Day nine felt like the tipping point. The novelty of quarantine had worn thin; the gym sessions were repetitive, the rooftop laps monotonous, the endless Zoom calls a reminder that the world outside was moving while they stayed frozen. Cabin fever had set in like damp rot.
They gathered in the sunken living area after dinner—low sectional sofas arranged in a loose circle around the glass coffee table, dimmable LEDs turned to warm amber, rain drumming softly against the dome overhead. A bottle of mezcal sat open, salt-rimmed shot glasses scattered like dice.
Noah, sprawled across one end of the sectional with his legs kicked up, was the one who suggested it.
“Truth or dare,” he announced, voice lazy but eyes sharp. “Adult edition. No kid gloves. We’re all adults. We’re all stuck. Let’s a
