"Same species, yet people—somehow—are still fundamentally different," Let's Fight messaged out of nowhere.
Grace Barron sent back a question mark.
Let's Fight replied, "Nothing, just thought of someone I encountered recently. You and her... the way you speak? Couldn't be more different."
Grace: "What did she do?"
Let's Fight: "Forget it. Talking about her will just ruin my mood. She's trash."
But the truth was, Oakley Ponciano was in a good mood.
For the first time in a while, she felt a spark of hope—like maybe the whole world hadn't turned against her. Maybe there were still people worth meeting. Her fingers itched to get back to work, to finish her article and be done with it. If she submitted it tonight, she could take a break tomorrow and get back to filming videos. Then maybe—just maybe—she'd have the weekend free to relax.
Let's Fight: "Trust your gut. It never lies. I've got things to do—logging off now."
Grace smiled slightly: "Alright. I'll go make myself some instant noodles."
What a roleplay, she thought. We're really committed to the bit, huh?
Oakley laughed out loud.
—
At 11 p.m., Grace was just getting ready for bed when her inbox pinged with a new message.
Oakley had sent in her revised draft.
And it was… flawless.
It was as if her brain had suddenly been turbo-charged. Every hole Grace had previously pointed out had been seamlessly patched. Transitions were smooth, pacing elegant—it read like silk, perfectly balanced and utterly professional.
Grace texted her on Apptalk:
"It's good. Really good."
Oakley sent back a smiley face. Vague and unreadable.
Grace didn't reply again. She turned off the lights and sank into sleep, drifting into a surreal dreamland where reality melted like wax.
In the dream, she and Miss Apple were getting married—beneath a bridge.
Their wedding guests? Frogs, rats, alley cats, and a bewildered moose.
They shared a bowl of screw-top instant noodles cooked over a makeshift brick stove, their cheeks pale from the cold, lips purple, fingers laced together under a worn blanket.
They whispered, "Rich or poor, don't forget each other."
When Grace woke up, she was drenched in sweat, gasping.
What. A. Nightmare.
Just as she swung her legs off the bed, her phone buzzed with a message from Sabrina Myers:
"Hey, my ex-coworker Elena Hart just opened her new bar! Wanna come with me tonight for the grand opening?"
Grace didn't hesitate:
"Sure."
Sabrina:
"Awesome. Let's meet there at 9?"
"Sounds good."
Grace had a simple breakfast, then went out to wash and dry her hair, running her fingers through until it fell sleek and smooth.
She tossed it over one shoulder and walked into her closet to pick something suitable. Bars weren't really her scene, but people usually dressed boldly for these places. She didn't own anything flashy, so she finally settled on a plain black shirt. It was understated—but still fitting.
With her hair in a half ponytail, she checked the time and headed downtown to meet Sabrina at the venue.
The city center on a weekend night was crowded, buzzing with noise and heat. It felt like the oxygen itself was being squeezed out of the air by the press of human bodies.
When Grace arrived at the bar's entrance, Sabrina had just pulled up too—dressed like she'd walked straight off a Hawaiian beach.
That was just her vibe. Even when dressed "normally," she radiated a carefree defiance. Tonight, she was practically a walking neon sign.
Sabrina slung an arm around Grace's shoulder.
"Ready to go in?"
Grace nodded. "Let's."
It was just hitting 9—the hour the night owls emerged. As soon as they stepped inside, they were met with a tidal wave of sound. Music blared. The dance floor pulsed with bodies moving in tandem under dreamy blue-purple lights.
Sabrina led them to a booth. As they settled in, a woman in a white crop top and fluffy curls bounced over to greet them—Elena Hart, the bar's owner.
She slapped Sabrina playfully on the shoulder.
"You made it!"
Sabrina grinned.
"Look at this place! First night and you're already packed. You're gonna be rich."
Elena laughed, waving a hand.
"Nah, it's just the launch night crowd. Who knows what'll happen later?"
"You'll be fine. You're a boss now. Everything's gonna get better."
Elena chuckled, then turned toward Grace, curious.
"And who's this?"
Sabrina:
"This is my friend, Grace Barron."
"Ohhh," Elena smiled, extending her hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Grace replied politely, shaking her hand.
Elena slid into the booth beside her. "What are you guys drinking tonight? First round's on me."
Sabrina leaned back with a grin. "Say no more!"
Drinks arrived quickly. Elena cracked the bottles and poured for all three.
"To be honest," Elena said, raising her glass, "we women really need to build our own empires. Love and relationships? Total waste of time. In the end, all pain, no gain."
Grace quietly slid her drink aside and poured herself a glass of water.
"You're not wrong."
Sabrina turned to Elena.
"Do you still hate your ex?"
"Obviously," Elena said, downing her glass in one go. "I hope he gets married this year and divorced next."
Grace tilted her head. "He cheated?"
Sabrina explained, "Worse. He was the side piece."
"Ah." Grace understood immediately.
Elena sighed, waving it off.
"Let's not talk about him. Cheers!"
Sabrina raised her glass.
"Cheers!"
Several rounds later, Elena was tipsy, slurring between giggles and teary rants. At one point, she collapsed dramatically against Grace's shoulder.
"Why is my life so miserable? Why me?!"
Even her false lashes were starting to peel off.
Grace knew from experience—there was no comforting a drunk. She didn't bother. She just handed over a tissue.
After blowing her nose, Elena calmed down but still clung to Grace's neck, hiccupping:
"I hope he gets hit by a bus tonight."
Grace remained silent, letting her vent.
—
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit corner of the bar, Oakley had been drinking alone. She'd downed half a bottle before deciding she'd had enough.
She got up to fix her makeup and maybe head home.
As she moved through the crowd toward the restroom, she caught a glimpse of someone familiar.
She almost didn't register it—until she looked again.
Grace?
Sure enough, it was her. Dressed in all black, seated beside a sultry woman who was draped over her like they were rehearsing a scene from a risqué drama.
The woman was clearly all over her. Oakley's imagination went wild.
She remembered Grace's orientation—female, interested in women.
Was she… picking up girls?
Or was that woman some kind of… escort?
The interaction seemed too intimate. Too personal.
Oakley's stomach flipped.
Just earlier that week, Grace had driven her to the hospital, played the perfect gentleman. Kind, attentive. For a second, Oakley had actually thought she might've been wrong about her all along.
Now?
Ha.
So this was the real Grace Barron. Polished in public, wild in private.
The kind of person who smiled like an angel and stabbed like a devil.
Disgusted, Oakley shook her head and kept walking toward the restroom.
At that same moment, Grace had finally reached her limit with Elena's drunken snuggling. She gently pushed her off to the side.
Relieved to have her personal space back, she turned to Sabrina.
"Can you keep an eye on her? I need to wash my hands."
Sabrina waved her off.
"Go."
Grace glanced at Elena one more time before standing and heading to the restroom.
She rinsed her hands, pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, and turned to leave—only to pause.
The woman next to her at the sink looked… familiar.
Grace tilted her head.
"Miss Ponciano?"
Oakley swung her bag over her shoulder, turned, and smiled like nothing had happened.
"Oh, it's you? What a coincidence."
"Yeah." Grace raised an eyebrow. "You here alone?"
Oakley shrugged.
"Yup."
Life had been crap. She just wanted a drink.
Grace nodded, remembering how rough things had been for her lately. She asked, gently:
"Want to come join our table?"
But Oakley, still stewing from what she'd just seen, gave a cold little smile.
"Nah. I wouldn't want to interrupt your… intimate moment."
She turned to leave.
Intimate?
Grace's eyes narrowed in amusement.
She was curious now—just what kind of fantasy had Oakley cooked up in her head?
Without thinking, she reached out and caught Oakley by the wrist.