"No. Makes it more meaningful." He looked at me, eyes slightly unfocused but expression serious. "Because we didn't forget. Because you remembered this promise when you could've forgotten everything from before. Because we're still us, even though everything changed."

Fuck. Drunk Tommy was hitting emotional buttons I wasn't ready for.

"You're still my best friend," he continued. "Even made me fucking rich, you did not hand me some thousands as your sidekicks but slapped me with millions!"

"Of course I did. That's what friends do."

"No." He shook his head firmly. "That's what best friends do. Real friends. The kind you keep forever because they remember who you were and help you stay that person even when everything else changes."

I felt that tightness in my chest again—emotion I didn't have words for, gratitude and fear mixed together in ways that felt uncomfortable.

"Don't get weird on me, Tommy."

"Too late. I'm drunk and emotional and profound. It's a whole package deal." He raised his glass again. "To best friends who keep promises."

I clinked my glass against his. "To drunk philosophers with questionable tolerance."

"Fuck you, my tolerance is great."

"You've had three drinks and you're already confessing feelings."

"That's by design. Drunk me is emotionally intelligent." He took another drink, then suddenly stood up—swaying dangerously, catching himself on the bar. "You know what? Screw it. You know what we should do?"

"Sit back down before you fall?"

"NO. We should celebrate! Like, really celebrate!" His voice was getting louder, that drunk volume-control failure. "We should—we should buy everyone drinks! Show this place what we're about!"

"Tommy, that's a terrible idea—"

But he was already pulling out more money. Not just a few bills. A fucking bundle of hundreds held together with rubber band, probably three or four thousand dollars, pulled from his pocket like it was nothing.

"What matters is I can afford this!" He held up the bundle like trophy. "And you know what? Everyone here deserves to celebrate with us!"

"Tommy, seriously, this is a bad—"

But he was already moving, already committed, drunk confidence overriding every reasonable instinct.

He slammed his hand on the bar—not aggressive, just loud, attention-getting—and his voice carried across the noise somehow, cutting through music and conversation.

"YO! EVERYONE! LISTEN UP!"

The music didn't stop—DJs didn't stop for drunk customers—but attention shifted. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Even the strippers on stage slowed their routine, curious about the commotion.

I buried my face in my hands. "Oh god. Tommy, no—"

"NEXT ROUND ON ME!" Tommy shouted, voice carrying with drunk-person projection that defied physics. "EVERYONE! FREE DRINKS!"

He pulled the rubber band off the bundle—bills splaying slightly—and threw the entire thing on the bar.

It landed with a thump that seemed louder than it should, hundreds and fifties scattering across polished granite like paper promises that Lincoln Club was about to deliver.

The club fucking erupted.

Cheers. Screams. People rushing toward the bar from every direction. A stampede of celebration and greed and alcohol-fueled enthusiasm that made the floor literally vibrate.

Even the strippers stopped completely—mid-routine, mid-move—looking toward the source of free alcohol like sailors to a siren song. Because free money transcended everything, even professional obligation.

I kept my face buried in my arms on the bar, trying to become invisible, knowing it was futile because I had a generous drunk friend next to me and invisibility was no longer an option reality offered me.

The bartenders moved into overdrive—Reyna included, though I caught her grinning at me while she poured shots—creating beautiful chaos that happens when someone else is paying and nobody's counting costs.

Tommy stood there looking pleased with himself, swaying slightly, basking in attention and celebration, the guy who made it rain in ways that mattered.

And then—cutting through the celebration like knife through noise, sharp and familiar and instantly souring the atmosphere—a voice I knew too fucking well.

"Give a sidekick a few millions and he thinks the world belongs to him."

My head snapped up.

There, by the pool tables in the gaming section, cue stick in hand and expression mixing amusement with pure contempt—Jack fucking Morrison.

He was dressed expensive—designer everything, Gucci belt visible even from thirty feet, shoes that probably cost more than some people's cars—surrounded by his usual crew of followers who laughed at his jokes whether they were funny or not.

Seven guys who looked like they belonged on a lacrosse team poster.

Two girls who were definitely not their girlfriends.

Jack set down his pool cue with deliberate care—that slow, calculated movement designed for maximum dramatic effect, ensuring every eye in the gaming section watched him. The kind of gesture that came from growing up rich and learning that timing was everything when you wanted to dominate a room.

"Hey." He pointed at Tommy with the casual cruelty of someone who'd never faced real consequences. "Sidekick. Sit the fuck down. Bury your head in the counter like your boss does when he's embarrassed."

Then his finger moved.

Pointing directly at me.

"Because we all know who's actually paying for those drinks. Who's actually bank-rolling this little TECH performance."

The club went quiet again.

Different quiet this time—not awe or celebration, but tension. That specific silence before violence, when everyone's lizard brain recognizes danger and freezes, when the air gets thick with possibilities that all end badly.

The music kept playing—DJs couldn't hear drama over their own beats—but conversations died. Bodies stopped moving. Even drunk people sobered up enough to recognize that whatever was about to happen, they wanted to witness it or get the fuck out of the blast radius.

Tommy swayed, drunk enough to be brave, sober enough to recognize Jack Morrison meant trouble.

His face cycled through emotions—confusion, recognition, anger, then something like fear because even drunk and generous, Tommy knew Jack had power that came from his family's money and willingness to use it.

"Jack, man, we're just—" Tommy started, voice lacking the confidence from thirty seconds ago.

"Just what? Playing dress-up?" Jack moved away from the pool table, his crew following like well-trained dogs, creating a small mob that moved with coordinated menace. "Acting like you belong here because Peter Carter lets you hold his wallet?"

He was getting closer now, weaving through the crowd that parted automatically because Jack Morrison had that effect—combination of intimidation and social hierarchy that made people move without being asked.

"Because let's be honest—" Jack's voice carried across the club, performing for everyone watching, which was basically everyone now. "—Tommy Chen buying drinks for the whole club? Tommy Chen whose mom still drives a ten-year-old Civic and packs you lunch from home? That's not your money. That's Peter's money. That's Peter's charity case getting to pretend he's somebody for one night."

My hands tightened on the bar, feeling that perfect granite cool under my palms, and I forced myself to breathe. Forced myself to stay calm. Forced myself not to react the way every instinct screamed to react.

Because Jack wanted a reaction. Jack wanted me angry. Jack wanted public confrontation he could spin his way, could use to reassert dominance that had been slipping since my transformation.

But underneath the forced calm, something else was building. Something darker, coiling in my chest like a snake waiting to strike, reminding me I wasn't the same Peter Carter who got thrown in trash cans anymore.

I was something else now. Something Jack couldn't begin to comprehend.

And he had no fucking idea how close he was to finding out exactly what that meant.

Tommy looked at me, expression mixing anger and embarrassment and that particular shame that comes from being called out publicly, from having the truth of your situation exposed when you'd been pretending otherwise.

Jack stopped about ten feet away, close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain that performance distance. His crew fanned out behind him—all of them waiting to see what their leader would do.

"So, Peter." Jack's smile was knife-sharp. "You gonna let your little sidekick keep embarrassing himself? Or are you gonna sit there quiet like always, hoping I'll get bored and leave?"

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