Hours passed. The rooftop party continued, the alcohol flowing freely, the laughter getting louder and less coherent as sobriety became a distant memory.
Marco and Polo had escalated from casual drinking to a full-blown drinking competition, their earlier camaraderie dissolving back into sibling rivalry as it always did.
"I can drink more than you!" Marco declared, already slurring slightly, holding up his fifth beer.
"Bullshit! You're already swaying!" Polo grabbed two beers simultaneously. "Watch this!"
He opened both cans and started chugging them in alternation—left hand, right hand, left hand, right hand, creating a rhythm that was impressive until he choked halfway through and sprayed beer everywhere.
"HA! YOU LOSE!" Marco pointed triumphantly, then immediately stumbled and had to catch himself on a folding chair.
"NO! THAT DOESN'T COUNT! I WAS JUST WARMING UP!"
"WARMING UP MY ASS! YOU CHOKED!"
They continued arguing while simultaneously drinking more, their tolerance clearly reaching its limit. Eventually, Polo tried to stand up to make a dramatic point about his superior alcohol capacity and immediately fell over backward, his chair tipping and depositing him on the rooftop surface with a heavy thud.
Marco laughed so hard he fell over too, landing next to his twin.
Both of them just... stayed there. Lying on the roof. Staring at the sky. Too drunk to get up.
"I win," Marco mumbled.
"No... I win," Polo countered.
"We both... lost..."
"Yeah... we did..."
Within minutes, both were snoring, passed out side-by-side like they'd been knocked out in a boxing match.
Sven, Lucy, and Sasha decided to call it a night around 1 AM.
Sven was swaying heavily, his usual nervous energy replaced with drunken mellowness. "I should... I should go mop somethink. Ve have floors, yes? I vill mop them."
"You're not mopping anything," Lucy said, her words only slightly slurred despite having consumed a concerning amount of beer. "You're going to bed before you fall down the stairs and break your neck."
Sasha giggled, the alcohol had finally loosened her anxiety. "He does fall down stairs a lot when he's drunk. Remember last month?"
"Ve do not talk about last month!"
They helped each other toward the stairwell, Lucy supporting Sven while Sasha held onto Lucy, all three of them forming a chain of semi-functional drunk people navigating their way inside.
"Goodnight, weirdos!" Lucy called back to the remaining group before disappearing through the door.
Ben was in a corner of the rooftop, sitting in a folding chair, phone pressed to his ear, having what appeared to be a very flirtatious conversation despite being obviously drunk.
"No, no, listen—hic—listen, babe, I'm serious. You should come over. Right now. I'm on a rooftop. It's very romantic. Very—hic—very atmospheric."
His British accent was getting thicker with each drink, his words blending together.
"What do you mean 'it's 2 AM'? That's prime time! That's when all the best things happen! Come on, don't be like that. I miss your face. Your very pretty face. Have I told you your face is pretty? Because it is. Very pretty. Very—hic—very kissable."
He paused, listening to the response, then giggled—an uncharacteristic sound from someone who usually maintained such eerie composure.
"Okay, okay, fine. Tomorrow then. But wear that thing I like. You know the one. The blue one. Makes your eyes look—hic—makes them look very nice. Very, very nice."
More giggling. "I'm not that drunk! I'm perfectly—hic—perfectly fine! I can walk in a straight line! Watch!"
He stood up, took three steps, veered sharply to the left, and had to grab onto the railing to keep from falling over.
"Okay, maybe a little drunk. But that just means I'm being honest! Raw honesty! Hic You love my raw honesty!"
He continued his drunken flirtation for another ten minutes, his voice getting progressively mushier, before eventually saying goodnight and hanging up.
Then he slumped in his chair, staring at his phone with a dopey smile, hiccupping occasionally, looking more human than Tòumíng had ever seen him.
Eventually, Ben stood up, carefully this time, and wobbled toward the stairwell. "I'm going to bed now. Goodnight, people I tolerate."
He disappeared inside, leaving only four people on the rooftop: Tòumíng, Ghost Claw, Svetlana, and Think Tink The Tinkerer, who'd fallen asleep in a corner hugging his empty root beer bottle.
Svetlana was properly drunk. Not just tipsy. Not just buzzed. Full-on, multiple-bottles-of-Russian-vodka drunk.
She'd abandoned her folding chair and was now sitting directly next to Tòumíng, her tall frame pressed against his side, one arm draped heavily over his shoulders.
"You know," she said, her accent even thicker than usual, her words slow and deliberate. "You are very attractive boy. Scrawny, yes. But attractive. Good bone structure. Strong jaw. Nice eyes."
Tòumíng, who was also drunk but significantly less so than Svetlana, blinked in confusion. "Uh... thanks?"
"I like your face very much." Her hand moved from his shoulder to his face, her fingers tracing his jawline with surprising gentleness despite her inebriation. "Very nice face. Vould look good on my pillow."
"Your... pillow?"
"Yes. My pillow. In my bed. Vhere I sleep." She leaned closer, her breath heavy with alcohol. "You should come to my bed. Tonight. Right now. Ve could... how do you say... make adult activities together."
Tòumíng's brain, already compromised by alcohol and emotional exhaustion, struggled to process this. "Adult activities? Like... taxes? Filing paperwork?"
Svetlana laughed—a loud, genuine sound. "No, silly twig boy. SEX. I am propositioning you for sex. Is very clear proposition. Very direct. No ambiguity."
"Oh." Tòumíng's face flushed red. "Oh! I—uh—I didn't—I mean—"
"You are very oblivious," Svetlana said, her hand now running through his hair. "Is cute. I like cute. You are cute AND brave. Very good combination. Vould make very good lover, I think. Ve should test theory. For science."
"I don't think that's how science works—"
"Is EXACTLY how science vorks. Hypothesis: you are good in bed. Experiment: ve go to bed together. Result: I find out if hypothesis is correct. Very scientific method. Very rigorous."
Ghost Claw, who'd been silently watching this interaction with what might have been amusement behind her gas mask, finally intervened.
"Svetlana. Cut it out. He's not interested."
"How do you know? Maybe he IS interested but is too polite to say!" Svetlana's arm tightened around Tòumíng's shoulders. "Twig boy, are you interested in sexual congress vith tall Russian voman? Answer honestly."
Tòumíng's brain short-circuited. "I—that's—I don't—"
"That's a no," Ghost Claw translated.
Svetlana pouted dramatically, her bottom lip jutting out like a child who'd been denied candy. "Fine. Is fine. I go to bed alone. Like always. Is very sad. Very lonely."
She stood up—swaying dangerously—and pointed at Tòumíng with exaggerated precision. "But offer stands. If you change mind, you come to my room. Only you. Nobody else allowed. Just you. For sex. Very good sex. I am very skilled. Have many references."
"I don't think that's something you need references for—"
"I HAVE REFERENCES!" Svetlana declared. "Vould you like to see testimonials? I have testimonials!"
"That won't be necessary," Ghost Claw said firmly.
Svetlana sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. "Nobody appreciates my romantic gestures. Is tragedy. Modern tragedy." She started walking toward the stairwell, her gait unsteady. "Goodnight, twig boy. Remember: my door is open. Metaphorically. And literally. I do not lock door. Is safety hazard."
She disappeared inside, her footsteps echoing down the stairwell.
Tòumíng sat in stunned silence for a moment, processing what had just happened. Then he stretched, his newly-regenerated muscles protesting slightly, and looked at Ghost Claw.
"Is she always like that when she's drunk?"
"She's very enthusiastic about physical intimacy when intoxicated. Completely harmless, though. She respects boundaries when people say no."
Tòumíng nodded, filing that information away. He stood up, his legs slightly unsteady, and looked around the rooftop. Marco and Polo were still passed out. Think Tink The Tinkerer was snoring in the corner, his root beer bottle clutched like a teddy bear.
"Are you good to drive?" Tòumíng asked Ghost Claw. "You've been drinking too."
Ghost Claw stood and walked in a perfectly straight line to demonstrate her sobriety. "I metabolize alcohol faster than most people. Military training. Also, I've only had three beers over four hours. I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Come on. I'll drive you home."
They walked toward the stairwell, leaving the passed-out twins and Think Tink The Tinkerer on the rooftop. Someone would collect them in the morning.
The building was quiet as they descended, most of the team had gone to their rooms to sleep off the alcohol. They reached the ground floor and exited through the front entrance into the cool night air.
Ghost Claw's vehicle was parked nearby, not the Ford F-350, but a smaller, more practical sedan that looked completely unremarkable. Perfect for surveillance work.
She unlocked it remotely and gestured for Tòumíng to get in the passenger seat.
He climbed in, the leather seats surprisingly comfortable, and buckled his seatbelt.
Ghost Claw got in the driver's side, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking area with smooth, practiced movements.
The city streets were mostly empty at 2 AM,just the occasional taxi or delivery truck making late-night runs. The traffic lights seemed to stretch on forever in the darkness.
Tòumíng stared out the window, watching the city pass by, his mind still processing everything that had happened today. The explosion. Hǔtān. The revelation about his parents. The regeneration. The rooftop party.
It felt like a week's worth of events crammed into eighteen hours.
Ghost Claw drove in silence, not pushing conversation, just letting Tòumíng exist in his thoughts.