It's a good thing the lights are low, because Eponine somehow finds her way there. She's not been invited particularly, but if she waited around for invitations to places, she'd never go anywhere at all.

When she first arrives, she finds herself in a corner. Drinking blood from a plastic pouch, as if it were a Capri-sun, she sits with her tatty grey hood pulled up over her hair, just watching the other revellers. She doesn't know most of them: a lot smell unclean, wolves and that. She stays away. She's not looking for trouble.

After a while though, she notices someone staring at her, so she lets her long, black hair drip in front of her face beneath the hood. She eases herself from the corner, and makes her way to the dance floor. As she passes a table, she helps herself to someone else's bottle of vodka when they're not looking. The burn, when she drinks it straight, is so good.

Eponine circles the dance floor, longing to join in, but not quite knowing how. But sooner or later, she ends back in front of the person who was staring at her before. Her temper, spiced by the vodka, flares.
"Why do you look at me? Am I not to be here or something?"