opens it, pops a pill into her mouth, then holds one out to me.

"I know your head must feel like it’s splitting open after how much you drank yesterday."

"Me? Drink?" I exclaim, pointing at myself in disbelief. "Impossible! I only had the strawberry sunrise, and you told me it had no alcohol!"

Her silence stretches, unfazed by my panic. When she sees I’m not taking the pill, she calmly places it on the table, returns the box to the cabinet, and moves to the pantry. She pulls out two packets of instant noodles, opens one, empties it into a bowl, pours water over it, and slides it into the microwave. The hum fills the kitchen as she sets the timer for five minutes. Finally, she turns her tired face toward me, her eyes shadowed but steady.

"There was some sort of mix-up. You definitely had alcohol yesterday. And you showed me exactly why my mother doesn’t drink, and why omegas in general shouldn’t."

Her words slam into me, leaving me stunned. My eyes widen, my throat tight. "W... what? How did this happen?"

"I’m guessing when I ordered the drinks, the bartender saw me and thought, ’No way Astrid’s getting plain juice.’ He probably decided to slip something in, thinking I wanted it with liquor or something. I should have confirmed or taste-tested, but I didn’t. Sorry, boo, my bad. On the bright side, you were fun as hell yesterday and wild, like crazy wild." Astrid laughs lightly, her lips curling into the first smile I’ve seen this morning.

"Crazy? What do you mean? I can’t remember anything. What did I do?"

Her smile lingers, almost mischievous. "You burned down Gabriel’s house. With him inside. Don’t worry. he’s not dead."

"WHAT?!" The word rips out of me, raw and horrified, my heart hammering against my ribs. What did I do?

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