You tell him about your "powers"

"Come on, don't be a buzzkill," Jake nudges you again, practically vibrating with liquid courage. "If she shuts you down, at least we can go get tacos and say we tried to score with a model. But seriously, look at her. That's a 'conquest' kind of girl. Go talk to her."

You stare at the back of the woman’s head, watching the way the strobe lights catch the waves in her brown hair, then shift your gaze to the hopeful, expectant look on Jake’s face. The **** has loosened your tongue, or maybe it’s the reckless, buzzing energy that’s been building under your skin since the hospital. The secret feels too heavy to carry alone in this crowded, noisy room. You lean in close to Jake, shouting over the thumping bass to make sure he hears every word.

"You want to know why I'm not worried about her?" you start, your voice low and intense. "It's not a sympathy angle, Jake. It's these."

You reach into your pocket and fish out the small, orange prescription bottle you put the pills in. The plastic clink against the wood of the bar sounds like a gunshot in your own ears. You twist the cap off and spill two small, innocuous-looking white pills into your palm. Jake’s eyes widen as he stares at them, then back at you.

"I found these at work," you continue, the words tumbling out faster now. "It’s called CMD-1. It’s some kind of behavioral modifier. It changes people. It releases something in me - pheromones, I don't know - that makes people... suggestible. If I get them emotional, if I push them, I can control them."

You show him the pills, a dangerous smirk playing on your lips. "I made my doctor have sex with me, man. Completely rewired her head. I can go over there, and I won't just get a number. I can make her do whatever I want."

Jake stares at the pills in your hand, his mouth hanging slightly open. He looks from the white tablets to your eyes, searching for a sign that you're joking. When he finds none, he lets out a nervous laugh that sounds more like a wheeze.

"Whoa, okay," he says, holding his hands up and taking a step back, though his eyes remain glued to the bottle. "Slow down, bro. You’re telling me you roofied yourself into becoming a mind-control supervillain? That’s... that’s insane, man. Like, tinfoil hat insane." He pauses, his gaze drifting back to the woman at the high-top table, then snapping back to the pills with a hungry curiosity.

He grabs your wrist, not to stop you, but to get a closer look at the pills, his breath hitching. "If this is real... if you aren't bullshitting me... prove it." He grins, a reckless, drunk edge creeping back into his voice. "Go over there. Use your Jedi mind tricks. If she doesn't pour her drink down your pants, I’ll buy you drinks for a month."

You pocket the pills, the smirk fading into a calculated mask, and grab both drinks. You don't want a scene right in the middle of the dance floor. "Not here," you shout over the music, as you walk towards the back of the club, away from the main stage lights. Jake follows close behind, practically stepping on your heels as you weave through the throng of dancing bodies. You find a dark, curved booth in the back corner, tucked away behind a pillar and obscured from the main floor by the heavy haze of machine fog. It’s a predator’s blind spot, private enough for a conversation that shouldn't happen, and isolated enough for a test run. You slide in, placing the drinks on the table. Jake slides in opposite from you, the leather squeaking under him. He’s jittery, vibrating with a mix of booze and illicit curiosity. He keeps glancing over his shoulder toward the woman, who is still laughing with her friends, oblivious to the target on her back.

"Relax," you say, leaning back and draping your arm over the booth to hide the tension in your shoulders. "She's not going anywhere. You just need to wait for the opening."

"You really think you can do it?" Jake asks, his voice hushed now that the bass is slightly muffled in the booth. "She looked like she wanted to castrate me five minutes ago."

"Just watch," you say, keeping your eyes fixed on the path to the restrooms. "Timing is everything."

Minutes tick by, the club pulsating around you. The woman laughs at something her friend says, tossing her hair back, completely unaware of your plans for her. Then, finally, she slides off her stool. She adjusts her dress and heads toward the dimly lit hallway marked with a neon 'Restrooms' sign, navigating the crowd with practiced ease. You wait until she disappears from sight, counting down the seconds in your head. When she re-emerges, checking her phone in the dim light, you give Jake a sharp nod.

"Go," you command. "Don't try to pick her up. Piss her off. Get her angry. I need her emotional. Then bring her here."

Jake doesn't need to be told twice. He scrambles out of the booth, nearly tripping over his own feet. He intercepts her path, stepping directly in front of her and blocking her way back to her table. You watch his hands animate wildly, his posture aggressive and annoying. He’s in her face, pointing, probably saying something obnoxious about her earlier rejection or just being generally loud and intrusive. You take out the bottle and swallow a pill while Jake does his part.

It works instantly. Her posture stiffens, her phone dropping to her side. She steps back, her face twisting into that familiar, withering glare, her lips moving rapidly as she snaps at him. Jake presses closer, ignoring her personal space, gesturing back at the booths with a thumb over his shoulder. He’s waving his arms, playing the part of the drunken pest to perfection. She scoffs, rolling her eyes so hard it looks painful, but when he turns and starts walking back toward the booth, pointing at you with a look of feigned confusion, her irritation gets the better of her. She follows him, striding with a predatory grace that suggests she’s coming over to tear your head off for wasting her time.

Jake slides into the booth first, looking like a kid who just lit a firecracker. A second later, the woman arrives. Up close, she is even more striking - and more intimidating. Her green eyes flash with fury, boring into you with enough heat to melt glass. She doesn't sit. Instead, she places both hands flat on the table, leaning down into your space, invading your perimeter just as Jake had done to her.

"Your friend seems to think I owe you an apology," she says, her voice low, sharp, and cutting through the noise of the club like a knife. She smells like jasmine and expensive tequila, a dangerous combination. "He says you're 'injured' and I should be nice. Let me be clear: I don't care if you're on your deathbed. I came here to drink with my friends, not to babysit a pair of frat boys who can't take a hint."

She stares you down, waiting for a reaction, her chest heaving slightly with the **** of her anger. The air between you feels charged, static electricity snapping against your skin. You can feel the CMD-1 humming in your blood, responding to the raw emotion radiating off her.

"So," she spits, crossing her arms and popping one hip out, her eyes narrowing. "You got something to say, or can I go back to enjoying my night?"

You don't answer her immediately. Instead, you hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. The CMD-1 is pulsing in your veins now, a rhythmic throb that syncs with the bass of the club. You need just a little more push, just a sharper spike of emotion. You flick your eyes past her, locking onto Jake. You give him the subtlest of nods - a sharp jerk of the chin towards her.

Jake, drunk and eager to prove his worth to the new dynamic you've established, misunderstands the nuance of the command entirely. He takes it as a green light for his own baser instincts rather than a tactical escalation. He leans forward, a sloppy, drunken grin plastered on his face, and reaches out as if to steady himself.

"Whoa, easy there, tiger," Jake slurs, his fingers sinking into the soft fabric of her dress - specifically, copping a feel of her breast under the guise of clumsy balance. "You're practically falling into the booth with us. Just trying to help you find a seat."

The reaction is instantaneous and explosive. The woman gasps, a sharp intake of breath that sounds like a whip crack. She recoils violently. Her face, previously flushed with annoyance, drains of all color before flooding with a dark, crimson rage. She looks down at where Jake's hand was, then back at him with **** in her eyes.

"Did you just- You absolute piece of shit!" she screams. She is trembling, vibrating with a fury so intense it seems to make the air around her shimmer. "Did you just grab me? I will break your fucking hand, you creep!"

Jake flinches, throwing his hands up in a pathetic attempt to shield himself as her hand draws back, her fingers curled into a claw ready to strike. You can feel the heat of her rage radiating across the table; it’s a palpable ****, a chaotic storm of fury and indignation. It's exactly what you need.

"Look at me," you say. It isn't loud, but it cuts through the bass like a siren.

Her hand freezes in mid-air, inches from Jake’s trembling face. The command hits her like a physical blow. Her head snaps toward you, the movement jerky and unnatural, as if pulled by an invisible wire. Her green eyes, wide and blazing with fury a second ago, suddenly lose their focus. The sharp, intelligent light behind them flickers and dims, replaced by a glassy, unfixed stare. Her mouth opens, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no sound comes out - just a sharp, jagged intake of breath that catches in her throat.

"I... I..." she stammers, the venom draining from her voice, replaced by a confused, wavering uncertainty. The tension in her shoulders collapses instantly. Her arms drop limply to her sides, the rage evaporating from her posture, leaving her looking strangely small and deflated. She stands there, swaying slightly, her gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that borders on worshipful vacancy. The anger that defined her a moment ago has been obliterated, overwritten by a sudden, terrifying stillness.

The silence that falls over the booth is heavy and absolute. Even the thumping bass of the club seems to fade into the background, muffled by the sheer weight of the mental connection you’ve forged. Jake lowers his arms slowly, his eyes darting between the frozen woman and you, his drunken bravado replaced by a mix of horror and awe. The woman isn't moving; she is barely blinking. Her breathing has slowed to a rhythmic, shallow pace. Her expression is slack, devoid of the sharp wit or icy disdain she wore just moments ago. She is an empty vessel, waiting to be filled, her will suspended in the chemical haze you’ve unleashed. You can feel the phantom tug of the pills working, the satisfaction of a lock clicking open.

Jake stares at the woman, his mouth hanging open in a mixture of terror and drunken disbelief. He looks from her frozen, vacant face to you, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Holy shit," he whispers, the words barely audible over the muffled bass. "You actually... you did it. She's totally gone. Is she... is she okay?" He swallows hard, leaning back against the booth as if trying to put distance between himself and the consequences of his actions, yet unable to tear his gaze away from her slack, obedient features. "This is insane, man. What do we do now?"