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After five shots and three rum and Cokes, I'm feeling pretty damn phenomenal. Rather than brooding miserably at home tonight, I took Emily's characteristically crass wisdom to heart—get utterly trashed!

We skipped going to Karma since that place is clearly cursed. Instead, we're posted up at the cozier Playful Pint. John's bartending, which helps ease my lingering anxiety. A quick explanation of my recent absence regarding Azrael, and John lovingly understood.

This place is a familiar haven—regulars laughing and tipsy, new couples swaying on the dance floor. Weekend karaoke is usually lit, too. Right now, some drunk chick is hilariously butchering "Heart of Glass," missing every note, though she's clearly unbothered. You gotta admire that spirited confidence, at least!

The bar's small enough for me to easily keep my eyes on Emily once she starts her off-key solo concerts. She'll be up within the hour belting sweaty 80's classics, inevitably the drunkest one here by midnight. But her enthusiasm dragging me out was precisely what I needed to jar me from the endless loop of moping over Rhyland. It's time to cut loose and stop overthinking everything for a few glorious hours!

I figure the familiar, cozy bar I call my second home might ease my nerves since, apparently, I'm supernaturally catnip to vamps lately. I'm hoping the casual vibe and recognizable faces soothe my anxiety, dipping a cautious toe back into life again.

Emily giggles beside me, thrilled to play my buoyant spirit guide away from hermit hood. "Omigod, isn't this like, way better than moldering in your apartment?" she slurs enthusiastically.

"Abso-fuckin-lutely!" I wholeheartedly agree, chugging my signature cocktail. Just boldly vocalizing my refusal to keep pining over that man feels instantly freeing.

At my profanity, Emily cackles raucously. "Preach, bitch! No shortage of D out there!" She makes a lewd hand gesture, waggling her brows.

I survey the prospects through tears of laughter—the usual motley mix of lonely old geezers zoning out to games on TV and antisocial millennials worshipping phone screens like figurative life rafts.

"Well, no offense, but I don't know if Magic Mike is hiding among this scruffy lineup." I snort when Emily almost spews her drink.

"Girl, we can transform these trolls! For once, I genuinely don't even give a damn...I'm just gloriously, amazingly free.

After Emily gleefully butchers show tunes at max volume despite the crowd's wincing, I regretfully announce the last call before we end up too wasted to walk anywhere successfully. I wave bye to John as we spill, giggling into the brisk night air.

"Let me drive you girls home; I don't think you should wander around wasted alone," John calls after us worriedly.

"Awww, you big sweetie!" Emily coos, blowing him a sloppy kiss. "But we got this! Gonna dance in the moonlight all the way home!" To demonstrate, she starts getting jiggy right there on the sidewalk.

I shrug apologetically at John through my fit of renewed giggles. "We appreciate it, really," I assure him earnestly. "We could use the fresh air, and it's only a few blocks."

After a beat, he nods reluctantly. We turn to continue our drunken pilgrimage under the luminous full moon.

His concern is endearing, but tonight is my reckless stand of independence. Linking arms, Em and I drunkenly careen into shadowed side streets, cackling wildly with each uncoordinated step.

The chilly night air helps clear some haze, but we remain a staggering mess. Given the recent supernatural chaos, it is probably not the most brilliant idea. But dammit, I'm done hiding! Emily whoops beside me, echoing my defiant mindset wordlessly.

Still, liquid courage can't thoroughly dampen my prickling paranoia as we stagger onward. The uneasy sense of unseen eyes tracking from somewhere nearby... Could it be Rhyland somehow? Surely, that's just wishful thinking and booze—Or far worse, Azrael finding me vulnerable again?

I halt abruptly, the atmosphere feeling charged, predatory. "Em, wait..."

She crashes into me with a drunk snort but instantly sobers at my tone. I peer anxiously into the shadows, fear's familiar claws needling my spine. Is it friend or foe that watches so hungrily from the darkness tonight? Hands balling into nervous fists, I steel my spine to face the unseen threat, no longer fleeing...

The heavy silence stretches endlessly as I watch for any sign of a threat. But no ominous figure lurches out of the shadowy abyss at me. With a frustrated sigh, I force my leaden feet onward, redoubling my efforts to support Em's nearly limp form.

I can't keep freezing or vainly yearning for Rhyland to fix everything magically. The hard truth is I stand utterly alone now as a judge of my destiny, for better or worse. It's long past time I step from his smothering shadow and reclaim my agency and identity.

Maybe I'm not ready to "get railed" again per Emily's poetic advice. But going out to embrace laughter and find a connection feels undeniably like progress—my first small step to rediscover myself. I chose light over isolation tonight.

With recalibrated calm, I scan the darkness once more. Whatever unknown threats lurk out there, I stand ready to face them as my own protector. And though solitude may stretch before me, while I draw breath, my spirit will burn too bright ever to let it wholly consume me again...

At long last, Emily and I drunkenly cram into the elevator. Its cramped confines seem to press tighter, exacerbating my disorientation. I lean heavily against the cool metal. Once off the elevator, I struggle to align the key into the lock outside my door.

Emily cackles at my uncoordinated fumbling, slurring, lewd commentary. After an eternity, the satisfying click sounds. I hurriedly drag Emily's pliant form inside, keys clattering haphazardly to the counter.

"Bedtime, ya boozy bitch!" I announce, frog-marching her fully clothed to the guest room. After flipping off the light, I shut the door on her mumbled nonsense.

Now blessedly alone, I stagger to the glaring kitchen light. My roiling stomach feels hollow, devouring itself from the inside out. Gotta sober up quickly before I yack. The microwave clock swims nauseatingly—fuck, it's two o'clock already? How long did we stay out demonstrating zero self-control?